Choicest of the Choices

1999

"Your glass is empty. I'll go in and get you more champagne."

"Don't be long," British Royal Air Force Flight Lieutenant Collen Trent told the Danish Orlogkaptajn--major--who looked around, and, not believing they were being observed, leaned over and brushed his lips against Trent's before reentering the building. The two had been standing on a balcony of the Palace of Charles of Lorraine in Brussels, where a reception during a NATO intelligence services conference was being held. The two were there in the delegations of their respective national services, but Trent, at thirty, and the Dane, at thirty-seven, both currently assigned to NATO in Belgium, were "an item" and had come to the reception together.

They had been observed, however, and as soon as the tall, beefy, but distinguished looking Dane reentered the reception hall, a dark figure emerged from the shadows of the balcony and came up beside the young, handsome, blond former photoreconnaissance plane pilot, Trent, who was standing at the balcony rail, looking down into a courtyard.

"Is the Dane very good?" the man asked, giving Trent a smile, the white teeth prominent against the dark face of the tall, muscular African-American man in his early fifties, but Marine squared away still. He, in fact, was an American Marine general.

"Ah, General Coleridge," Trent said, turning his face to the imposing soldier and returning his smile. "I didn't see you there."

"You know who I am?" Adam Coleridge said, a bit surprised but also flattered. He, of course, knew who Trent was from the stack of files he'd been given to review of those attending the conference, including the backbenchers, Trent being one. The Danish officer wasn't a backbencher, though, and Trent had been mentioned prominently in his file.

"Yes, of course I know who you are, General," Trent said. The general reached out and touched the younger man's forearm. Trent didn't balk. He, in fact, knew far more about the American general than the Americans would want the British intelligence service to know. And it had been fortuitous that they were meeting here, in private, on the balcony. It saved a lot of preliminary work. "And, yes, I have every reason to believe that the major is very good in the service of his country."

"That isn't quite what I meant. We probably don't have much time. I was asking if he's very good in bed. He looks like a virile and vigorous man. You submit to him, I believe. I'm not wrong, am I?"

There was a pause while Trent decided whether to respond to this at all, but he was on a mission too, so he did. "No, your intelligence people seem to be right on top of relationships between conference attendees."

"And, since you seem to know who I am, may I assume that your intelligence service is as thorough in informing you about others at the conference--their background, their tastes, their preferences?"

"Yes."

"You are a very handsome young man," the general said. "I've been watching you during today's proceedings."

"I won't claim that I didn't notice," Trent said, "or that I wasn't flattered."

"Or that you aren't interested? I like to think that I pass muster with young men like you. The looks I've seen you give me indicated that I pass muster with you. I don't know if you have trouble getting enough exercise when attending conferences like this one. I do, and I need regular exercise. I could give you quite a workout."

"You asked how the Dane is in bed. He's choice. Yes, he's virile and vigorous. I've found that Danes are masterful in bed."

"Ah, so, you are quite satisfied and aren't--?"

Trent looked through the glass of the bank of French doors into the reception room, where the conference delegates were swirling around. He saw that the Danish officer hadn't made it even as far as getting their glasses refilled. He'd been waylaid by a group of delegates and they were having an intense conversation. Good, Trent thought.

"Let me tell you something I discovered when I was flying the AWACS out of Akrotiri, Cyprus, over Syria and Iraq, General," he said, taking his turn in placing a hand on the other man's forearm, pulling him deeper into the shadows. Perhaps passing secrets that the American undoubtedly already knew would help put his guard down.

* * * *

1992

Twenty-three-year-old Collen Trent was sitting at a corner table in the dimly lit jazz room in the basement of Oscar's, a club on Karneadou Street, close to the new port area of Limassol, Cyprus. Limassol, on the island's south coast, on the Greek side, was the island's principal seaport. The club was a multipurpose gay men's venue, sailors featured upstairs on the main level and a more discreet and discerning jazz venue on offer downstairs. The separately entered basement was discreet enough to attract men who weren't openly gay but nonetheless on the make. It helped if they appreciated good live music.

The British sovereign airbase, Akrotiri, was on a closed-off peninsula west of Limassol. Trent was an RAF pilot, flying a Boeing Sentry AEW1, both a sound and photo surveillance aircraft the British flew over areas of interest in the Middle East. As an intelligence services officer, Trent kept a low profile, but Oscar's was one of the clubs he frequented. His superiors knew of his sexual preferences and used them for British intelligence purposes, when advantageous, combining the world's two oldest professions: spying and prostitution.

Trent was sitting with Takis, the transvestite manager of the club. He had been invited that evening not only because he enjoyed jazz music, but also because Takis wanted to have one of the regulars ride herd on a visiting feature musician and make him feel comfortable during his week-long gig in Limassol. The next week he'd play at a club in Nicosia, the capital city in the interior of the island, before going on to Athens. Trent hadn't entertained a black musician before, but he was bored because the surveillance business was in a temporary step down during a peace conference being held in Cairo, and he'd never been with a black before. He'd heard they were all hung, and he was interested in testing that rumor. He was curious about taking a black cock, especially one of dark color and large size.

Takis had made quite clear that "entertaining the musician" would include sleeping with him, if that's what the man wanted. Trent had taken a look at the man first and had quickly agreed to babysit him and would keep an open mind on anything else. Yes, he thought, having taken a look at the musician's crotch, chances were good he was hung. The palms of his hands were those of a white man. What color would his cock be?

Mojo Philips was quite a challenge, though. He was on the platform, with his trumpet and a backup local band. The room was crowded, as the black Nigerian, who homebased and played in Tangier, had a reputation as both a musician and a massive top, and Philips filled the room all by himself. He had to be six foot eight and to pack in over 250 pounds of hard muscle. Trent was supposed to take him to dinner in the old harbor area after this set, where, luckily, Cypriots were still going strong on the evening meal after midnight. They would play what might happen after dinner from there. Philips was being accommodated at the Alasia Hotel on Haidariou Street, not far from the old harbor. That hotel was very loose about who could go upstairs without being checked in--and how long they had to stay. Those paying by the hour, slipped the fee below the reception desk without the Cypriot taxman being any the wiser and without the need to show passports.

Trent had no obligation to be in his quarters at the base that night, but he hadn't made any firm commitment to Takis to spend the night anywhere else either. He said he'd play it as it came. He still was undecided as he sat there, listening to the music. The black giant played a smooth jazz trumpet, making love to the horn rather than blasting the music out, and he was arousing as "something new and different." But the size and blackness of the man were intimidating. More to Trent's liking and preference were the young, blond men at a table nearer to the platform. They were all beautiful men--big and muscular, but not quite as big and bulked up as the black musician. Trent assessed them to be Danes from the UN peacekeeping force currently serving on the island, the UN military contingent manning the Green Line separating the Greek side from the Turkish one on the island often being provided by one of the Scandinavian countries. This region was better ground to provide neutral-force peacekeepers than most.

One of the men, in particular, an extremely handsome, muscular blond kept looking Trent's way. Trent caught himself looking back--and smiling. The smile was returned. Usually, at Oscar's, this would lead to sharing a drink and assessing each other for a night of fun and games. Two drinks and the men were headed toward the same bed. Tonight that could have happened, but as the Danish soldier looked to be ready to rise from his table of friends and bring his beer over to Trent's table, Takis was returning with the visiting jazz trumpeter, Mojo Philips, in tow and introducing him to Trent.

After a few moments of talking with Philips and Takis being content that they were getting along well, they had settled on walking over to the old harbor area and choosing a seafood restaurant on the water over a meze place in an all-night garden restaurant off the waterfront. Takis had then left them to talk and compare their very different--although clearly interesting to each other--worlds. Philips went back to the platform to stash his trumpet away, having agreed to leave it there at Oscar's in Takis's keeping for the next night's performance.

Collen Trent was momentarily alone at the table at Oscar's and, in the absence of the charismatic--almost overpowering--Nigerian had a moment of thinking of something more than would he or wouldn't he after dinner in the harbor. He looked over at the table where the Danish UN soldiers had been sitting, ready to entertain Danish rather than Nigerian as an option for his night's entertainment.

But the Danes were gone.

* * * *

Collen lay on his back, legs bent and splayed, one arm dangling off the side of the bed in the Alasia Hotel room, panting lightly and moaning softly. He had been totally wiped out. Mojo was in the bathroom, standing at the toilet and pissing. He'd left the door open. He had a big grin on his face and kept looking back at the bed, clearly very pleased with his handiwork. He was in half erection. What he had between his legs was a Mamba snake, a two-hander, and as he pissed, he held it in both hands, lovingly, like it was his prized possession.

And most likely it was. It had certainly done the job for Collen, who, although having a beautiful, perfectly formed body and movie star-handsome looks, with reddish-auburn hair and hazel eyes, was nearly a foot shorter and eighty pounds lighter than the big black bull. Mojo had joyously manhandled the smaller man, stuffed the biggest cock Collen had ever taken inside him, and fucked the hell out of him.

The big black was still half hard. And he was intent on going full hard again, standing over the toilet and stroking his bludgeon of a jet-black shaft.

Fuck. Shit. He's going to screw me again, Collen thought as their eyes locked and the lust in the big black's eyes was clear. Collen whimpered and started to draw up into himself as he watched Mojo smoothing another condom on his cock in the bathroom. The smaller man started to roll to the side of the bed to sit up, but the Nigerian was too quick for him. A couple of strides and he was back in the hotel room and at the foot of the bed.

"Come to it, man," Mojo growled. "You've already put it away. This time's for fun."

He grasped Collen's ankles, pulling the smaller man back down to the foot of the bed, spread and raised Collen's legs, crouched over him between his thighs, thrust back up into the gaping channel he already had opened, and began to pump once more.

Stretching his arms out, his fists bunching up the bedspread to help hold himself in place, Collen panted hard, groaned deeply, and, involuntarily because he'd never ever been fucked this good, grunting and gasping as the shaft possessed and stretched him again. Then, settling down when it was in and moving, he surrendered, crying out, "Yes, yes. Fuck me hard, you big brute!" and set his hips in motion, rocking with the fuck.

It was a night to remember.

* * * *

Collen woke, moaning--but it was a good moaning--to the sound of soft, velvet tones from a trumpet that the British pilot had no idea a trumpet could produce. He knew the tone was produced by soft lips, because those same lips had wakened him in the night covering his body, moving all over, centering, until the black Nigerian wrapped his beefy arms around the smaller man's waist, holding him in thrall, while those big, soft lips slid down the sides of Collen's erection, and sucked while Collen writhed under the captive attention and flowed for the dark man in the darkest of the night. In the light, the man had been a demanding master; it the dark he was a lover.

This image had then been overshadowed and nearly erased in Collen's memory, as the black man rose up over his body, still enslaving him in a tight embrace, possessed him with a shaft that stretched him to the limits, and slowly, languidly fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.

Collen was on his back, legs bent and spread, an arm thrown over his face, a pose he'd been in almost perpetually from moments after they'd walked into the Alasia Hotel room eight hours earlier. The Nigerian, magnificently naked, was across the room, leaning his buttocks into the credenza supporting the TV, and pulling beautiful, soft music from his trumpet.

"You're awake," Mojo said in a smooth, baritone voice.

"Yes."

"You OK?"

"I've been ravished. Wasted."

"Is that OK?"

"Yes, that's OK. Shit, you're the biggest man I've ever had."

"And you've had some big men?"

"Men with big dicks? Yes. But you're all that and more."

"Well, you know what they say about Nigerians."

"No, what do they say?"

"They say that, as a group, men from Nigeria take the championship on cock size."

"I believe it."

"Your first African cock, was it?"

"My first black cock of any nationality."

"And it was...?"

"I need a shower, breakfast, lots of coffee, and maybe a doctor."

"I say a shower first," Mojo said, with a laugh.

They showered together and Collen went on his knees under the cascading water, made a hopeless effort to deep throat the black bull's cock, and then hooked his knees on Mojo's hips, as the big black moved Collen's body up and down the slick tiled walls of the shower with the strength of his upper thrusts.

At breakfast in the hotel dining room, Collen said, "I can stay with you for a while today. What would you like to do in Cyprus?" He hadn't actually planned on spending the day with the Nigerian musician. Mojo's charisma--and size and performance--had made him decide otherwise. And then when the man gave him a lopsided grin, he said, "Other than that, I think."

"Are you sure about that?" Mojo asked.

"No, I'm not sure about that. But maybe there's something else you'd like to do to remember Cyprus by."

"Anything historic around here to see?"

Collen snorted, conjuring up thoughts of a Mediterranean island that had been central to all phases of history going back to the Neolithic period, coming through having been owned by Cleopatra, to the Crusader period, and on to the constant struggles between Greeks and Turks that now had the island divided, with those gorgeous Scandinavian UN peacekeepers guarding the line between the two belligerent communities. Collen told Mojo what was on offer within a short drive from Limassol.

"Maybe all of that after we go back upstairs."

"Go back upstairs? You want more?"

"I want all of it."

And Mojo got all of it from the British pilot, in Mojo's hotel room. This time the big black bull lay on has back, gripping Collen's waist between his hands, while the small man straddled the black man's pelvis, impaled himself on the gigantic cock, and rode it and rode it and rode it.

* * * *

The Neolithic period site at Choirokoitia, the Roman amphitheater at Kourion, and the Knights Templar Crusader-period castle at Kolossi, giving a representation of the long history of civilization on the island of Cyprus, were all within easy reach by car from Limassol. So, Collen made a day of being a flash tour guide by taking Mojo Philips to all of these in time to get him back to Oscar's for a practice before his performances.

It was at Kolossi castle, essentially a medieval bastion tower, built by a Crusader sect of the Knights Templar to protect sugar cane production on the island and to serve as a treasure vault for the regional nobles, that Collen once again ran into Danish soldiers from the UN peacekeeping contingent. When Collen and Mojo pulled into the castle's parking area, a small bus with blue UN plates on it was idling in the lot. Mojo went into the tower while Collen purchased their tickets, and thus was heading for the battlements at the top of the tower ahead of the English pilot.

As Collen was ascending the narrow stairs to the top, a group of hunky Danish soldiers was descending. There was very little room to maneuver on the stairs, so those using them had to take turns, navigating a floor in one direction and standing aside in the tower room on each level to give other climbers a chance to move in the other direction for a floor. It was in moving up like this that Collen briefly brushed shoulders with a familiar figure. It wasn't until he had navigated another level that he realized that it had been the Danish soldier he'd locked eyes--and interest--with at the gay jazz club in Limassol the evening before.

When he got to the top, he moved over to the side of the tower where the entrance and parking lot were and looked down from the battlements. The Danish soldier was standing down there and looking up. The Dane grinned up at Collen when he saw the English pilot appear between stone abutments aloft and waved. Collen waved back.

"Knud Olsen. Jeg hedder Knud Olsen. Du er fantastisk," he called up to Collen.

"What? I can't understand. Do you speak English?" Collen called back.

"Ah, English. I said my name is Knud Olsen and that you are stunning. I want to meet."

Collen was about to respond, but just then, towering above him, Mojo appeared behind Collen and wrapped his arms around him. Olsen spotted the Nigerian, shrugged, turned, and joined his comrades in the UN bus, which nosed its way out of the parking lot, leaving Collen and Mojo at the top of the Kolossi castle tower.

The day of sightseeing was tiring, but Mojo professed to have learned how deeply the island of Cyprus had figured in Mediterranean history and to be grateful to Collen for squiring him around, and to be looking forward to having another night together after Mojo's gig at Oscar's. The night didn't materialize, though. Collen returned Mojo to Oscar's to practice with the band and then stayed around during the performance, anticipating taking the big black Nigerian for another meal in the Limassol harbor and calisthenics in Mojo's hotel room bed at the Alasia. But, while Mojo was showing off his smooth jazz trumpet skills, Collen was called back to his Akrotiri airbase. The Middle East conference in Cairo had broken down and the delegates had swiftly left to slip behind their respective defensive walls. It was time to get the AWAC craft back in the air and monitoring the fortified lines of the belligerents.

* * * *

"There you are. Where are you going in the north?"