Choicest of the Choices

Collen didn't recognize the voice and was initially confused where it was coming from.

"Up here. Above you. I like to be on top." And then the speaker laughed.

Collen looked up and saw Knud Olsen, the Danish UN soldier of Collen's dreams--because he had, in fact, had wet dreams of Olsen a couple of time in the two weeks since he'd last seen the hunky blond soldier from the battlements of Kolossi castle. Olsen was sitting on a balcony, along with a couple of other hunky soldiers, of the Ledra Palace Hotel, an old stone colonial-era hotel that had been locked in the Green Line no-man's island strip between the belligerent lines of Greeks in the south and Turks in the north from the cease-fire of the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974. UN contingent troops had been stationed in the Green Line area ever since, keeping the Turks and Greeks apart. The Ledra Palace had become a barracks for UN peacekeeper troops. It was located at the sole checkpoint accessible to those with credentials to move between the two sectors of the island. Collen, on his way to a short vacation in the northern, Turkish zone, was parked, in line, in his BMW convertible, beside the Ledra Palace, waiting his turn to register and get cleared, first by the Greeks, and then by the Turks, at the checkpoint. His credentials gave him access to both sides of the island. The UN soldiers could access both sides as well.

"Was your black giant friend, the club trumpeter, a good top?"

Collen looked up and waved. Knud and his friends were all wearing just army shorts and were brandishing beers, taking in the sun on the hotel balcony. Their physiques were magnificent. Collen smiled. Their shorts were baggy. From where he stood below them, Collen could see up to the dick and balls of any of the soldiers he would want to. He wanted to concerning Olsen--and he did. Mojo Philips class, he thought.

"I'm off to the Sea and Sky on Escape Beach, west of Kyrenia," Collen answered, naming a bungalow resort on a stretch of Mediterranean beach on the northern edge of the island. "And, yes, Mojo Philips was choice."

"I want to be choice too," Olsen called out. "Maybe choicer."

Collen didn't have an opportunity to respond then, however, as it was his turn with the Greek soldiers at the checkpoint, and the soldiers at the Ledra Palace checkpoint were not men you would want to keep waiting.

The English pilot fantasized about the arousing Danish UN soldier, Knud Olsen, as he drove the sixty miles to his beach hotel. It was significant, he thought, that he had remembered the man's name. As of yet, though, he hadn't managed to pass his name on to the soldier. They had run into each other three times now. Could he hope for a fourth, more intimate meeting?

Yes, he could.

It was a weekday and Collen had Escape Beach, one that was surrounded by rock formations, with the resort bungalows on the top of a cliff above, all to himself. It wasn't high tourist season, as far as he could tell he was the only one checked in at the small bungalow resort, and the locals were at their midday siestas. The Mediterranean and sandy beaches were everywhere along this coast. The locals didn't use them much on weekdays.

He had come down to the beach in a skimpy black Speedo and with two towels, the larger one to lie on and the smaller one to dry off with if he decided to go into the sea. He'd brought a paperback book and a small kit, which included a few condom packets and a tube of lube. He'd come to this beach before and even during the week, there was a chance that a young Turk or two would come to the beach. He wanted to be prepared. He liked coming to the northern, Turkish, side of the island, because there were plenty of muscular Turkish men who liked to cover northern Europeans here. Both they and the European men came to this beach with the same thing in mind. This was a good beach for it, because there were rock formations at the edges of the beach with sand-based alcoves behind them, where privacy for intimacy was possible.

As Collen finished reading a chapter of his book and rolled over on his belly on the towel, stripping off his Speedo to encourage building on his "all-over" tan, he decided to get some shuteye and to conjure up in his fantasies a Turkish hunk to show up to cover him.

It wasn't a Turkish hunk who showed up. It was the Danish UN solider, Knud Olsen. Collen couldn't claim he was surprised about that, although he hadn't supposed the Olsen could get leave on such short notice to appear so quickly on the beach where he'd told the Dane he could be found. Collen had dreamed that it would be so, however.

The beefy Danish hunk was kneeling beside Collen, wearing a red Speedo, a towel half laid out beside Collen's. He was leaning over the Englishman. His hand touched Collen on the back and then started gliding around the young man's shoulder blades and down to his waist and, lower, to playing with the humps of his exposed glutes.

"Hi," Collen said. "You got leave."

"No, not leave. I reported one of the vehicles as having something wrong with it. The garage we use is on this side, in Kyrenia. It was late enough in the day that they told me I could stay the night over here and bring it back tomorrow."

"There's nothing wrong with the vehicle, is there?"

"No. I conjured that up because I wanted to see you--to be here with you, like this. Are you going to play coy with me? You didn't think I would try to arrange for us to be together?" Olsen's hand had moved into the crease between Collen's buttocks and a finger pressed at his rim.

"No, I'm not going to play coy. If you have to be back tomorrow, we don't have much time." Collen grunted and raised his pelvis as one of Olsen's fingers penetrated. "My name is Collen. Collen Trent. I'm based at Akrotiri. I'm English, and I can't say more."

"You can't say more about what you want from me?"

"You know what I want from you," Collen answered.

"Spread your cheeks for me." Collen moved his hands down to his buttocks and pulled the cheeks apart. He gave a little yelp as Olsen's finger fully penetrated and moved inside him. But he held. "You don't have to say more than what you like for me to do to you more than something else. I know who you are. You're Collen Trent, an English flyboy."

"How did you know?"

"I asked Takis at Oscar's. I asked the first time I saw you."

"So, you knew--"

"Yes, I knew even then that I wanted to fuck you. Takis told me you took cock--that you were there to take the African's dick. I waited. He's gone on to Athens now."

"Yes, he has."

"Turn over. Let's not talk for a while."

"You expect me to take commands from you?" Collen asked.

"Yes. Turn over," Olsen growled.

Collen gave a little smile and turned over onto his back, he was, of course, in erection. Olsen had pulled the waistband of his Speedo down to below his balls and had been stroking his cock. He was hard as well. He moved his body over Collen's, suspended above the English pilot, and the two went into a natural sixty-nine position.

After a bit of pleasuring each other, the Dane jumped up and said, "I'll race you to the water." He was there before Collen was able to struggle up off his towel. The two frolicked in the water of the Mediterranean for a while, merging and kissing and fondling and then, with a laugh, separating, splashing each other, and swimming out into the sea and back, with the other stroking behind.

At length, Collen trudged out of the surf and up to his towel, which he picked up. He took it over to the edge of the beach, where the rock formations started and walked between them to a more private sandy area, screened from the beach and the cliff above. He made sure that Olsen saw where he had gone. He laid out the towel and went down on all fours, his face facing the entry into the private area. Olsen came through the rocks, naked and swinging his Speedo in his fingers. Reaching Collen, he came behind him and mounted him from behind and above. Collen cried out as the big Dane penetrated, and then settled down to panting and moaning, as, grasping the smaller Englishman's hips between his beefy hands, Olsen fucked him long and hard.

Later, on the bed in the Sea and Sky resort bungalow Collen had rented and after they had fucked and dozed and fucked and slept and fucked and were drifting off again, Collen was fantasizing the perfect fuck. To his surprise, though, the cock taking him in that fuck was almost jet black.

* * * *

Back to 1999

"So, that's where you met your Danish soldier--your choice for a partner--and that has led the two of you here," General Adam Coleridge said, the two of them standing in the shadows of the Palace of Charles of Lorraine in Brussels, with the NATO conference going on in the reception room through the French Doors. But then he faltered. "But you mentioned a Knud somebody or other. You're here with Lorens Larsen."

"Yes, that's right," Collen said. "I didn't see the Danish UN soldier after that. He was choice, but he wasn't the choicest."

"So, what are you telling me?" Coleridge asked, as Collen pulled him even further into the shadows.

"I realized that the choicest of the cream were not Danes," Collen said, "as nice as Olsen and the other Danes in the UN contingent in Cyprus I tried out were. The choicest cock was Nigerian and black. Tell, me general, where do your ancestors come from?"

The general laughed. "We came to the States from Jamaica. But before that... the Congo, I think. But I can assure you... well, fuck."

Collen had drawn the general in close to him in the shadows, had reached down and unzipped the man's fly, and was exploring.

"Satisfied?" he asked, with a little laugh. He wasn't just hung; he was in three-quarters erection. Collen knew the man wanted him.

"Very," Collen said. "We can be coy and waltz around this if you like, but you sought me out, I think. I think you know what I will do and what I want."

"You're here with Larsen," Coleridge said. "We could make an arrangement."

"Fuck Larsen. He's choice but I want the choicest. We could go to your hotel room right now. What I learned with the Nigerian trumpeter is that I want big, black cock. Like this one."

They only made it as far as the shadows at the edge of the parking lot where the limos and drivers were waiting, until the general pulled Collen behind a bush in the recesses of the corners of the stone palace, stripped the pilot's tux pants and briefs off his legs, unzipped and exposed himself, hooked the younger man's knees on his hips, and fucked him against the wall.

Collen cried out at the entry of the thick, long, black cock, the noise muffled by the general's big mitt covering his mouth, and muttered. "Yes, yes, this. The choicest." What he was thinking was "mission accomplished." His bosses in British intelligence had told him to get close to the American general, if he could, with them knowing that Collen would take cock and that the general was randy for giving it. Was this close enough for them? Collen mused.