Racing with the Devil Ch. 01-02

[These are chapters 1 and 2 of four postings in eight chapters, to complete posting by the end of March 2020.]

Chapter One: Welcome to the Gulf, Chris Carter

The combination of knock-out pills, which didn't completely work, and liquor, on the run from Frankfurt to the Arabian Peninsula would have had me staggering off the plane onto the tarmac even if the oppressive desert heat hadn't done the trick. I had to lift my arm to cover my eyes against the glare off the steel and glass monolith of a terminal building that rose like a displaced iceberg in front of me. Westerners like me were being piled into one of two airport buses at the bottom of the jet stairs. The buses had already taken all of the Arabic men to the terminal—those having been permitted off the plane first—and then had returned for the rest of us. These Arabs, dressed in the white robes the country book the Agency had doled out to me shortly before I left Washington called thawbs or dishdashas, evidently were local potentates. The handbook told me not to bother to try to distinguish a thawb from a dishdasha.

I wasn't in much condition to tell much of anything from the other—although it was obvious that, no matter what order we deplaned in, the men in the robes were going to get to the terminal before the rest of us.

The heat of the Gulf emirate, showing in waves of heavy air coming off the sand beyond the runways, that we'd landed in was still building when we finally reached the terminal and were hit with a blast of cold air conditioning inside what I'd already named The Iceberg. Then, as we slowly cleared immigration control—me clearing last, because third-world satrapies just loved to hassle Americans with diplomatic passports—everyone seemed to disappear. When I stumbled out into the main terminal, it was like I was the only one in a gigantic air hanger that just soared up and up. It took a while to focus in on the direction I was to go to get to baggage claim. The terminal seemed empty—so deserted that the sound of my shoes clipping along as I walked across the terminal floor echoed off the glass walls and steel frame of the terminal. All of the signage was in Arabic. That alone didn't defeat me, as I spoke and read Arabic fairly fluently. But none of it seemed to relate to airport functions. Pithy blurbs from the Koran are all very nice—in fact I found them inspiring and helping to steel my resolve in what I had agreed to do—but they don't tell me where to find my suitcase.

Stumbling onto the baggage claim area at last, I could see my bags circling the metal carousel as I approached and disappear through strips of black rubber back into the bowels of the building before I could reach them. Of course, it took them an age to come out the other side again—and of course my bags were the last to be picked up and I was the last to clear customs. Material was sticking out of the seams of the suitcase; despite having diplomatic immunity, my bag had been searched and there would be no apology forthcoming for that. I was a bit surprised to discover that they were every bit as "in your face" with American diplomats here as they were in Israel.

In one last moment of frustration and confusion, the customs agents linked arms to deny me access to the exit everyone else had used and to direct me over to a door at the side. They were smiling now, their job of putting the American in his place finished. Who would have known that at this late stage of the process, there would be a diplomatic lounge and separate entrance to depart the terminal—to a covered waiting area for limousines rather than right out onto the "teeming masses" street. In the lounge, tapping her toes impatiently, a look of irritated impatience on her face, was the last person in the world I wanted to either see or to be made to feel delinquent by.

I had met Penny Haskell in Langley a couple of times during my abbreviated training for this post, where I was to engage in covert tech support while pretending to be a State Department logistics officer and where even that had an element of pretense. Haskell was the chief of station in this emirate—the top American spy in the country. Each time we had briefly met and spoken at CIA Headquarters across the Potomac River from Washington, D.C., Haskell had been abrupt and cold. She always seemingly needed to be somewhere else in the next ten minutes and was dealing with me only on sufferance—although it had always been a case of me sitting and cooling my heels, waiting for an appointment with her that I hadn't been the one to schedule.

Today was no different—other than that she'd been waiting for me, and she wasn't at all pleased by that fact. At my obvious confusion that I had been met at the nearly deserted airport in this postage-stamp sized emirate on the Persian Gulf by the COS herself rather than by some embassy foreign national flunky, she told me, in clipped tones, that the COS always met her incoming staff members. But she went on to say that my plane had been late and I'd come out of customs late—and she managed to say it in a way that suggested I personally was responsible for the delays—and that she was expected at an event. There wasn't time to take me to my hotel or the embassy; I'd have to go to the event with her.

Wonderful, I thought. Just what I wanted to do, having traveled a quarter of the distance around the globe without sleep—although I could fall down in a stupor now—with the makings of a hangover and nearly drooping with heat exhaustion.

"Where?" I started to say.

"We're going to the horse races," Haskell said.

God, yes, I thought. Just the thing for the condition I'm in—outside at the rails in the heat of the desert day with horses kicking dust into my face. Lovely.

The horse races turned out to be at a fancy track across the city, the emirate's capital being a compact collection of impossibly tall and wildly shaped skyscrapers set on obviously manmade islands poking out into a harbor on the shores of the Gulf. Haskell told me that, from the air, the whole complex fanned out in the shape of a palm tree. I believed her. She also told me that the city was only for the wealthy rulers—that the lower classes lived in slums hidden on the other side of manmade hills surrounding the central city and only came into the modern city to serve the upper class. I believed that too. I was so tired and hung over I was willing to believe anything she said.

I balked a bit when she told me that the horse race we were going to would feature this year's winners of the Kentucky Derby and Belmont Stakes, racing each other—the horses having been shipped here just for a race that would last less than eight minutes. But it turns out she was right about that too. Mercifully, though, the track was too fancy for us to be standing at the rails. We were in some sort of large, air-conditioned skybox overlooking the track. I would have thought that there would be quite a crowd out to see such a race, but it was only being run for those of us in the skybox.

It was here where I saw him and he perked up and gave me a speculative full-body inspection with his hooded eyes when Penny Haskell introduced me to his father, Prince Sayeed el-Basir, the holder of every vestige of functional power in this small emirate. Haskell emphasized in the terse introduction that I had been an intercollegiate tennis champion. That's when Amir el-Basir moved out of his father's shadow and asked her to repeat that.

Within my first hour of arriving in my new country of assignment in the Persian Gulf, I not only got to see Belmont whip the Kentucky Derby in a brief flash, but I also was engaged to play tennis with a prince's son at the royal palace.

It was only as I was being driven to my hotel in Penny Haskell's embassy car that she told me that she had preplanned all of this—that she wanted me to get close to and to cultivate the prince's son and that she had known that my tennis talents would be the station's entrée to that. Little did she know that Amir el-Basir and I would have found each other without her machinations.

My life of espionage had already begun.

Chapter Two: So This Is Life in an Emirate

My head was still swimming a bit, but it was done now and couldn't be taken back. I pulled my knees in together with a groan and slipped the plump pillow from under the small of my back. I lowered my feet to the marble floor below the edge of the large lounge bed in the pool house facing the open wall to the terrace-surrounded swimming pool, light reflecting brightly off the slightly waving water under the blazing sun. He hadn't told me I could adjust my position, but he'd been so long at it in this position that I was cramping.

I turned my face toward one side and watched the slim-waisted, berry-brown body of Amir saunter off to the bathroom. His buttocks were plump orbs, but the hollows at the sides below the hips—which I had just had the heels of my hands buried in as my fingers were flared over his butt cheeks, helping to guide his thrustings—were deep. Turning my head in the other side, I looked at the used condom, plump from his prodigious cum, laying there like a bloated slug, proof that I'd let him fuck me. Beside that were the bottle of lube and another couple of condom packets. He had said nothing about how I'd done with him, but he apparently was prepared for a marathon.

When he'd left me he'd just said he needed to piss—and that I wasn't to go anywhere. He acted like I was there just to serve him. He obviously was spoiled that way, which was a given considering who he was, where we were, and what I knew I had to do. But then nothing I was doing could be taken to contradict that he could have anything he fancied from me.

This was all just a bit surreal. I hadn't let a man fuck me since graduate school—not that that was very long ago. I doubt if Amir would have cared even if I had told him that I hadn't, though. And, on his turf and, given the bodyguards, it was rather a moot point. As he was fucking me, my eyes had gone to the ceiling over the studio bed and I saw the frame that could be lowered on the bed and the four corner posts with the restraint attachments. If I hadn't given into to him willingly, chances were good that he would have taken me anyway—and his bodyguards would have provided the muscle.

I'd wanted the job with intelligence, using my natural skills at the technical aspects of audio surveillance and serving my political interests and so that I'd be well placed in the thick of things and could fulfill what I believed in. I'd restrained myself, behaving myself, so that I could pass the stringent background checks and scrutiny of my life—and I'd managed to get through all that and to my first posting, here, in this small Gulf peninsula enclave emirate, strategically important for its size not only because of the subterranean ocean of oil it sat on but also because of where it was positioned in relationship to its neighbors and to the Strait of Hormuz passageway into the Persian Gulf.

Amir el-Basir, the pampered and spoiled son of Prince Sayeed el-Basir, wasn't thick, but he was long, his cock curved up so that the bulb could punish the prostate as he pumped. And he had stamina. He was thin and wiry, but he was well-muscled and strong. I had resisted a bit, but I'd been tired from our tennis match on the palace courts and confused and sluggish from whatever was in the drinks he was plying me with as we sat in the pool room after the match to cool down. I had stopped putting up any kind of a struggle at all after he'd gotten his dick inside me and just went with the fuck. He was cruel, taking long, deep, rapid strokes. Fisting my knees and working my legs back and forth, thrusting as he pushed the legs out and withdrawing as he pulled them into my body.

He never asked me if I liked or wanted what he was doing to me—but I didn't use my hands to try to push him away, I grabbed his buttocks and helped guide the stroking—and when I felt him ready to blow, I held him to me, wrapped my legs around his waist and took over the stroking with my channel. So, I guess he knew I wanted it. I think he was at least a little disappointed he wasn't ruining a virgin.

I had let him have his way. There wasn't much else I could do. The embassy had told me to cultivate the royals and had virtually thrust the two of us together when they learned I'd played intercollegiate tennis—and I'd known there would be an Amir here, waiting for me. Amir was a tennis nut. He'd seen me play and had expressed interest in wanting to play me. I'll bet the embassy didn't know what he really wanted, how he wanted to play me, though—what it meant to cultivate his goodwill, to let him have his way.

Between sets he had told me that his fetish was young blonds. He said it as if he already knew I—a young blond—would take cock. Not taking him all that seriously at that point, I asked him how hard they were to come by in this Arab emirate, and he just laughed and said there was a market for them. I didn't really understand at first what he meant by "a market for them," and then when he explained what he meant, I didn't necessarily believe him, but his eyes weren't laughing when he said it, so I didn't call him on the statement.

Once here, I couldn't very well refuse him with those armed guards standing at the corners of the pool house, ever vigilant, but seeing nothing. Just standing there, as we sat by the pool after, skinny dipping at his suggestion, and he plied me with liquor. Neither of us was able to hide our arousal in the circumstance; I did what I could with a towel; he didn't bother to hide his interest, that long cock of his curving up, rigid, from his groin like a Saracen scimitar. It was his idea that we move into the shade, onto the lounge bed in the pool house. He had already kissed me and held and squeezed my cock by the pool, so I knew what was coming in the pool house. He pushed me onto my back there, where, my torso propped up on my elbows, I could see the frame above me and contemplate it with some trepidation, as he knelt between my spread thighs and gave me nominal suck. We were both hard—and both had been so for some time—so there was little preliminary preparation, before, telling me he couldn't wait longer, he rose over me between my thighs, forced a pillow under the small of my back, and thrust inside me.

He grabbed the hair at the back of my head, arched my torso back, positioned his cock with his other hand, and drove hard inside me. In an instant I was completely undone.

I had murmured before he began giving me suck that I wasn't sure, knowing from my slurred words that the liquor had impaired my reactions, and, after it became evident that he was going to carry through, that it had been some time and could he go slowly? But, no he couldn't—and didn't—go slowly. The initial thrust caused me to gasp and try to jerk away from him, but he just laughed and held on tight, his fist buried in the hair at the back of my head, reared back, and thrust again, deeper.

I looked toward one of his guards in panic, perhaps thinking there would be intervention from that quarter, but of course it was a nonsensical thought. The man was watching us with slitted eyes, but he remained standing at watchful attention. There was no hope for me from that direction—not that I didn't know subconsciously that it would come to this.

I briefly thought about how this would be for some young man here against his will, not wanting this. And it caused me to shudder. After his dick was inside me, though, I was lost. I gave in completely. This was what I wanted.

"I knew you were just teasing," he muttered, but his voice sounded like he perhaps was disappointed that I had given in so quickly.

But I hadn't been teasing. It had been long enough for me to forget how much I wanted it.

It was like old times in college, and then, if ever so brief, in graduate school with Josef, when I had finally decided to immerse myself totally in Muslim studies.

Amir's cocking was so arousing and reminiscent of Josef that I melted to it immediately. I encircled Amir's slim waist with my legs and held onto his sides under his armpits, the heel of my hands rubbing his nipples, as the head of his dick found my prostate and worked me there. I ejaculated and collapsed as he worked my channel, and he grabbed my legs, bent them, with my heels dug into the edge of the studio bed. He pumped my legs back and forth to the rhythm of the pumping with fists on my knees, while I arched my back, reached for holds on the brass rungs of the headboard behind me, and moaned my acceptance of the cocking.

I came again, and he noted, with pride, how easily he could coax the cum out of me.

Once again I told him, "It's been years," to which he retorted that I was a liar—that he thought I was a pro. He fucked harder, mercilessly, to his own ejaculation then.

I didn't tell him that it was so easy for him only because he reminded me so much of Josef—and because I fully expected there was someone, like Amir, waiting here for me—waiting to control me and bend me to his will.

I watched him return from the bathroom, dark-skinned, thin, wiry, his cock in upcurved erection again, so much like Josef, his hands busy rolling a condom onto the long, thin staff.

I wasn't drunk anymore. There were no excuses anymore. But there was nothing to fight anymore either. It's not like I hadn't done this before. It wasn't like I didn't expect to be doing this here, in the emirate.

Neither of us said anything. He was so cocky, so sure of himself. As if this was his kingdom and he could have anything—anyone—he fancied. The attentive but rigidly standing guards at the corners of the terrace, unmoving throughout his assault on my body, emphasized that. My mind went again to what he'd said about being able to buy young blonds and do what he wished with them, whether they wanted it or not. I had no doubt he could—and probably did, with his bodyguards standing there just as they did while Amir was fucking me.

I asked him then, what happened to those purchased blonds? Did he turn them over to those burly bodyguards sneaking looks at what Amir was doing to me after he was finished with them?

"Sometimes," he answered.

I shuddered at that terse, cold response. But, no matter, as far as I was concerned now, he could fuck me at will and then do with me what he wanted. I suppose the time for diplomatically pulling away and leaving would have been as we were leaving the tennis court when he put his arm around my shoulder and gave me that hungry look. I had known that look in my university days, but I had thought myself beyond those youthful follies since I'd gone out into the world from the university. I wonder if I knew at that moment on the tennis court that he was going to fuck me. I suppose it's a waste of time to think about it, though, as he did fuck me. And having done it once . . .

I watched him roll another condom on and lather it with lube. Then I raised and separated my legs, leaving no doubt that I would docilely receive the cock again. He moved between my thighs, pushing the pillow back underneath the small of my back, grasping my ankles and hanging them on his shoulders. He leaned over me, bringing his face down to mine.

"Be good to me this time," I begged in a whisper. "Last time you—"

"I know what you want," he growled as his lips possessed mine and his hands grasped my wrists.

I lurched and tried to open my mouth in a scream as he thrust up deep inside me, but his tongue was occupying my mouth cavity. He immediately began pumping hard and deep, and I groaned and grunted. Taking him. Taking all of him deep and hard.

Within moments knowing it was what I wanted. That didn't matter anyway. He was the son of the prince of the kingdom. This was what he wanted. This is what I got.