Another First Time Ch. 02

"Yes, yes, of course. You're so sweet. So fresh. I need to be inside you." his arms went under Marc's thighs, lifting and tilting the young man's pelvis up to him. Marc felt the bulb of Harkwood's cock rubbing against the tenderness of his inner thighs.

"Also, I understand you are supplying the Syrians. With what? Tell me. If you want to fuck me again, tell me something that holds you to me."

With a sigh, he put his lips to Marc's ear and blurted out a series of statistics that he no doubt believed Marc wouldn't comprehend or remember even if he understood them.

Using a deep, guttural voice and grabbing Harkwood's cock with one hand, guiding it to his hole, and digging his claws in the lord's shoulder with the other, Marc cried out, "Fuck me, you big stud. Fuck me hard, punish me!"

With a groan, Damon plunged inside Marc's channel and began to pump hard.

Looking over the lord's shoulder, Marc saw that the Pakistani, Sayed Khan, had found them. He was standing at the edge of the trees, his horse behind him. He was looking on with both concern and lust in his eyes. His thawb was gathered up around his waist. He was naked underneath, his body lithe and hirsute. His engorged cock was in his hand, and he was stroking it slowly. He was flicking his hand whip against his thighs with the other hand.

His eyes met Marc's and the young man smiled a little "look who I have" smile. With a deeper smile, Marc moved the palms of his hands to Hardwood's buttocks and used both those and the thrusts of his hips to bring unity to the rhythm of the fuck.

"Marc, Marc, Marc," Damon whispered, lost to the young man. Putty in Marc's hands.

* * * *

In the darkness of the back of one of the horse barns on Falconcroft, both of them naked other than Sayed wearing the keffiyeh on his head and Marc wearing Sayed's egal on his head, Sayed sat on a hay bale covered with Marc's shirt. Marc sat in Sayed's lap, facing him, his cruelly curved cock deep inside Marc's ass, both of them rocking back and forth and groaning. Marc's arms encircled the Pakistani's head, holding Sayed's face into his chest, as he fed on Marc's nipples. Marc was fucking himself on Sayed's cock as the Pakistani sat there and moaned, Marc's channel gripping his cock, rising and falling on it, pressing forward and back, side to side, the undulating muscles of Marc's channel walls making love to Sayed's throbbing staff. Sayed was flicking Marc's flanks with his hand whip.

They had come across each other at twilight, as Marc walked out of the horse barn and Sayed came around the corner of another building, leading his horse. Upon seeing each other, the movement of both of them was arrested. One could tell that the breathing of the other was becoming more labored and each moved a hand to his crotch. Marc broke the tension by pulling his shirt over his head and turning and reentering the horse barn. He was still stripping his trousers off when Sayed, naked other than the keyffiyeh on his head and tossing his thawb to the side, entered the barn. The Pakistani reached out for Marc and pulled him into his chest and into a deep kiss. Pulling out of the kiss, Sayed roughly pushed Marc to the ground. His hand went up in the air and came swiftly down. Marc cried out in surprise and pain as the thongs of the hand whip cut into his back. He scuttled on all fours across the floor to the back of the barn, as the Pakistani followed him, whipping the young man on the back and buttocks as they moved. At the back of the barn, Sayed jerked Marc up by the hair, slammed him on his belly on a bale of hay, mounted his ass, and fucked him hard to an initial mutual ejaculation.

Marc took it like a champ, and the second taking was more languid, with the conquered Marc riding the victor's cock.

Inside the house, in the library, Charles and Harkwood were finishing their negotiations.

"Shit, I've never had that done to my dick before," Sayed said with a deep groan. "You must be a courtesan, an expensive whore."

"Shush," Marc murmured. He didn't want the Pakistani getting too close to the truth. "Do you not want it? Should I stop?"

"Oh, shit, no. Milk me. Yes, just like that."

"Tell me why you're here, Sayed. Tell me what, specifically, you want from Damon. Perhaps I can help you. I would love to help you. I want your cock inside me, driving me wild, again and again. Be good to me and I'll be very, very good to you."

Marc pulled Sayed's head up, pressing the Pakistani's lips against his ear, willingly taking his confession, as the two fucked on.

* * * *

"And, so, where is it from here?" Charles Tutweiler asked, as he stood in the doorway of the guest bedroom in his embassy-assigned house in Wimbledon. The operation concluded, Trent no longer needed to be Marc. Charles was helping to pack the young American agent's suitcase. Charles was shirtless and his linen trousers didn't hide much. His musculature showed that he worked out. It wasn't lost on Trent that Charles was trying to entice him—that he wanted him before they parted.

"Somewhere in Europe," Trent answered.

"Ah, the Austrian industrialist on the cusp of signing the uranium deal with the Russians, perhaps?"

"Whatever it is, you know I can't tell you," Trent answered. "You know the protocols."

"Ah, yes, the protocols. See no, hear no, tell no. Do what you must. Maurice told me you were good; you are better than good, though. I'll have to say that the extraordinary measures certainly paid off here. I've been working on Harkwood for months without getting the concessions or information that you got from him in one weekend. And the bonus intelligence from the Pakistani. I can't imagine how you got that."

"I think you can," Trent said, giving Charles a sharp look. It had been Charles who had applied the salve to Trent's welts when he returned from his encounter with Sayed Khan in the horse barn at Falconcroft.

"To think you convinced Harkwood this was your first time," Charles said, veering away from the dangerous ground of what Trent had given to extract secrets from Sayed Khan.

"Just another first time," Trent said, with a small laugh. "I specialize in first times."

There was a pause in the conversation as Trent continued to fold and pack.

"This thing you do. Will you do it whenever you are asked to—with whoever you are asked to do it with?"

"We all prostitute ourselves to our jobs, don't we?" the young American agent responded. Trent realized he wasn't answering Charles' question. He knew he was teasing the older agent—that he aroused Charles. He knew Charles was aching to fuck him. Trent was programmed that way—to attract men who were susceptible to being attracted to other men. He even had been infused with experimental pheromones in the Agency labs to physically draw men to him. It didn't only work on the enemy.

Trent knew it wasn't a mistake that the two of them were alone in the house or that Charles was bare-chested, showing his fine physique off. Trent knew Charles was setting up for an encounter even if Charles himself didn't fully realize he was. He had a good body, especially for his age, and he knew it. Like most field intelligence officers, he made sure he remained hard bodied. He was a handsome man. Trent was sure that hadn't hurt Charles' rise to the top echelons, nor that his wife was the sister of one of the deputy directors. The younger American agent had also caught glimpses of him in the shower at the club Charles took Trent to. He was hung. He probably wanted Trent to know that too, the young man knew. He hadn't hidden himself from view.

"Not exactly like that, though—prostituting ourselves in that way," he said. He was trying to settle something with himself, Trent could tell. Charles wanted to fuck Trent, but he was conflicted. The younger man knew Charles was a married man. Trent had been lodged and entertained in Charles' house by he and his wife. His wife was a power in the Agency in her own right. He didn't know how Trent felt about opening his legs on demand—or for a man whose wife he knew; whose wife knew him. Trent thought that Charles probably wanted Trent to want him—to beg him for it.

Well, Trent did want him. Truth be told, Trent could want any muscular, hung man—the more dangerous and cruel, the better. It was like the pheromones he'd been infused with worked both ways. He wouldn't have put it past the Agency scientists to have done this on purpose to make him more malleable to the operations they wanted him to complete. He had wanted Charles since the beginning of this caper. Trent didn't beg, though, and he was cynical enough to want to gain advantage from it.

"I let men fuck me because I like to be fucked," Trent said. "If they are built, good looking, and hung, that's just gravy poured on letting them inside me. Harkwood and Khan were all those. The job here was a piece of cake. Any man who is built, good looking, and hung is fine." Trent stood up from the suitcase and turned and gave Charles a good look up and down his body.

He couldn't ask for a better signal than that. He was handsome, built, and hung, and he knew it. Sure he was in his late forties. But Harkwood was in his fifties and Trent had laid down for him just fine—no complaints.

Still he hesitated, striving to change the conversation, but not being able to will himself to.

"I don't know what it is about you, what pulled Harkwood in so quickly and fully, but it's like you've got some sort of male-on-male pheromone magnate in your body."

Bingo, buddy, Trent thought. Even you don't know everything the labs of the Agency have discovered and kept to their own uses. And it's working on you too. Of course it helps to look like I do too.

"And what you got out of the Pakistani . . . why, I don't know why we don't approach intelligence collection this way more than we do."

"Perhaps we do," Trent answered with a tight smile.

"Of course, it wouldn't be right to do it outside of the needs of the United States. Certainly not in-house."

"Perhaps we do it with colleagues too and just don't talk about it much," Trent responded with a tired sigh. He was tired of this jockeying, and he thought Charles realized that.

"Perhaps that's so," Charles said, his voice wavering, pensive—"dare I say 'hopeful' that colleagues share in this way?"

"I know it's so. It doesn't bother me a bit that it's so."

Charles pushed away from where he'd been leaning into the side of the door opening, and looked up and down the hall, although both of them knew that Anne had gone in to London for the day to shop at Harrods. "Perhaps as long as you're here." Trent watched his hand drop to his crotch. Trent had known he'd been hard since earlier in the afternoon.

"Perhaps, yes," Trent said. "If you are asking. You have to say it. You have to provide direction. If you want to fuck me, you have to command it."

"I am asking," he said after a short pause.

"Just asking? Take command, Charles. Give a command. Tell me what you want."

"Commanding. Lay down and spread your legs for me. Take my cock." It came out almost as a croak.

Trent unbuckled, unzipped, let his trousers fall, sat on the side of the bed, and spread and raised his legs. "Perhaps we do have time," he said. "Show it to me."

It was thick, throbbing, ready. Trent knew it would be.

"Dan," he whispered. They both knew my name wasn't Marc. Charles didn't know it, but his name wasn't Dan either.

"Yes, I want it from you too; give it to me. I was just teasing. You don't really have to demand it. I want it," Trent murmured, as he drew the other man close to him when Charles came within his reach, and opened his mouth over Charles' stiff prick. Following moments of heavy breathing and the snap of a condom, Trent lay back, hooked his knees on Charles' hips, and guided the older agent's cock to his entrance.

And perhaps I can benefit from gathering one more secret on someone in the business, Trent thought, as he jerked and grimaced at the thick, throbbing invasion of Charles' shaft. Trent moaned, as he knew men wanted to hear, and dug his claws into Charles' shoulder blades as he hunched over Trent and established the universal rhythm of the fuck.

Charles was an important man in the service. And he was in a good position to further Trent's career, whether willingly or not. It was a cynical business; no one had ever had to explain that to Trent. Besides, Charles was handsome, built, and hung.