Insurgency Control

The nearly gray-haired man on his back under Scott Campbell was pushing fifty, but he was a large, powerfully built man, thick through the torso but hard bodied for his age. He had the aura of a man of danger, which was backed up by two puckered wounds on his torso that looked uncannily like they'd been caused by bullets. If that's what they were, it had been an incident from long past. They were just puckered skin now.

Despite being on the bottom, the man was in full control of the Cowboy-position fuck, grasping the small, blond, achingly handsome, deceptively innocent-looking, full-lipped, and sleek-bodied twenty-five-year-old by the waist between two strong hands and helping the young man rise and fall on his thick, Trojan Magnum-sheathed cock. The young man was on the job but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy doing his job. The man on the bottom was on the job too. It was clear he would be getting whatever he wanted.

They were both fully aware of the beach resort attendant who had peered at them from the open French doors facing the sea on this French-speaking Caribbean island. The island was ruled with an iron fist, but its coastline was dotted with specialty resort enclaves like this one at Le Marin that separated the wealthy tourists from the far-less-wealthy islanders.

The man was bouncing Scott up and down on his shaft, racing toward an ejaculation so brutally that Scott lost any control of the rhythm and just flopped around like a rag doll, taking the pounding deep and moaning and exclaiming the fully used ecstasy of the rough treatment.

Scott cried out an "Oh, shit; oh, fuck, you're killin' me," as the man fired off his loads--one, two, three--and released his grip, letting the smaller, younger man fall forward onto his chest. Even after all the time this man had fucked him, Scott was still amazed that a man this old could have this stamina and vigor--and these many ejaculations in him.

Making sure the peeking attendant caught the action, the man reached over to the nightstand, picked up a wad of U.S. currency bills, and stuffed them into the waistband of the red-silk jock strap Scott was still, if ineffectively, wearing.

The attendant withdrew, no doubt to report on the young, male whore independently working the guests of the island's exclusive gay resort. A moment later the head of another young man peered in from the door of the suite's adjoining room and said, "Down on the beach now, chief."

The man pushed Scott off of his body onto his back beside him on the bed, muttering, "Showtime." Scott lay there, panting.

That wasn't showtime, he was thinking.

His eyes followed the figure of the thuggish man around the suite, as the man showered, pulled on a pair of athletic shorts, and came over and slapped the young man on the hip. "I said it was showtime," he muttered. "You are ready. I am impressed that you have kept in such good shape."

Scott groaned, rolled off the bed, and headed for the shower. He could say the same for his boss.

* * * *

"Haven't I seen you in the town? You aren't a guest at the resort, are you?"

Scott looked up into the eyes of the man who was standing over where Scott was half reclining on the beach, facing the sea. After leaving Sam, the man who'd fucked him in the resort bedroom, Scott had quickly showered; changed into a red Speedo; saluted Sam, lounging against the frame of the French doors out onto the resort beach; and taken up station on the towel, posing for all to ogle who wanted to. As this was a gay resort on the French Caribbean island that charged a hefty price for mostly older men to ogle younger men brought in to idle on the resort beach, Scott got quite a few looks and more than one proposition before the handsome, chocolate-colored, muscular man in his thirties, dressed in a white polo shirt and tan trousers stopped and challenged him. It wasn't the usual first thing that men had said to Scott here on the beach.

"Hello. My name is Erik, Scott answered in French." Scott Campbell wasn't his real name, but he wasn't ready to give a possible mark even the name he had been using on the island. He assessed the man as a possible sex partner and was satisfied. The brown men of this island were almost universally handsome and sexy. "I am a new resident here. I work for the Belgium nonprofit, Récole Abondante, supporting the farmers in the mountains inland from here. I was told that the beach resorts here accorded our workers privileges."

"That would be the regular resorts," the man said. "This is a special resort."

"How so?"

"This is for gay men only. And I believe you aren't just using the privileges of the resort. I'm told you are working as a prostitute for men here. Can you even prove you work for Récole Abondante?"

"Who told you that--that I'm a prostitute?" Scott asked as he fished out his Récole Abondante credentials and showed them to the man.

"You were seen with a guest just now--servicing him."

"And you are here because you are gay?" Scott asked. He smiled up at the man and reached out and cupped a hand around the man's lower leg. The man did not shirk away from him. "Perhaps we could arrange something here."

"Not here," the man said. "I was sent out to talk to you because I am the resort's lawyer. My sexual preference is not involved here."

"It isn't? Don't I discern some interest in those trousers of yours? You said 'not here.' Does that mean 'not anywhere,' or just here where your employers can see you consorting with me? Does the resort really disapprove of me sitting out here on the beach and maybe giving some of the guests some entertainment? Does the resort think the men don't come here for the sort of services I can provide? If 'not here,' you wouldn't be interested in an arrangement here? Does that mean you might be interested in an arrangement elsewhere? You are quite a sexy man. I must admit that I have a fetish for black men and you are a prime example of one."

"It isn't that the resort disapproves of young men like you entertaining the guests. It's that this is a closed resort. If you entertain men here, the resort wants part of your takings--50 percent is the usual arrangement."

Ah, that got down to the real issue. "I can understand that. I have no problem with that."

"You would have to sign a contract and make arrangements for paying into the system. As I said, I am the resort's lawyer. My name is Austin Deuir. I can draw up the contract to be signed."

"To be arranged here or at your offices?" Scott asked. "You haven't responded on whether you'd be interested in an arrangement elsewhere other than inside the resort. I would be interested."

"Yes, at my offices. And yes, I would be interested in an arrangement there. Are you free to go to my offices in town now?"

"Absolutely, Austin. I was afraid you wouldn't be interested--and wouldn't ask." And that was exactly it. He very much wanted to be covered by the lawyer, Austin Deuir, and not just for business purposes. The man had been more fit looking that Scott had hoped to expect.

The lawyer's office was in the old part of Le Marin, on a narrow, cobble-stoned street leading down to the marina and the sea. They both were on motorbikes, which were the standard means of transportation on this part of the island. The offices were clean, but functional.

"Go on through to my office," Deuir said, as he stopped at the reception desk to tell the young man sitting there, who was as chocolate and handsome as Deuir was, that this would be his last appointment of the day and that the clerk could leave a bit early. From the look the clerk gave him when he passed by, Scott got the impression that Deuir was fucking the clerk, who had expected that to happen today. That Scott had shown up didn't appear to be appreciated by the clerk in the least. The clerk was so good-looking that Scott took the young man's exhibited disappointed that it wouldn't be him Deuir would be covering this evening as a testimonial to Deuir's great prowess as a lover. Scott shuddered in anticipation of enjoying this phase of his job.

Deuir's office was as streamlined as his waiting room had been. Everything was clean and in good condition; it just all was very functional. The desk was cleared off. Scott looked around and wondered where they'd do it. There was a Danish-style sofa and the desk. The desk looked the sturdier of the two. The two men were of average height, Deuir taller than Scott, and both were slim, if muscular and hard bodied, but the sofa didn't really look like it would support their weight if it was an athletic fuck. Deuir looked like he would do an athletic fuck.

Scott felt himself going hard.

The desk it probably was, Scott thought, and he perched on it as Deuir entered the room and shut and locked the door to the outer office. Showtime, Scott assumed.

He assumed wrong. "Business before pleasure," Deuir said, and he opened a filing cabinet and took out some papers--the contract. "The resort specifies the fee," he said. "They don't claim anything on a tip--checking on that is too much trouble for them--so, if you want to make good money at this, you'll have to give very good satisfaction to the guest."

Scott looked at the contract. "It's fine," he said. He didn't really give a shit about the money or a contract, for that matter. He didn't even know if he'd be turning many tricks. That wasn't what this was all about.

"What name on the contract?" Deuir asked, all business now. "And I'll have to see a passport."

Luckily, Scott had a passport in the name of Erik Jouret. He told the lawyer the name and handed the passport over.

"You're not Belgian? This is a Canadian passport."

"I'm Canadian. I'm from French Canada--Montreal. Récole Abondante is an international nonprofit. We mainly introduce farm machinery into developing countries. I assess what's needed, get it shipped in, and show the farmers how to use it."

"And lay down for men at gay resorts on the side," Deuir said as he finished up filling in the contract and turned it to Scott for signature.

"Yes, when that work is available," Scott answered. "I like having sex with men. A really do work a job for Récole Abondante. Is it time for pleasure now? Where would you like to have me?"

"Right here on the desk," Deuir said. "There's a bathroom over there if you wish to prepare yourself. I would like to see you naked. Let me watch you undress now and then pose for me when you come back in the room, please. Play with yourself while I watch. You are a beautiful young man."

The desk. I knew it, Scott thought, as he stood and started to unbutton his shirt.

"No, wait," Deuir said, reaching out and touching Scott's just-revealed nipple. "Let me undress you."

* * * *

Just as Scott surmised, Deuir fucked him on the desk. Both men were naked; each was impressed by the body of the man he was going to merge with. Scott hadn't lied that fit and well-hung black men were a fetish of his. He himself was a somewhat smaller-than-average slim blond, who, when his shoulder-length hair was let down, as it was now, was androgynous. Deuir, a bit larger than average, muscular, and hot-chocolate black, was naturally dominant. Scott's ankles were hooked on the French islander black's shoulders, as Deuir crouched between the younger man's thighs, clutched Scott's throat with one hand to keep the young man held down and under control, and palmed Scott's chest with the other. Scott, in turn, pressed the palm of one hand into Deuir's chest and grasped and stroked his own cock with the other as the bigger man slowly forced his cock in, stretching a moaning Scott, waited for a moment for Scott to adjust to the girth, and, when he had, pumped him hard, fast, and deep.

"You take it like a pro," Deuir muttered. "Don't try to tell me you aren't a prostitute."

Scott didn't try to tell him he wasn't one, although that wasn't all that he was and Deuir would not have been pleased to know the rest. He just continued taking it like a pro.

As the fuck continued and intensified, Scott took his ankles off Deuir's shoulders, bent his legs, pressing the heels of his feet into the edge of the desk, and used them to lift his pelvis to the penetration and to rock with the fuck. Both men were breathing hard and panting as they fucked like stags in heat, but both froze as a door at the back of the room Scott hadn't seen before opened and a young, muscular, mulatto man entered, saying, "You're still here, Austin. We have to..." He stopped, though, when he saw what was happening on the desk. He didn't turn and leave. He smiled, went to the side of the room, giving him a good, from-the-side, view of the scene. He unbuttoned his shorts, pulled out a long, thick cock, and stroked himself as he watched the action.

When the fuck was interrupted by the appearance of the other man, older than Scott but younger, more muscular, and less chocolate than Deuir, Deuir used the break to change the position. He separated from Scott and pulled the young man off the desk, exchanging positions with him. Deuir went down on his back on the desk, and muttered. "You. Ride me."

Scott followed the direction the lawyer's hands were urging him onto, climbing up on the desk, saddling himself on the older man's pelvis, and descending his ass on Deuir's erection. Helping him in place with a grip on Scott's waist, Deuir put the young man back on his cock, and, Scott's face turned toward Deuir's and his hands palming the lawyer's pecs, Scott commenced riding the cock in long, slow strokes.

Deuir turned his face to the third man who had entered the room, and said, "C'est un vrai chéri, Marc. Rejoins moi--He's a real honey, Marc. Join me."

Scott smiled at the mention of the name, Marc. Bingo, he thought. Reaching his goal was far easier than he thought it would be. But then he had more pressing matters to think of. With a laugh, the third man was stripping off his T-shirt and shorts, revealing a magnificent, powerful body and gigantic erection. He moved over to behind Scott and between Deuir's spread thighs and palmed Scott's buttocks, spreading them. He put himself into position, penetrated on top of Deuir's already-buried shaft, and, as Scott writhed and panted and cried out to the ceiling of the office, the two brown islanders shared him in a double penetration.

For the next several minutes Scott wasn't able to think of anything but the two cocks inside him simultaneously and of surviving the glorious double fuck by two hung, black studs.

A small bathroom was attached to the office and Deuir let Scott go in there to clean up when the two men were done with him. When Scott came out, Deuir, redressing, was alone in the office, but the door to the reception room was open and Scott could hear the other man moving around in there. He obviously still had business to do with the lawyer.

"Who was that?" Scott asked, not complaining or otherwise referring to how he had just been used by both of them.

"A client--a privileged client. You need know nothing more about him," Deuir said, "unless he wants you to."

Scott had every reason to believe that the man wanted him to, because Deuir had come first, rolled out from underneath Scott, and gone to the bathroom. While he was gone, the other man had continued to fuck Scott on the desk in the doggy position, and, after he'd come, he leaned over and whispered in Scott's ear, "Vous êtes douce--You are sweet. Je veux te baiser encore--I want to have you again. You are, I assume, one of Austin's whores. Where do you--?"

"I'm an aid worker for Récole Abondante," Scott answered. "I am working with farmers up in the mountains near Lourdes. And I am not just one of the lawyer's whores, but, Je te laisserais volontiers me baiser à nouvea--I would gladly let you fuck me again."

"You could be someone else's whore too?"

"I could be yours. I have been yours. I could be yours again anytime you want."

"You want me to fuck you again?"

"Et encore et encore et encore--And again and again," Scott answered.

"Bon. I will find you. Are you an American?" His demeanor had changed a bit and he was giving Scott a hard look.

"No, Canadian--working for a Belgian firm," Scott said and he saw the man relax a bit. The tension was transferred to Scott, though. Had he done or said something that made the man think he was an American? He'd have to remain on guard against that.

When they were alone and Scott asked Deuir who the man had been, he didn't really need to be told. He had the first name, Marc. But he'd also been shown a photo before he came here. He had thought it would take time to connect with the man through the pimp lawyer, Austin Deuir, but it happened much faster than had been planned--and he didn't have to think of a way to get the man's cock inside him either. That had happened naturally and fortuitously. And it would happen again. Everything was working out.

As he was walking back to his bungalow in Le Marin, it occurred to him that he had gone to Deuir's office with the lawyer not only to sign a contract but to earn a fee, although he'd been prepared for Deuir to demand service as a sample, and, in his guise as a rent-boy, Scott should have gotten a fee from the man--and from Marc, as well. He had been paid by neither of them. That was no real problem for Scott, though. His plans called for something else entirely, and those plans were moving along nicely. He needed o challenge them on that when he saw them again, though. He had to maintain the character he had established.

* * * *

Scott was showing a group of farmers how a mobile seed sowing machine worked on the slopes of a difficult field on the banks of the Grand Riviére Pilot River near Lordes in the mountains of the island when he saw an old, beat-up pickup truck drive up to the edge of the embankment on the road above the field. Marc Patin climbed out of the truck and stood, leaning into the fender of the vehicle, lighting up a cigarette, and watching the group of men in the field. When he was able, Scott turned the machine over to the leader of the group of the farmers who he'd already shown how to operate the equipment, and slowly climbed up to the road, with what he knew was an enticing swaying of his narrow hips. In the throes of sex, Patin had complimented Scott on his narrow hips, spanning his hands around from Scott's hips, pressing his thumbs together at the center of Scott's lower belly and commenting on splitting the difference as he slid his shaft into the young man's channel--to which Scott had acknowledged in pain-passioned tones that the man was splitting him.

Neither the lawyer, Austin Deuir, nor the man named Marc himself, had told Scott that the man's name was Marc Patin. But Scott, who the two men thought was a French Canadian named Erik Jouret, already knew the man's last name. He also knew what the man did and why Scott would be interested in hooking up with him--besides the fact that he had a magnificent body and knew how to use it to give Scott maximum satisfaction.

"That machine doesn't look like much," Marc said as Scott reached him. "You, however, look like dynamite."

"The field isn't much either," Scott answered, "but it's what they've got to grow the crops they need to grow on here. Any machine heavier and harder to carry around wouldn't do the job. The land slopes too much and is too rocky. We match the equipment to the need."

"Do they need you here still, or will you go with me?"

"They'll learn to use it faster with one of their own showing them it can be done," Scott answered. "No matter what else, I would always go with you if you commanded that of me."

"I'll take that as agreement to go with me now. Get in the truck." Almost as an afterthought, he said, "I'm Marc Patin."

Scott held off from saying he knew that. "I'm Erik. Erik Jouret."