Racing with the Devil Ch. 01-02

The worry kept pounding in my brain. How did he know? How did he know I'd take the cock? What gave away the desires I had that I thought I'd successfully hidden? Or maybe he didn't know. Maybe, here, in this primeval enclave of power and selfishness, it wouldn't have mattered at all what I wanted or didn't want.

But of course he knew. He knew I'd come to him, that I'd open my legs to him.

I rose up against him, struggling with him, he wrestling with me—but laughing when he realized what I was trying to do. I pushed him to the side and rolled with him until I was on top and he was on his back on the bed. It was me now lowering my face to his, taking his lips in mine, putting my pelvis in motion rising and falling on his cock. No longer was there any pretense that he was taking me without my consent, that he had liquored me up and was inside me against my will because I was impaired or intimidated by the situation and the guards watching us and just doing the minimum until I could get out of his trap. My sexual surrender to him total, although he would demand more than sex from me—and I was so lost to him now that I would give him anything he wanted, do anything for him that he demanded of me. I had known there would be an Amir here to send me to paradise.

* * * *

When I drove back into the embassy compound and turned the keys of the embassy car over to the garage supervisor, he told me, "The ambassador has requested that you go see him when you've returned. Word came down some time ago." The look he gave me seemed to indicate he thought I should have known about the summons the instant it was given.

I was afraid of this. In fact, this was much of the reason I had let my defenses down to Amir el-Basir and then, after he'd first gotten his dick inside him, had just given way, letting all of my defenses shatter on the marble floor of his pool house. I had been walking gingerly around like I was trodding on broken glass since I'd arrived in the emirate, knowing that at some point I'd meet up with the ambassador—knowing too, as a matter of fact, that I would meet up with an Amir.

"In the ambassador's office?" I asked, hoping.

"No, in the residence."

Shit.

Hunter Sean Caldwell II. He hadn't been the ambassador when I'd first received my assignment to this country—or at least I hadn't even known he was in the running for the position. The assignment had come as a surprise to me, while I was still training in tech craft, mostly audio surveillance, at Warrenton, Virginia, after finishing my masters in Muslim studies. I wasn't exactly at the head of my class at Warrenton, and some of my fellow students weren't that pleased that I'd gotten an embassy assignment so early. But then most of them were still struggling with languages. My Arabic was fluent already.

I had already sublet my apartment in Rosslyn, near the Pentagon, and sold my Mustang convertible when I'd read that Caldwell would be the new ambassador. Hunter Sean Caldwell II, the first man who had fucked me. Before Josef in graduate school and Amir just now, the only man who had fucked me. The man who I thought was a master at cocking until I encountered Amir and found what a really experienced, virile man could do.

Caldwell had been both the direct ancestor of the founder of Caldwell College, a university prep junior college for jocks—my sport being tennis—and its president at the time I came to his attention. I was on a work-study scholarship to augment my sports scholarship and I served drinks and hors d'oeuvre at his cocktail parties.

He was having a rough time in his marriage. I didn't know it then, but his penchant for young blond men was the crux of the problem. One night after a cocktail party, when his wife wasn't in evidence because she had flounced off to Europe, I was still cleaning up when all of the rest of the servers had left. Caldwell came into his living room, his tux tie undone and his shirt open to show a well-muscled chest covered in salt-and-pepper, curly hair, and sat in a wing chair, one leg slung over the arm, watching me under drooping eyelids and drinking scotch from a bottle. I could tell that he was keyed up.

He told me I could stop and that he wanted me to sit with him and talk with him. I sat in another wing chair, facing him, a distance of only about four feet between us. We passed the bottle back and forth while he told me of all his problems with his wife and the school and life in general. He also told me what a fine-looking young man I was and how well I could do in the university on the basis of a good recommendation from his school.

"I've heard you're gay," he said suddenly.

"Yes, I think so, although I've never . . ." I admitted, sheepishly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he responded. That was my first inkling of where this was leading.

He could hold his liquor better than I could. I have no idea at what point he was kneeling between my thighs, with me unzipped and my cock out, and him giving me the first blow job I ever had from a man. Before it had all be wishful thinking and fumbling.

He fucked me in the backseat of his Mercedes in the garage, saying he didn't feel right about doing it in the house. But that was a one-time taboo. He had no trouble fucking me in the house for months afterward. The backseat of a Mercedes in a closed garage was a hell of a place to lose your male-male virginity, but I was drunk, he was the college president, he was a pretty good-looking and trim man, and I was barely making it through on combined scholarships—scholarships that he controlled.

He was gentle and patient with me under the circumstances, my first ejaculation occurring while he was still sucking me and working my body with his hands as I was on my knees encasing his thighs, facing him, in the center of the backseat of his Mercedes. My ineffectual murmur of objection as he pulled me down into his lap and I felt the hard insistence of him had no affect on him. I can still hear the unzipping of his trousers in my then liquor-clouded mind as he had my torso bent back toward the front seat and was sucking on my nipples. I remember shuddering and moaning for him when he wrapped his hand around my cock.

I remember murmuring that I'd never done it before and then the feel of the bulb of his cock at my entrance. The long, slow, painful journey of my channel down that pole, which wasn't unusually long but, I didn't know it at the time, was unusually thick, seemed like a fireplug to me. And then, once I felt the curly hair of his pubes mingling in mine, the rocking back and forth on his cock, one of his arms around my waist and the hand of the other between our bellies, stroking my cock hard again. The pleasure rising up to overlay, and then overpower, the pain. My second ejaculation, and his bathing of my channel. He hadn't worn a condom. And the kisses and his apologies of having been so seized by want that he hadn't taken precautions left me in awe of how much he wanted me as I continued to rock on the cock and it withered inside me.

The apologies didn't prevent him from fucking me bareback again, though, and over the next few months again and again and again. And until Amir el-Basir fucked me, I thought that Caldwell was an expert at it and that I was lucky to have him servicing me.

After I'd moved on to Stanford to major in Muslim studies under Assistant Professor Josef Garfeh—in more aspects than one—with a full tennis scholarship, I left that behind and managed to forget what I'd had to do to get through junior college.

But that wasn't really fair. Much like having given in to Amir el-Basir once he'd gotten his dick inside me that first time, once the awkwardness of the backseat of the car and the first breaching of my ass ring by a cock was over, I had nothing left to protect, and I had enjoyed Caldwell's cocking. He must have enjoyed cocking me, because, though we parted amicably enough when I went off to Stanford—and into the arms of Josef—and Caldwell presumably moved on to other young blonds, he'd obviously kept track of me and had requested my assignment to his embassy when he was tapped to be an ambassador.

* * * *

A slightly built Filipino manservant, wearing pristine-white shorts and T-shirt, opened the door of the residence, which was a wing of the recently constructed American embassy complex, built like a fortress in a compound that could withstand a siege or a rocket attack. No one looking at the building from the courtyard would even know what was office space and what was the ambassador's residence as well as the residences of other senior embassy officials.

I obviously was expected, as I only had to give my name to be ushered to a central, two-story foyer with a huge skylight overhead and a staircase sweeping up to a second-floor landing. The manservant gestured toward the stairs and looked at me expectantly.

"I'm to go upstairs?" I asked. "And then where?" I'd just arrived in country; I hadn't been in the residence yet. I'd only been in the country for two weeks and most of that was on leave in a hotel, busy trying to set up new living circumstances. The embassy admin officer was the one who actually arranged for housing. Mine hadn't been set up yet, and he seemed to be dragging his feet on getting me settled. I was still in the hotel.

"Excuse me, sir," the manservant said. "Yes, up the stairs, down the corridor, and the last door on the right." He gave me a look that seemed peculiar, but what did I know about the looks that Filipinos gave? And what did it matter anyway? Filipinos, like the Thai, were favorites as house servants for the wealthy in the region for their ability to fade into the wallpaper and to take anything going on in the house in their stride—not judging, at least overtly, just serving, and serving well. After giving me directions, the Filipino houseboy withdrew as if evaporating into the air.

I knocked on the door and heard Caldwell's voice, bidding me to enter. The room I entered obviously was his bedroom—large, elegantly decorated, and with a commanding four-poster bed. I can't say I was surprised.

I also couldn't say I was surprised that he was standing at a full-length French door out onto a narrow balcony and overlooking an interior garden courtyard. Even though the courtyard was enclosed, mostly by the blank walls of other areas of the embassy, the view was distorted enough for me to know that the glass was thick and bulletproof. Nor was I surprised that he was in a robe of a gauzy material thin enough for me to tell, with the backdrop of the sunlight streaming into the window, that he was naked underneath. He was still in superb condition, these six years later, for a man in his late fifties—solidly built and somewhat stocky now, but not fat. And he was half hard, not long, but as thick as I remembered.

I stood inside the door, which swung shut on its own behind me. We said nothing for half a minute, during which he gave me a sardonic look and took a couple of swigs of whatever he was drinking out of a brandy snifter. Liquor. My softening-up vulnerability. He had made me drunk before fucking me at college. Amir had made me drunk before fucking me in his pool house earlier in the day. Josef had used opium.

Caldwell didn't offer me a drink. We were way beyond that.

"So, here you are. I understand you were playing tennis with Prince el-Basir's son."

"Yes."

"Went on a bit long."

"Yes."

"I put the word out two hours ago that I wanted to see you."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd call for me today. I've been here a couple of weeks and you hadn't called for me. As you surmised, the tennis went on a little long." If I had meant how long he'd left me cooling my heels as a criticism, he didn't show it. If he hadn't mellowed, he didn't really care all that much what I felt about anything. What my statement did establish, though, was that I believed I was here to answer whatever summons he made.

"And what happened afterward? Did he fuck you after tennis?"

I didn't answer. There probably was no need, in Hunter's mind, for me to answer. But that was a bit unfair. After Hunter, there had been only one other—until earlier today. And no one for a couple of years. Hunter obviously thought otherwise.

"I suppose for U.S. purposes that's just as well. Did you enjoy him?"

Instead of answering that question, I introduced another topic. "I didn't know you were to be ambassador here."

"I didn't want you to know. Does that bother you?"

"A bit, yes. I wasn't up for an assignment yet. May I assume that you arranged that?"

"Muriel has left me. I'm on assignment alone. It's a tense assignment, and I have needs."

"I see," I said.

"I like the familiar. I knew of your schooling and training and that you'd fit this assignment. I didn't want to take risks, to establish new arrangements here. I knew that, with you—"

"I said that I understood." And I did understand. I'd worked hard to fit this assignment.

He had put the snifter down on a table next to the window and was undoing his robe. He parted the robe, which showed that he was in full erection now. He was beefy, but hard bodied. I knew that he was an avid squash player and worked out with weights. He probably still could break me in two. "It's been a long time, but I haven't forgotten. Have you?"

I knelt in front of him at the window and gave him head until he growled that he wanted me naked and on the bed.

He fucked me swiftly, missionary style, to an ejaculation. This I remembered before too, there was little passion in his fucking. It was like an exercise routine he needed to do regularly to keep in shape. He had said he had basic needs, and it was clear that I was to serve those here clinically and without emotion.

Then we lay on the bed, our bodies stretched out against each other and our hands exploring, reacquainting ourselves with the hardness and suppleness of each other's bodies. Caldwell had never had much stamina; he never could last long at a time. Still, he and Josef having been my only reference points, I had thought that sex with him was quite hot. After Amir, I wasn't sure. With Josef, it was more that he possessed me and that I was little more than a possession, which was similar to the way Caldwell took me. Having had two that way, I thought it was the norm—"wham, bang, go get a shower and then be gone until I need to get off again." It was different with Amir, though. He'd taken me to the heights and then worked me there, prolonging the pleasure and the arousal—and the realization that he could finish me whenever he wanted to—and, ultimately, finishing me long after I'd made a fool of myself begging him for it.

But it didn't really matter that Hunter Caldwell had a quick trigger. He was the man in control. I knuckled under easily to a man in control. Each of the three had been like that, in their own way.

When Caldwell had engorged again, I rolled over on top of him, saddled myself on his cock, and rode his dick cowboy style, rocking back and forth on his tool, as I knew he liked. Still, there was a businesslike, perfunctory air about it. There would be no emotional entanglements. He had tensions with his job. My major job was to be to help relieve those—without fuss or demands.

"You have kept in good form," he whispered when we were laying, entwined again.

"There hasn't been anyone else for a couple of years," I murmured. "I want you to know that. I couldn't have gotten this job, if there was. And I probably won't be able to keep the job if—"

"I know there was another man after me and I can smell another man on you even now," he said. "An expensive cologne. Amir el-Basir? You didn't answer me before."

"I haven't lied about there being no other man since I left Stanford—up to today," I answered. "But knowing you were here . . . I just was riddled with worry and confusion. And vulnerable. And he's the son of a prince. I didn't get the impression I had much choice."

"I understand," he said. "But you are with me now."

"Yes," I said. "I am with you now." I didn't want to tell him that I had already arranged the next time I would be with Amir—that it was too late to tell me not to let the Arab control me. And, indeed, I was to meet and lie under Amir at least twice a week thereafter. And Amir would take much more from me than just sex and a tennis workout. He controlled me with sex in a way that the ambassador never had and never would, and I could deny nothing that he asked of me.

"I will have your things moved from the hotel.," the ambassador said. "You will be staying with me here. The Marine guards think it would be safer if there was someone else staying inside the residence—one of the younger male staffers. The Marines are already overstretched on duties. Your bedroom will be just across the hall, but . . ."

At least now I knew why the admin officer had been dragging his feet on finding me an apartment.

But that too didn't last very long. Two months later I received a note in my mail slot at the embassy that an apartment had been assigned. It was only later that night, after Hunter had fucked me like a dog at the foot of the four-poster bed, swiftly and with little emotion, that he told me that his son would be arriving by the end of the week and that I would be housed separately now, although I was still expected to attend him when he felt he needed it and could arrange it.

The introduction of the ambassador's son into the equation changed much and nearly spoiled everything.

* * * *

Hugh and I arrived at the chief of station's house in the embassy compound together for the reception of Tony Jacobs, the chief of Mideast Ops from back in Langley. We were both a little blurry eyed that we were being included, as we were just about the lowest men on the totem pole at the station. We were essentially "it" as audio surveillance techs at the embassy went, but neither of us had done much in the way of that work since I had arrived at station nearly three months earlier. After getting me hooked up with the prince's son and asking me occasionally what intel I had gathered from him—which obviously didn't include reports on him fucking me—the COS pretty much lost interest in me.

Hugh had been so busy before that they'd opened up another slot, and then when I arrived, the business went dead. I had all but been reassigned to be the ambassador's gofer, which the station wasn't opposing because the Agency had little for me to do and was happy to garner the goodwill of Caldwell.

But Penny Haskell, the hard-as-nails COS, had insisted we be there for this reception, so there we were.

Our presence was somewhat explained when she stopped us in the foyer of her embassy compound residence as we arrived and said, in low tones, that we were to stay around after Jacobs had been taken back to his hotel. This meant she had some actual surveillance work for us to do, evidently something she didn't want to discuss at the station in the chancery. I was a little nervous about that. As well as putting bugs in and monitoring them, our job was to find and take bugs out at the embassy. If Haskell didn't want to give us an assignment in the office, perhaps, I thought, she believed we hadn't swept the station well enough. On the other hand, she seemed willing to talk to us in her residence, which was also on the embassy compound.

I stewed about what we might have done wrong or if Penny had discovered that the ambassador wanted me around because he was fucking me—at least until I saw Sean, the newly arrived ambassador's son, Hunter Sean Caldwell III, at the reception. He was being called Sean at the embassy to distinguish him from his father.

"Who's he?" I had asked Hugh, a canapé half way to my mouth and tugging at Hugh's sleeve with the other hand.

He turned his eyes toward where I was pointing, where Penny's husband, Tyler, who ostensibly was the reason the Haskells were in this country—he was an oil company regional manager—was talking with a young man.