Edge Running Ch. 05

Zayed didn't share at first--not even with his son. But after a few weeks in which he totally and constantly used me in every way, he too lost the sense of novelty. Then he began using me in his business interests, giving me to men who came to his apartment floating up in the cloudless heavens to seal business deals. Relieved of Zayed's inventive uses, life was less cruel for me--but also, I'm almost ashamed to say, less interesting.

Most of these men too were cruel lovers, though--the men using me as a chit in a business deal more cruel than the men using me as a club privilege after I had danced for them had been. I came to see that as a trait of the men of the desert. Many of them were fat and ugly, but even they were hard of body and cock and seemed to savor they were involved in activities they shared with other men in the kingdom that could get them executed if they were of lesser influence and privilege. Men who were still full of vigor beat me and fucked me; those past their sexual prime still took pleasure from beating me and watching others bring me off.

Both Badr and his father were excellent tennis players--hence the wire-screen caged tennis court adjacent to the club's swimming pool on the roof of the Bunduq Tower. They liked to play foursomes and were delighted to learn that I had been a collegiate-level tennis player. They included me in play with club members and businessmen Zayed was in discussions with. I participated in this willingly, needing the exercise, although I was given access to the club gym, as they wanted me to be in pristine shape. I was quite happy in getting my exercise on the tennis court.

Imagine my surprise when I showed up to the court one afternoon to find that the fourth player would be Sam Winterberry, the CIA man I'd last seen--and had assumed I had successfully ditched--in Poipet, Cambodia, some six months earlier. He just smiled and shook my hand when Zayed, using the same name for him and affiliation--American intelligence agent--that I knew Winterberry by. So, these weren't business negotiations the two men were in; it was something more in the interests of the U.S. government. Who was able to differentiate Zayed's interests between those that were for government and those in business? In the Arab world, among the leading families, the two were the same.

Winterberry didn't acknowledge he already knew me, so I said nothing either. More disturbingly, he didn't seem the least bit surprised to have found me there.

We played a match, Zayed and Winterberry taking two of three sets against Badr and me. We were the younger men, but we didn't give the match away. Zayed wasn't better than we were--Winterberry was the best of all of us, and he knew how to make Zayed's play look brilliant. After the match Zayed asked whether Winterberry was really a tennis pro he recognized by another name who had dropped out of the circuit and disappeared, and Winterberry acknowledged that he was.

Zayed laughed. "Shall we go back to my flat then? I do believe we can do business together. After we talk, you may bed young Doug here, if you like." He was pointing to me.

"Yes," Winterberry said, with a smile. "I would very much like to bed this young man."

"He likes it rough," Zayed said.

"That's good to hear."

Winterberry gave it to me rough in a bed outfitted with restraints and a bolster. Both Zayed and Badr sat across the room, their thobes unbuttoned and flared, showing their tanned, hard bodies, and their cocks in their hands, stroking them, as Winterberry played in my ass with thick dildoes and a string of beads before mounting me and riding me hard like he was galloping a thoroughbred stallion across the desert. I lay on my belly, spread-eagled and tied off at the four corners, with the bolster under my belly, raising my ass, totally vulnerable to his pleasure, as he covered and penetrated me and rode me hard. As he was coming into the home stretch with me, he pulled me up on all fours and beat me on the rump with a riding crop while he rode me to his finish.

After he had come, he untied me and rolled me, moaning in low tones, over onto my back. I went immediately into an open, vulnerable stance, signaling that he had conquered me and I surrendered totally to whatever else he wanted to do. He stretched beside me, grasped my cock, and stroked me, edging me as he had done in Poipet.

At this point, the Bunduqs, father and son, lost interest. He wasn't punishing me. They'd both come while he was, though.

"You may fist him if you like," the old man said, but, happily, Winterberry didn't take them up on that offer. The American spy had big hands. They unbuttoned up their thobes and left the room.

When they were gone, Winterberry put his mouth to my ear, kissing me there, but not taking his lips away. "I can get you out of here," he said. "I can make you part of the deal I'm making with Zayed. I can make the deal sweet enough to include you."

"You can?" I asked. Then I added, "but what do I have to do for you if you do?"

He laughed. I'd been right. He wasn't going to get me freed out of the goodness of my heart or, certainly, because he wanted me solely for himself.

"I want you to come work for me. You know I work for the CIA and you have some idea of the operations I run. The office I manage is called, informally, the Candy Store Unit. You needn't know the official title. If you come with me, you'll be doing mostly what you've been doing anyway--prostituting yourself, but now for the needs of the U.S. government and at the government's sufferance. Most of what else you do would become sanctioned. You would just be directed to support U.S. interests, as you were in Thailand."

"I left Poipet to get away from you--you and your work frighten me."

"I realize that. But you didn't get away from me, and you appear quite able to get into frightening situations all by yourself. I've known where you were all of this time. I've been keeping tabs on you--and, whether you know and appreciate it or not, I've been protecting you."

"You've been keeping tabs on me? How?"

"Have you forgotten that we implanted you with a homing device? Two of them just for good measure."

Shit. Yes, I'd forgotten that. "Where are they?"

"One is implanted in the sole of one of your boots--you're the kind of lay who keeps his boots on. One in your watch band."

"I'll have to remember to--"

"No, for your own safety you'll leave them there. You are a handsome young man, with sex-worker skills and talents," Winterberry continued. "And, on top of that, you're a doctor. You'll be very valuable to the work my unit does--to serving the interests of the United States. You'd be staff and paid well--the best medical coverage and a handsome retirement annuity. The U.S. government treats its prostitutes very well--and they aren't all politicians." He laughed at that. I was too much on edge to share the joke. "I've already had you vetted," he continued. "You can start as soon as I take you away from here."

"You say 'will,' not 'would,'" I whispered. "You seem very sure of yourself."

"I am, and you should be grateful. You aren't still in the club. These are fickle men. They don't maintain interest in a young man forever, no matter how beautiful and talented he is. You were moved from Badr's bed to the club and from the club down to his father, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"And after his father had used you in every way he could imagine, he started sharing you with his business associates, didn't he--and with me?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any idea where you get moved to next? Maybe common brothels and, at any time after leaving Zayed's bed, you may become dispensable. Homosexuality is punished terminally here in the UAE unless you are from one of the ruling families here. Men who run clubs like this one don't leave evidence around. Think on that."

I certainly would have to, but I'd already heard where my next stop was likely to be. Badr had spoken to his father in terms of disposing of me. He made a convincing argument. I was looking at a continuing world of running on the edge. But for how long? Were my chances of it being longer better with Winterberry or the Bunduqs? There didn't seem to be much of a question of which one.

"If you come with me--willingly--I think you'll like the first operation you will be included in."

"Which would be...?"

"We're going to take Benjie Reyes down. We're going to end his white slavery business. Does that appeal to you?"

"Yes." I had to be honest; it did. I'd felt powerless to do anything to save those other people on the plane.

"Don't think long," he said. "I'll have to go see the sheik soon, and I'll need to know if you are part of the deal or not."

"If I said 'no,' would you leave me here with them?"

"We'll never know because you're going to say 'yes,' aren't you?"

"Yes," I said, recognizing the inevitable.

"If you come with me, I am the master and you are the slave."

"I understand."

"I am a cruel master."

"I have already found that to be true."

"I'll have to be very cruel now. You know I'll have to show them how much I want you as part of this deal, don't you--but also how much like them I am? They will be careful about releasing you from their control. They don't like loose ends. I'll have to assure them that I'll use you as they have and dispose of you as they would. You must understand that."

"Yes," I answered.

As I knew he then would, he rolled over on top of me. He was in magnificent erection. He was still edging me. He wouldn't let me come until he'd had his way with me again. He fucked me hard, pulling back to where the glans nearly dislodged and then thrust back in, hard, deep. I gasped and writhed under him, but he held me in a painful grip. He loosened it enough, though, for me to sense that I could wriggle out of his grip. When I tried, though, he slapped me hard across the mouth, drawing blood at the corner of my lower lip. I sagged back onto the bed, collapsing, completely open and docile to him now, panting shallowly, barely touching the tips of his shoulders with my fingertips as he settled down to a steady beat of the fuck.

"I will admit that you give me pleasure," he murmured. I felt his right hand glide down my flank, across my upper thigh, and under my balls, grasping his cock, running down the sides, but more than that, he was entering me with them, augmenting the size of what was penetrating me, giving the effect of being doubled.

"Oh, shit. Oh Fuck!" I moaned.

"Take it. Take it," he hissed.

"Oh, F-U-C-K!" the fingers were working me vigorously, pistoning inside me on three sides of the pounding shaft, and they were pushing out, forcing me more open, making me take the fingers and the cock deeper. This was every bit as filling as fisting would be.

Sensing or having heard the fuck become more active, more challenging, the Al-Bunduqs, father and son, rustled back into the room, unbuttoned and flared their thobes again, took their engorging erections in their hands, and settled down to watch the resumption of the debauchery.

I tensed, fought to relax, arched my back and neck, crying out to the ceiling, and extending my arms straight out from my body in a sacrificial stance, being fully open to him, as he covered me, thrust up deep inside me, and began the fuck again.

As taxing as this was, I had to admit to myself that this was exciting--that Winterberry gave me pleasure in the fuck.

But then, to make his point, he rolled off me again, turned to the nightstand, taking up a bottle of lube. He generously lathered up his right hand. "Open your thighs wide and arch your hips up," he growled.

"Shit. Fuck!" I involuntarily cried out as he cupped the fingers of his right hand out and started opening me up with him.

"Oh, my god, you're going to fist me!"

"Yes, I am. There will be more pain if you fight me. Perhaps I'll have more pleasure if you do." He said it loud enough for the Arab men to hear.

He hovered over me, his eyes looking directly down into mine. I would have been crushed if I'd found his eyes dull, businesslike, but I didn't. I discerned lust and something else in them, something I couldn't gauge but that gave me hope. I clutched at him tightly, raised my pelvis further up to him, opening as much as possible to the inevitable, and panted hard as, just like an army of Arabs before him, Winterberry's knuckles breached my sphincter muscle and he started to fist me: in and out, flexing, in and old.

"Fuck! FUCK!" I cried out. "Mercy! Mercy!" This was exclaimed for effect, but it wasn't far off what I was really feeling. There was no mercy. The fist went in up to the wrist, back out to the knuckles, in to the wrist, flexing. Back out to the knuckles. Panting heavily, clinging to my master, I took it and took it and took it, firing off and collapsing back onto the bed. But the fisting continued, ignoring my pleas of "Please! Please!"... until I blacked out.

... Or perhaps I was just leaving the impression for the Arabs that I had blacked out for my new boss and master.

If the Arabs had been testing Winterberry--whether he could be as cruel and ruthless, and Arab, as the Arabs were--he now was passing that test. And for him--and, presumably, the U.S. government--that's all that counted here.