Sergey's Stashes

Anthony encountered a friend, Jocko, on the beach--another big, strapping black bull like Anthony, and Anthony invited him back to our room to do me one after the other--which they did. Anthony asked Jocko to watch out for me in St. Croix, which he did, backing me up when I needed it and screwing me royally when I needed that as well.

* * * *

At a third gay music bar on King Street, a place called Francine's, an open-mic singing event was under way. The club provided the pianist and patrons were welcomed up to the stage to sing. It wasn't being publicized, but the club's manager, Samuel, a big, handsome, ebony black stud of a man, who gave me a full-assessment look when Anthony introduced me and who held my hand in his big paw rather longer than was necessary when we met, folding his thumb under to rub my palm in a gesture I knew to be other offer of stud services, was using this method to look for new singers for the club.

"Ivan Sarnov told me you have a great voice and know all sorts of types of songs," Anthony said as they sat at a table listening to a hopeful slaughter a rap song on stage. "You should go up on stage tonight. Maybe that's what you'd like to do while you live here--sing in bars, like you did in Las Vegas."

"Maybe, although it might be risky to do the same thing here that I did in Vegas if the point is to hide."

"You are so far away from Las Vegas and the mainland that I can't see how you would be tracked down here. We've been very careful about separating the records of your financial accounts."

"They aren't really my accounts. They are Sergey's--or now his widow's, I think."

"It is not money that the Sarnovs want to declare and you've been told that you can use some of the principle to get established and live off the interest on the rest. You are a very rich young man--in addition to being very desirable physically. You will do well here. You would do very well in involving yourself in the club scene."

"Well, just about anyone could sing better than the guy on the stage now," I said. "And the piano player is atrocious. I'd have to accompany myself if I went up there tonight."

"I'll talk to Samuel," Anthony said, and he had risen and headed for the bar the manager was leaning against before I could weigh in on whether I wanted to sing or not.

But I did want to sing. I had enjoyed the job I had at the Las Vegas casino. Being balled by Sergey was OK, but I really went along with that to keep my job at the Ice Palace bar.

Samuel must have really liked my singing too, because when I was finished, after three encores, singing Sinatra songs as well as show tunes and more contemporary pop renditions, Samuel appeared at our table, sitting down beside me, overpowering me with his muscular bulk and his ebony sexiness.

"Anthony tells me you might be looking for a job as a singer. If so, I want you to do it here. I don't want the competition of you doing it anywhere else. He also says you are looking for a business to buy into. This one is for sale and I'm buying it if I can find a partner to put up half of the cost. The current owner is hopeless and running the place into the ground, despite this being a great location. Are you interested?"

I couldn't deny that I was, indeed, interested. "You say you would be staying as part owner and manager," I said.

"Do you find that attractive?" he asked.

"Very," I said, making clear that I found him attractive as well. He was an ebony god.

"This is a gay bar, you understand," he said.

"Yes."

"Anthony tells me that you're--"

"Yes," I interjected.

"Then you should know that we have rooms upstairs and the men who work here are available to go upstairs with men who are willing to pay for it."

"I understand."

"As a key part of the entertainment, and as good-looking as you are, the patrons would want to take you upstairs as well."

"I understand," I said, giving him a level look.

"Would you go upstairs with me so that I can gauge how good a partner you would be."

"Where are the stairs?" I asked. Anthony snorted his amusement.

* * * *

So, was Anthony going to watch Samuel fuck me, I wondered. It turned out he didn't just watch, but he started that way.

The room was small, with the minimum of just-functional furniture: a double bed, with basic bedding on it; a straight chair; and a small bureau, with sexual aids laid out on top--a box of condoms, tissues, lube, a bottle of poppers, dildoes in two sizes, restraints, a small hand whip, a ball gag. The flooring was bare wood. There were no curtains on the single window overlooking an alleyway. As Anthony put his hands on me and started to undress me while he nuzzled his face into the hollow of my neck, I was looking around the room, redecorating it into something more luxurious in my mind as the potential new partner in this venture.

Anthony stopped in the open doorway, leaning against the doorframe, rubbing his crotch with one hand, and watching as Samuel unwrapped me, released his own cock from his fly, and pushed me down on my knees for me to take a huge, black cock in my mouth and service it.

Anthony had been my first black, but he was mixed blood and of creamy chocolate complexion. Jocko and Samuel were fully Caribbean black--a deep ebony--and of monstrous size--body, hands, feet, and cock. I could barely get my lips around Samuel's angry, uncut purple bulb, He shuddered and held my head firmly in place as I pushed his foreskin back with my teeth, pressed my tongue into his piss slit, and sucked hard on the bulb. He completed disrobing himself while I gave him head. When he did so, he pulled me up and carried me into the adjoining bathroom--at least all of the brothel rooms had their own bathrooms--and took me into the shower with him.

He was large, there were two of us, and the shower was small, so it was natural for the big, muscular brute to press my back against the tiled wall under the cascading wall, hook my knees on his hips, and fuck me, after a painful up-thrusting stretching of my ass channel by his club of a shaft, with my feet dangling off the shower floor. It was a wild and fully possessing fuck, and I loved very painful-passionate stroke of it.

Anthony, trousers off now, and a hand stroking his cock, had come to the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom and watched Samuel fucking me.

"How far do you want to go with this?" Samuel asked, after he'd fucked me against the shower wall?

"As far as you want," I answered.

He laughed. "I was talking to Anthony, but I like your answer just fine." He turned off the water and pulled me out of the shower. Anthony was there, with two towels, helping to dry us off, fondling me as he did so.

"And Anthony?" Samuel asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"Have you ever had two before?"

"Yes."

"Together? Doubling?"

"Yes." This was scaring me. Both were big-cocked men. It also was arousing me. Two jet-black monster shafts working me together. I melted to the idea.

Standing behind me, embracing me, a hand snaking around my belly and grasping and stroking my cock in the bathroom door, Anthony watched a magnificently naked Samuel walk over to the bureau. He lifted a set of restraints from the surface of the bureau and gave me a questioning look.

"Sure," I said. He then picked up the hand whip. "If that's what you want," I said.

It was what Anthony wanted. Samuel went down on his back on the bed, his legs reaching the floor at the foot of the bed. I was put on his cock, on top of him, and my arms were raised and spread, tied off the corners of the headboard with restraints on the wrists. My legs were spread and retrained to the legs of the bed at its foot on each side. For several minutes Samuel grasped my hips and raised me, fully his captive, on and off his thick cock. While Samuel fucked me, Anthony stood behind me and gave me a taste of the whip on the back and buttocks.

In time Anthony folded his now-naked body over my back, kissing me on the shoulder blades and in the hollow of my neck. His fingers went to my anus and he penetrated on either side of Samuel's thrusting dick, stretching me even more.

I was whimpering and panting hard when Anthony opened the bottle of poppers and waved it under my nose. That settled me down into a mellow mood, only to come out of that and cry out and jerk on top of Samuel, as Anthony rose from my back, took up the hand whip again and struck me again and again on the back, buttocks, and thighs.

I was whimpering and panting hard when he put the whip aside; mounted me from the rear; penetrated me, sliding his cock into me above Samuel's; and they fucked me into counterpunching rhythm.

"So..." I said afterward when we'd all showered again and were dressing.

"Yes, you'll do nicely as a partner," Samuel said. "Your singing will bring them in, and if you do for them here upstairs that you've just done for Anthony and me, you'll keep them coming and paying big fees. We'll bring in some more young men, of course, better quality then the current owner has. We'll make a bundle."

And, with that, I was in business and picking up a new life on St. Croix.

* * * *

I had retreated to my rental bungalow overlooking the Frederiksted pier on St. Croix to decide what to do. I had been on the island for six months. I'd gone into business with Samuel on Francine's bar and male brothel. Everything had been working out fine. Then I noticed the two men hanging around. They looked much too uptight and out of place on St. Croix to be locals. I saw them in the bar once--but I don't think they saw me. They were talking to one of our bartenders, who also was one of our rent-boys. But neither showed an interest in taking him upstairs. In fact, they weren't acting like any of the other patrons in the bar who knew this was a gay bar. They seemed uncomfortable being here. I watched them for some time through the spyhole between my office and the bar.

After they'd gone, I talked to the guy at the bar and, in shock, heard that they were asking about Dale Stephens. I wasn't Dale Stephens now, but I had been Dale Stephens in my earlier life in Las Vegas. I started keeping to the shadows then, and after I'd seen them on the gay bar stretch of King Street twice more, I retreated to my hillside bungalow, grateful that I hadn't told anyone in my business where I lived. Of course Anthony Hendricks knew. He wasn't here in the U.S. Virgin Islands, on St. Thomas, the main island. I decided to call him.

"I was about to call you," he said. "There were men here asking about Dale Stephens and suspiciously describing a young man and circumstance that matched you. I didn't tell them anything, but there are others in the bank--"

"Yes, that would have to do with me. Did they say who they represented?"

"They had U.S. government credentials, although I don't have any means to check out whether or not they were authentic. I'm afraid someone might have told them to try St. Croix. When Ivan Sarnov called, I told him you were on St. Croix, but he's the only one I've told."

"I think they did find out I'm on St. Croix. That's why I called. I think they are here, looking for me. Can I touch the money in my account with you if I leave the islands?"

"Of course. No problem," he answered.

That was a relief I thought, as I disconnected. But it still didn't solve the problem of where I could go and how I could get there. I had plenty of cash to get a new start, but would they have the airports covered? And were they really from the government, looking into Sergey's death, or were they Russian mafia interested in cleaning up for Sergey's death?

I went out on my front balcony and stared down into the water off the pier while I let my mind work over options and possibilities. There was a fantastic yacht out there coming up to the pier. I took the binoculars I kept on the porch to watch the activity down on the coast and checked out the yacht.

I recognized him coming off the yacht--Ivan Starnov. How did he fit into my current situation? Was he a way off the island, or had he sent the men who were looking for me? Of all of the people from Las Vegas, he had come the closest to seeming to care about and for me--even more than Sergey ever had. But was he concerned about me personally or was he concerned about the various accounts Sergey had stashed here and about, including a hefty sum with me? What part, if any, had he had in Sergey's death.

He arrived here in a yacht. He could take me away in it--away from danger--if he wanted to. He'd taken the effort to set me up here. Would he have done that if he wanted me to be fingered from Sergey's death after he'd gotten Sergey's stash out of me? Who could tell? Of all of the options in this moment, he seemed to be the best risk, though.

I went back into the bungalow for my cell phone and called up his number. He already was here St. Croix. I might as well tell him where he could find me.

* * * *

The name of the gay nightclub on Calle Condado in downtown San Juan, Puerto Rico, was Alexander's. It was a piano bar and, with Ivan Sarnov's help and the assurance that I've give the bar a cut of any hook-up money had earned from here, I had landed the job of playing and singing three sets there four evenings a week. I didn't really need the money--I was getting infusions from the earnings off Sergey's stash in the Cayman Island bank to cover my expenses. I had a new name and passport. I now was Sean Simpson.

Ivan had come to my rescue a second time. When he'd come to St. Croix on his very nice yacht, he was on his way to open a casino in San Juan for his Russian associates. The casino in Las Vegas had been suddenly closed down amid the heavy rumors that it was Russian mafia owned and the Sergey Sarnov had been offed in some sort of business dispute. The feds were crawling all over the operation there and Sergey's widow was screaming from the wings about lost money. She and Ivan had gone at each other hard, and the casino's backers had decided to move Ivan to a new venue. There was every reason to believe Ivan said, that the men zeroing in on me on St. Croix were part of the federal investigation, and he offered to take me to San Juan with him.

So, leaving my situation in the Virgin Islands for Anthony Hendricks to liquidate for me, I climbed aboard Ivan's yacht and was moving on to yet another new life.

Once on board, of course, Ivan climbed aboard me nonstop for the cruise to Puerto Rico, but I didn't have any doubts that that was what he wanted in return to help me out of a jam once again.

So, on this night three months later, here I was at the piano at Alexander's, playing show tunes and singing along. There was a good-looking guy, maybe pushing forty, alone at one table paying close attention to me and I got the distinct impression it wasn't because I played the piano or sang real nice. This was nothing new. I had the kind of looks that arrested the attention of a certain kind of man--and many women, as well--and nearly half the nights I played in the bar, I went somewhere else after my gigs and lost my clothes for an hour or two before I went home to my small apartment near Ivan's La Concha Cassio over on Avenida Ashford on Condado Beach.

I was in the middle of my last set and the room was thinning out. There had been two tables of patrons who had stayed over from the second set, though, one a thuggish looking man and a blowsy redhead, distinctive as this was a gay bar; most the couples who came in were all-male, and the other the good-looking, well-built middle-aged guy, who kept giving me the eye. The woman looked a bit familiar to me, and, as I played and sang, I kept wracking my brain on where I might have seen her before. It was probably just on the street here in old San Juan, or maybe she'd come into the bar before in the short time I'd been in place here. But somehow, it seemed to go back further than that.

There were stools around the baby grand piano I played on a platform in one corner of the room and a tip jar on the piano. I wasn't surprised when the good-looking guy came up and perched on a stool, putting a wad of cash in the tip jar and laying a larger wad of cash beside the jar. He'd been eyeing me "in that way" all night and hooking up with guys like him was part of my job at Alexander's. The side wad of cash was a proposition for something going beyond playing the piano and singing.

"Do you know any Hoagy Carmichael?" he asked, and, in response, I started playing and crooning "Lazy River." He smiled and settled in. I switched to "Georgia on My Mind," and he ordered two Scotches, letting his fingers linger on my wrist when he placed one of them on the coaster above the keyboard that I kept for just such offerings.

"My name is Les," he said, looking expectantly at me, as I started into "Stardust," just playing it, not singing it, readily for the short chat of a progressing hookup.

"I'm Sean," I answered, my new name still unfamiliar to me.

"Lovely."

"What is? My name?"

"Everything about you," he said. "Your piano playing, your singing, you yourself. You are a gorgeous young man. And you're playing in a gay bar."

I feigned surprise and lifted my hands off the keyboard. "This is a gay bar?" I asked, giving a gasp but also a saucy smile. "No one told me that."

He laughed, took one of my hands in his, and pressed his thumb in my palm, rubbing me there. Recognizing the code for a seeking top, I cupped my hand loosely around the thumb, as he moved the digit in and out, mimicking thrusting in the sheath I'd provided.

Seeing that I understood completely what he had in mind, Lex released my hand and I returned them to the keyboard.

"Play something else for me--something that tells me what you have in mind--what you'd be willing to do for me." When I started playing again, he gave me a quizzical look. "I don't recognize that song."

"It's the best I could think of doing and staying with Hoagy Carmichael," I said. "It's called 'Two Sleepy People.'"

"But you're not sleepy, are you? Because I'm not."

"No, I'm not sleepy." It was all pre-hookup banter, but this at least was a fresh approach. He was touching me on the forearm and it was sending chills up my spine. There were times when going with a john was "just because of work." This wasn't one of those times. The man was sexy and I was in heat.

"You're about to come off work, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"You're not sleepy, but you are thinking of a bed? I know I am." I reached for the wad of bills he'd laid beside the tip jar and fanned them out for me to see. It was more than enough--way more than enough how sexy, and big, and muscular, and good-looking he was. He was a good bit older than I was, but I liked it that way. He took one of my hands off the keyboard and moved it to his crotch. He was big there too--and in arousal.

"Yes, I'm thinking of a bed," I said. "And, no, I'm not sleepy."

"You're thinking of a bed and another man?"

"Yes."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"Just like that? No coyness."

"When I've met a sexy man, I don't need to be coy," I answered. I had reached the end of my set. He was the only patron left in the bar. The thug and the blowsy redhead were gone. "I don't know where you have in mind," I said.

"When you've met a man with money," he teased.

"That too."

"I have booked a room right next door--at The Wave Hotel."

The Wave was definitely gay friendly. It definitely wouldn't be my first visit there. "That will be fine," I said, gathering up my gear and pocketing the wad of cash he was buying me with for the next couple of hours--perhaps all night, if we melded well.

As we left the club and turned north for the next building over, The Wave, I caught a glimpse of a car down the block turning its engine and lights on, pulling away from the curve, and gliding slowly toward us. I also caught a look of a woman with red hair in the passenger seat and, frighteningly, what I thought to be the muzzle of a gun raised and her window rolling down. But it was only a glimpse, because we were already at the door of The Wave, and Les, with a hand only my butt, was guiding me off the Calle Condado and into the hotel lobby.