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Last Call Ch. 01

By: sr71plt



"So, will you go with me?"

I looked across the table in the open-air area of Effendi's Restaurant on the Kyrenia Harbor quay, and I could see the need in Tahir. I had known he would ask me that question. That was why I was here, in the Turkish zone, on my last night in Cyprus.

Make him happy, the chief of station had said. He hadn't said how to make Tahir happy, and it was something that had to remain unspoken, but both he and I knew why I had been here in Cyprus and why I had been assigned to run Tahir—and how I was to make him happy. Tahir was well placed in the Turkish Cypriot prime minister's office, and the station knew exactly what Tahir's weakness was—what could be used to win him over, to suborn him to keep providing the information we needed to know about what the Turkish Cypriots were up to.

Thus far I had kept Tahir interested and productive by the big tease. A bit of lip work and furtive hand jobs and, when his interest seemed to be lagging, a surreptitious blow job, with the excuse that we had to be extremely careful in our contacts and a promise of paradise "someday soon." And even though my tour was now up, Tahir was still producing ever-more-interesting material, and thus this was a delicate time in the asset's life.

"Make him happy," was the last thing the COS had said to me before I had crossed the border from the Greek side of the divided island for the last time. "Make him look forward to your replacement," the COS had said.

I didn't answer Tahir's question immediately. I was thinking about the other man at the table, his warm, hard-muscled thigh pressed maddeningly against mine.

Tahir had left word by the usual means that I was to meet him at 11:00 PM at Effendi's Restaurant. I'd never met him here before—never before in such a public place. But it was my last night, so it didn't matter to me if it didn't matter to him. And I couldn't have hoped for a better place to spend my final evening.

We were dining on the quay of the small, picturesque Kyrenia harbor, the ancient horseshoe-shaped fishing village with the Byzantine castle at its eastern end, wrapping around the small inner harbor to the Dome Hotel and the breakwater holding back the waves of the Mediterranean to the west. Lining the stone quay in the curve between the castle and the hotel were multistoried stone buildings from the same era as the castle. At one time, when Kyrenia was one of the main trade ports of the ancient island, these were all storage houses, set into the sharp incline up from the seaside. The lower stories of these buildings, facing the sea, were the storerooms and trade houses of the merchants; the upper stories, facing out onto the street ringing the harbor, were the residences of the merchant princes. The buildings abutted each other and functioned in ancient times as a city wall protecting the harbor. And to the south, looming over the coastal town and splitting the island from east to west, was the ragged-peaked Kyrenia mountain range.

Now Kyrenia was a major tourist center of the island—or as major as a blockaded island territory no country but Turkey recognized and that was in perpetual belligerence with Greek Cyprus occupying the southern half of the island could be. The harbor had been made into largely a pleasure yacht basin, and the lower stories of the ancient buildings were restaurants with tables stretching from the entries into their dimly lit interiors, used only during the colder winter months, down to the edge of the quay and the start of the masted sailboats. At night, with the fairy lights strung in the rigging of the boats in the basin, on the ramparts of the castle, and around the periphery of the restaurants, and the people strolling among the revelers of the restaurants, Kyrenia was a treasured last memory of a very pleasant foreign assignment.

The magic of the night started at 10:00 in Kyrenia, the dinner hour of the Mediterranean culture, and I had arrived at the restaurant at the height of the evening.

Tahir had been waiting for me, the look of longing on his face, hopeful in the opportunity to bed me at last—the possibility that I had held over his head for months while he was feeding his government's secrets to me.

Tahir was very nice to look at—slim but well muscled, hirsute in a way that I liked. Black curly hair. A handsome, swarthy face, with a very nice smile.

Everything should have been just fine. But I liked my men appreciably older than me, experienced, controlling, and slightly cruel. A touch of danger went with why I was in this business at all. Tahir was younger than I was, and he gave me the impression that I would have to be the aggressor. As badly as he obviously wanted me, I felt like he would want me to dominate—but not much. Tahir wanted romance. And that wasn't what aroused me. Still, it was probably what made Tahir so easy to run as an in-place asset. And he had earned his reward.

I knew I had to try to please him—not only so he could be passed on, but also because he had done well by me. I owed him. If I left him unsatisfied, I wasn't being fair to the agent who replaced me. Tahir would know we were leading him on, soaking him for as much useful information as we could before cutting him off—or if he had been valuable enough to us, before we extracted him and gave him a new life somewhere far less exotic and friendly than Turkish Cyprus.

As I walked up to the table, I was smiling suggestively at Tahir, signaling that tonight was the night. And all of that time I was telling myself that somehow I had to become aroused enough to satisfy him.

But then my smile froze and I became genuinely aroused as a figure passed between Tahir and me. It was the restaurant host, asking me if I wanted a table, hearing Tahir call out that I was with him, and then giving me a broad, knowing smile.

A smile that melted me.

He was Tahir twenty years from now. Dark, much more substantial than Tahir. The same handsome face and melting smile. But older, more in control. The same dark hair, but streaked with gray and longer than Tahir's, banded into a ponytail. Not fat but solid, heavily muscled. Substantial. This stood out in stark contrast with Tahir's youth, puppy-dog diffidence, and hesitancy. He was the older, more world-wise, form of Tahir, giving me a knowing look as he escorted me to the table. He was guiding me with a beefy palm to the small of my back. And with that he was branding me as his—if he wanted me. Somehow he knew the decision was his; that I would have no choice.

"This is my Uncle Fazil, Jack," Tahir said—almost unnecessarily, as we reached the table. "Can you sit with us, uncle?" Tahir asked.

Yes, yes, I was screaming in my brain.

"Perhaps a bit later, when the customers are settled," Fazil answered. A beautiful, smooth baritone voice, with a charming Turkish-British accent.

I sat across from Tahir, and we talked about not much of anything, he fidgeting and nervously waiting for me to become mellow on the wine and atmosphere and delicious food, and me waiting for his uncle to return.

Tahir was giving me that puppy-dog look, afraid to ask what he wanted to ask. I relieved his anxiety by reaching over and playing my fingers down his forearm, through his dark matting of hair. He shuddered in recognition of what that meant. He took the fingers of the hand I wasn't lifting the wine glass with in his hand and gently stroked my fingers. I leaned across the table and let him kiss me lightly on the lips.

As we were coming out of the kiss, Uncle Fazil was there, beside our table, and he sat down next to me and turned toward me and smiled. And I melted to him.

I had to think of something to say to him. I wanted to make whatever connection I could. It was lame, but it was a start.

"So, you work at this restaurant, do you, Fazil?"

Fazil just smiled an indulgent, knowing smile at me.

"Uncle Fazil owns the restaurant," Tahir said, his voice full of pride. "Uncle Fazil lives in Istanbul and just comes home occasionally. Uncle Fazil is an importer. See that big yacht right out there? That's Uncle Fazil's too."

Bells were going off in my brain, flipping through the cables I had to review daily in the vaulted station area of the embassy. Fazil. Fazil Fikret, the arms smuggler. I tried not to change expression. The illusive Fazil Fikret. He'd been a major intelligence target of ours for years, but so far no one had been able to come close to him. And regardless of this, at the moment I only could think how much more I wanted to go with him tonight than with Tahir.

I tried my best to remain unfazed and even to turn most of my attention to Tahir. This is what I had been trained to do. But every fiber of my being went to the outside of my thigh, which was touching Fazil's warm, hard-muscled thigh under the table in the closely packed restaurant.

More than once I felt that Fazil was about to reach out to touch my arm, even while Tahir was holding my hand and stroking my fingers. But he didn't do it. I had no idea what I would do if he did. I owed Tahir this night.

The ship's bell was ringing at the bar inside the restaurant and the barman was announcing "last call."

That's when Tahir haltingly asked me the question. "So, will you go with me?"

I turned to him and smiled. "Yes."

"Now?"

"Yes."

I heard Tahir take in his breath, almost as if he didn't believe how easily I had agreed, and, unless I was mistaken, I felt increased pressure on my thigh from Fazil's leg.

"Where will we go?" I asked.

"How long? When do you need—?"

"All night," I answered, looking at Tahir levelly, hoping at least that he would take some control, lose some vestige of his off-putting timidity now that his goal was being achieved. "The embassy doesn't expect me back in the office tomorrow." This was true; the embassy expected me on a flight home tomorrow, not back in the embassy. And then I repeated my question. "Where can we go?"

"My uncle has a flat here in this building," Tahir said. But he said it so tentatively that I suspected there was more to it than that. "He owns the whole building."

"But?" I said, because the way Tahir said it, there obviously was a "but" involved.

"We can use Uncle Fazil's flat, but only if—"

"Only if I can be there. If I can watch," Fazil finished for him.

I started to shake, and Tahir, feeling it in my hand and wrist, was quick to say, "But I'm sure there is a room at the Dome, if—"

"No, that's quite all right with me . . . if you don't mind, Tahir," I answered in a low voice. Tahir had mistaken my shudder for squeamishness when it was more a response to an answered prayer. Still, it didn't warm me to Tahir. He never seemed more of a wimp than now.

We rose from the table, and Tahir led me through the interior of the restaurant to a flight of wooden stairs rising to the floors above. Fazil was behind me, guiding me with a broad, cupped hand on my butt. My dick was hardening, and I was grateful for that. Tahir would think it was for him.

We went up four flights of stairs and came out on what was once the roof of the old stone structure. I gasped as we entered Fazil's pied-à-terre at the top of the building. I had been in the Kyrenia harbor many times in the last two years, and yet I never had noticed this flat. It was nearly all window glass, with a narrow terrace running around all four sides. Only in the southeast corner of what was a cube, about thirty feet on each side, was there a short span of rock wall, enclosing a bathroom and a section of a kitchen wall, where all the utilities must have been run. The staircase came up in the southern section of the room, separating the kitchen and a small dining area from the larger room, but not visually cutting off the view.

And the view was magnificent. To the north were the fairy lights of the yacht basin and the hulking Kyrenia castle bastions—and out beyond that the silent sea. To the east and west was the undulating Mediterranean coast reaching out into the distance, and to the south loomed the purple majesty of the Kyrenia mountain range, dotted with the twinkling lights of isolated villas.

The great room itself was nearly empty, except for a large platform bed, covered with red silk, in the middle of the room and a few tub chairs circled round it.

When we reached the top of the stairs and while I was taking in the view, Fazil went into the kitchen and poured himself a large snifter of brandy and selected a cigar from a wooden humidor. He was moving slowly, deliberately, but I felt his eyes burning into me. And he had not lost his knowing smile.

Tahir walked up behind me and encircled my chest with his arms. I turned my face to him, and we kissed. He started unbuttoning my shirt, and I flinched.

"Can you turn off the lights? We are rather exposed," I said. And, indeed, we were. Our glass cube, nearly in the center of the buildings ringing the harbor and hovering over the yacht basin and taller than the rest, was well in sight of many of the windows of the surrounding buildings, and even from the breakwater that served as an inviting promenade to help settle a heavy meal.

"If you would prefer," Fazil said from the kitchen. And he gave a low laugh.

"Yes, please, I would," I answered.

The lights went out, and Tahir resumed unbuttoning my shirt and pulling its hem out of my trousers. We were kissing lightly again. Everything he was doing was slow and tentative, as if I might put a stop to it at any moment.

This wasn't the way I liked to fuck. I liked a man to take me quick and hard, to dominate me and take my breath away—to let me know we were fucking and that I would never come away from it the same man I went into it.

I was standing at the foot of the platform bed. Shirtless now, I felt Tahir's hands cover my chest and play with my nipples, as he stood close behind me and kissed the hollow of my neck. He was shirtless too, and I felt a chill of pleasure at the tickling of his chest hair against my shoulder blades.

I gave a low moan, because I knew that was what he would like.

Fazil had come over to one of the tub chairs beside the bed. He had stripped naked but was still holding the brandy snifter in one hand and the lit cigar in the other.

The room was dimly lit by the dancing lights of the still busy town below us, and I shuddered at the sight of Fazil. He was magnificent to me. Solid and muscled, thick stomached, but not fat. A Zeus against Tahir's Apollo. His dick wasn't particularly long, but it was one of the thickest I'd ever seen, and his balls were heavy and hung low. Many men would be scared of him and would back off. I was scared of him, and if Tahir hadn't been embracing me, I would have run to him.

I kept thinking that this man was dangerous. An international criminal. Someone to fear. And I did fear him. I feared what he could do with that cock of his. And at the same time, I ached for him to use it on me.

Tahir had unzipped me and pulled my cock out, finding it hard. No doubt pleased that his lovemaking was arousing me. But if he only knew.

Time to go to work—to pay my dues—to complete my assignment.

I pushed my trousers to the floor and stepped out of my loafers, and then I turned and pivoted Tahir around and laid him gently on his back on the bed. Kneeling between his knees, I unzipped his trousers and pulled them off his legs and crouched over him. Holding both of his wrists out at the side on the bed, I started to tongue down his heavy matting of chest hair, wetting his curly hair down and moving my lips down his belly and into his pubic hair and sucking on his hairy balls before taking possession of his long, thin cock with my mouth. Tahir was trembling with pleasure, breathing in short gasps. Lost to me.

All of the time, when I was able, I was looking over at Fazil, who was sitting in the chair, his brandy snifter and cigar now on the table beside him, and languidly working his cock with one hand and running his other hand through the heavy matting of his chest, living vicariously what I was doing to his nephew on the bed. And I was also looking out at the magnificent view from the glass cube, the setting sensual and arousing in its own right. It made me feel like I was floating on the clouds between purple mountains and dark blue sea.

Tahir was groaning and sighing under my attentions, and he tightened up and ejaculated in my throat the first time I took him entirely in and held there, my teeth lightly pressuring the root of his cock.

He mumbled an apology, but I pretended not to hear it or to notice that he had come so quickly and kept on giving him deep-throated cock play.

But when I looked up at his uncle, there was a derisive twinkle in his eye as if he was signaling that we were in the presence of a rank amateur. The languid look he gave me conveyed that he thought I needed something else. Something more vigorous and passionate—something more dangerous. And he was right.

Tahir was young and in good shape, and thus he was filling out quickly enough again. He pulled out from underneath me and helped me up to my feet. For a moment I thought he had no idea what to do next, but then he was behind me and I spread my legs and leaned over the bed, with my fists in the red silk coverlet. But my eyes were locked on Fazil's as Tahir knelt behind me. He pulled my dick through my legs and began kissing and tonguing and sucking my balls, dick, and entrance in alternating patterns of slow, sensual lovemaking.

It was a pleasant sensation, and I managed to stay hard as I watched Fazil play his own body off to the side of the bed, his eyes boring into me.

I felt Tahir's cock at my hole, and then he was inside me and taking me slowly in long strokes. I panted and groaned for him, and he murmured his pleasure and appreciation as he covered me close from behind and kissed my neck. Again, the feel of his chest hair on my bare skin helped me. But Fazil's hair fascinated me. He was a real bear of a man, thickly matted nearly everywhere, black, but with gray highlights, which shone in the reflected light of the outside world. My eyes fixated on his hands, his fingers, his hairy knuckles, and I moaned and moved my hips in imagining him finger fucking me with those hands, the fingers thicker than some men's cocks.

Misjudging the source of my arousal, Tahir shuddered and gave a little cry and fucked me faster—but only briefly, as he came again and collapsed on me, sending us both down onto the surface of the bed.

I heard Fazil give a low laugh. I don't know if Tahir heard it too. Probably not. Tahir was lost in ecstasy at what he no doubt thought was a world-shaking fuck.

We lay there for a few minutes, and then Tahir murmured that he would shower and then I could do the same. And after that, he said, we could retire for the night—if that was what I wanted, if I was willing to stay the night. I brought his face to mine and kissed him and thanked him for the fuck and whispered my regret that the night was so short but that it was, by no means, over. Then trembling with pleasure, he rose from me and trotted off to the bathroom, to all appearances glowing with accomplishment.

I sensed more than heard Fazil rise from his chair even as the bathroom door was shutting, and I barely had time to turn onto my back and spread my legs and lift my pelvis before Fazil was upon me, roughly grabbing my waist in both of his powerful hands, leaning his face down, whipping my cheeks with the long strands of gray-streaked hair he let down before he came to me, forcing his searching, possessing tongue between my lips, and thrusting his thick, throbbing cock hard inside me.

I gasped and gurgled and grunted loudly at the onslaught, the sound muffled, I hoped, by the stream of water in the shower, and arched my back and dug my hands into Fazil's chest matting and tried to push him away. I struggled against him, trying to pull out from underneath him, as I knew he wanted me to do. And he bit me on the lip and reared up and backhanded me across the face. He also pulled his pelvis back and thrust hard forward again, driving his cock deeper inside me—as he knew I wanted him to do.


Last Call Ch. 02



"Do you have any objections?"

The way Fazil was looking at me, sitting by me on the narrow bunk, with the man giant Axel standing by the cabin door beyond him, I felt he wanted me to say I did have objections. And it did frighten me, but it also excited me. It represented just what attracted me to the older, Zeus-like Turk. He was danger.

I said nothing, but I leaned away from him where I had been sitting beside him, naked, on the edge of the bunk in the master's cabin of his yacht, while, embracing me close, Fazil had been fondling and "worrying" my body with little pinches and bites of sensitive and tender areas. He knew that aroused me; he could see that it did. And I could tell by his shallow, guttural breathing that it aroused him too.

I shuddered at the sight of the silent, hulking German standing just inside the doorway to the yacht's deck and dangling the pair of handcuffs from his beefy mitts. All business and Nordic massiveness—a natural for the bodyguard role.

Fazil laughed appreciatively at my indecision and hesitancy and grabbed my wrists and forced them over my head, while Axel stepped over and hooked the handcuffs through a handle on the wall at the side of the bunk and then snapped them onto my wrists, leaving me still sitting on the side of the bed, but my torso arching back and my wrists bound to the wall at the side of the bunk with my arms over my head.

Fazil stood up and took his trousers and briefs off and tossed them to the deck and unbuttoned his shirt. He then moved over to a table across the cabin, where he could sit behind it and watch me. Several handguns in various forms of disassemble were spread out on newspapers on top of the table.

Axel bent down and picked up Fazil's clothes, folded them, and laid them on the top of the bunk next to me. He had already done the same with mine, which now lay under Fazil's. The big German went back to the door to the deck, turned, leaned up against the door, crossed his arms, and stared at me like he hoped I would dare to move and that he'd like to do things to me that tested my limits.

I was trembling with lust and want. Either or both of them. Or both of them at once.

Tahir had tried his best the night before in the glass-enclosed flat of Fazil's floating over Kyrenia's harbor on the northern Turkish Cypriot coast, but, although he seemed to have been left satisfied, only the brief onslaughts by his uncle, Fazil, had been able to touch me deeply enough to scratch my own itch.

I felt I'd done well by Tahir, except in one regard. I'd been leading him on for over a year, signaling to him in no uncertain terms that he could have me in exchange for the secrets he was providing me from his position with the Turkish Cypriot prime minister. And last night I'd let him do whatever he wanted with me—for the first time, following months of furtive and brief kisses and hand and blow jobs on the fly and in secret. For the first time last night, I had spent the night with him—with his uncle, Fazil, observing the first fuck.

I had thought I'd have to wake him up in the night for more lovemaking, feeling I owed him, but Tahir had managed to waken on his own and embrace me and make passionate—for him at least—and gentle—which was my problem with it—love to me twice more.

And then we had parted ways, with Tahir thinking I was returning to the embassy in Nicosia and that this was just the start of him being provided full value for the secrets he was feeding to me, but me knowing all of the time I would be leaving with his dangerous, overpowering-fuck uncle on his yacht, bound for Istanbul. I might have gone with Fazil anyway, having discovered that he was a notorious international arms smuggler my government was pursuing. But the fact that his fucking took me to the edge and made me feel entirely alive determined that I would go with him if he commanded me to. Which he had done.

My one regret was that I neglected to tell Tahir that last night was my last call on him, that I was being reassigned and was turning him over to a new handler. I'd meant to tell him that, but I'd put it off several times, and when I started out to look for him at the Dome Hotel where we were to go for breakfast this morning, he having gone ahead while I showered, Fazil had met me on the staircase to his all-glass flat and put out his hand, reminding me that he'd said I'd be leaving with him for Istanbul on his yacht this morning. And I had just put my hand in his and let him lead me down to the quay in front of his building and onto his large motor yacht.

We were hardly beyond the breakwater, headed out to sea before Fazil had me naked and in his arms, sitting on the side of the bunk in his cabin.

I looked up from the bunk where I had been bound with my hands over my head and looked across the cabin at Fazil. I was panting for him. He had played my body with his hands and lips and teeth before I'd been bound, bringing me to full arousal with his beefy hand slow-pumping my cock while he worked my torso with his lips and teeth. I had watched his hairy knuckles as they gripped my cock and longed to have them plying my channel.

I loved the play of the curly, gray-specked black hair on his chest as it cascaded through the gap in his open shirt while he sat at the table across the room and hummed and worked at cleaning the handguns scattered in parts on the surface. I could see below the surface of the table, where he was sitting on the edge of a chair letting his heavy balls and plump cock hang down between his spread legs.

He had taken me with a fury the night before, in his glass cube, while Tahir was showering, and he'd been dominating, and cruel, and rough—just as I liked it. And it had been masterful, a prime example of why I liked going with older men. He knew what I liked, and he gave it to me, quickly and expertly. And he was determined to get what he liked in the process.

"Where did you say you knew my nephew, Tahir, from?" he asked. His tone was conversational, quiet, and seemingly innocent. But I knew there was nothing innocent about Fazil Fikret. There was nothing in Tahir's file at the station in the embassy that had linked him to Fazil Fikret, the elusive international guns smuggler. It was ironic. I had been running Tahir for more than a year while he was picking up whatever he could find on the inner workings of the Turkish Cypriot prime minister's office, and all this time he had been the nephew of an even larger, more-compelling case file.

"I didn't say," I responded. I wanted him to come back across the room and fuck me. I was desperate to feel him inside me again. If making him mad would turn him on, that was fine with me.

"You can tell me now." The same calm, low voice. But a voice to be obeyed. The chills running through my body were no longer just from the want of him and from how he had worked up my body as we were moving slowly out of the harbor and down the long side of the Kyrenia castle bastion on our way to the sea.

"We met through a mutual friend, Sami—I don't remember his last name—at the Club Paradisio in Nicosia," I answered. It was an answer I'd been prepared to give the first time a question came up about my relationship to Tahir. And it had the advantage of being true. It was always best in my business to stay close to the truth; you screwed up less if you could tack close to the true line. I had most certainly met Tahir in the gay nightclub, Club Paradisio. There was no reason why I should tell Fazil, though, that it had been a meeting I had arranged when we learned what Tahir's secret sin was.

We didn't torture information out of those who knew what we wanted to know—well, hardly ever. Instead, we used sugar. We found out their secret wants, the more illicit the better, and we fed those wants—and we made the assets feed us with what we wanted while we fed them with what they wanted so they'd want to come back for more.

I had held Tahir's deepest desire out in front of him for over a year before granting it to him last night. And he had thought that was just a beginning, when I knew it was the ending of my phase of running him and just the beginning of someone else's.

"He tells me you are a diplomat."

"True," I answered. Please stop talking and come over here and fuck me, my brain was screaming.

"What kind of diplomat?"

"Not a very good one, apparently," I said. "I'm being called home. I was leaving today—by plane from the Greek side." I was watching his face closely now. Giving him that information could work a couple of ways. I'd have to watch his reactions closely to see if I could leverage it to my advantage. Here I was, sailing to Istanbul with him on a whim. If he wanted, he could just toss me overboard and no one would know what had happened to me. On the other hand, it might work better for me if he couldn't be sure of that.

"Ah," he said. And then he smiled. "Tahir didn't tell me that."

"I didn't tell Tahir that. I wanted his last night with me to be special."

"And no doubt it was," Fazil was. "In fact, I could tell from what I saw that he was entranced by you. That's a problem I have, Jack—if that's your real name. I think you are pretty special too."

So come over here and fuck me, my mind screamed.

"So come over here and fuck me," I said aloud.

"We'll see. We'll see," Fazil said. And his voice was so calm and matter of fact, that it chilled me to the bone—and it increased the size of my boner. I was in this business for the danger. I was riding a high here—no matter which way it went.

"Tahir tells me you work in something called economic analysis. Tell me something about the Cypriot economy," he then said.

"Perhaps you could tell me something, and I'll let you know if it's correct," I answered. He was much too calm. I wanted to make him just a bit mad.

Fazil rose, one muscle at a time, from the desk, picked up an assembled handgun, and walked slowly and deliberately over to me. His eyes were glittering in a dangerous smile. When he reached me, he stood in close between my legs and slowly pushed the barrel of the gun between my lips.

"Here, suck on this."

I looked up at him defiantly and closed my lips over the barrel of the gun.

"We could end this simply here," he said. "I don't like unknowns . . . no matter how attractive they are to me."

I knew he was bluffing—or strongly suspected it, even though the possibility he wasn't was turning up my arousal heat. And the biggest reason I felt he was bluffing was what it was of his that was hard and moist and rubbing against my thigh. This excited him too.

He pulled the gun out of my mouth and ran the wet barrel down my chest and belly, and I grunted and groaned as he pushed it down under my balls and into my channel. He slow fucked me with it and I raised my pelvis to him and panted and moaned. Fazil leaned down and took my mouth with his in a deep, tongue-penetrating kiss.

The click on the empty shell chamber was as deafening to me as the discharge of a real bullet would have been, and I shuddered at the transience of life and how fully I was under his control. But I only shuddered inwardly. With every fiber of my being, I denied Fazil the pleasure of feeling me flinch.

Fazil pulled away from the kiss and looked down into my face with a sardonic sigh. The barrel of the gun was still buried in my ass. "You are entirely too calm of nerves to be merely an economic analyst, Jack," he whispered.

"Fuck me," I muttered back at him. "Stuff me, cock me. Kill me if you must, but kill me with cock."

Fazil roared with laughter and grabbed the hair at the back of my head with his free hand and came in closer between my legs and pulled my face down to his cock. I swallowed him whole and, retreating slowly up the sides of his shaft, began working the slit of his cock with my tongue for all it was worth. I wanted him to want me.

I felt the barrel of the gun pull out of me and the click of his fingers as he roughly moved my head up and down on his cock, with counterpunching cock work that pressed into the back of my throat. I felt another pair of hands on my thighs as Axel left his post by the door and sat beside me and moved his face to my crotch and attacked my cock and balls with his mouth and my channel with his fingers.

Fazil pulled away from me and went back to his chair behind the table. He sat there, working the nipples in his hairy chest with one hand and his cock with the other as he watched Axel, who had moved to kneeling between my legs, expertly blow me. Axel had a nipping technique that he used on the bulb of my cock that had me grunting and moaning at the same time. It didn't take me long to ejaculate at his attentions. All the time my eyes were glued to Fazil, calculating what he would do next, wanting him to give me a good fucking.

After he was finished, Axel sat back on his haunches and gave me "that" look. I knew that he wanted me as much as Tahir and Fazil did, and I filed that away as possible leverage. Surprisingly, he was both expert and gentle with me. Much more arousing than Tahir had been, but everything he did was controlled and gauged for maximum pleasure—mine as well as his. His teething of the bulb of my cock, the scrape of his teeth along the surface and the flicking of his tongue into my piss slit, put me on the edge of pain and fear. But it never took me over that edge. He had done this at Fazil's command. But the way he was doing ie was by his choice—and as much for his pleasure as it was for mine. And I responded in kind. I wanted Axel to want me again. I was doing everything I could to improve my odds here.

Fazil stood again, came back to me, sat on the side of the bunk, and pulled me up and over onto his lap, with my arms stretched up beside his head, and me facing Axel. With Axel's help, Fazil presented the head of his cock at my channel, which Axel had lubricated and opened with his fingers as he sucked me off, and my wish was now being granted. I was slowly sinking on Fazil's superthick cock, and we began a hard ride, him fairly lifting off the surface of the mattress in his upper thrusts and me leveraging off the balls of my feet and meeting him with a strong, rhythmic down thrust. Fazil was pumping my cock with one fist and ravishing my nipples with the fingers of his other hand.

"Now, Axel. Join us now," I heard Fazil mutter in a low, guttural voice, and Axel was standing and unzipping his fly and fishing out a long, hard, cock. And then Fazil raised my pelvis with his thighs, and Axel crept in on a crouch, his thighs coming in between Fazil's and mine, and I let out a yelp and a groan as Axel's cock started working its way into my channel above Fazil's.

I had fleetingly wished for this earlier, but that had been fantasy. This was reality. I hadn't had any idea I could manage this. But I was finding that I could.

With much groaning and grunting, we moved our hips in unison, fucking as one unit, lost in the ecstasy of giving and taking and kissing and biting and pinching and growling like animals of the jungle in deep, uncontrolled rut.

Axel was pumping my cock with one hand and rolling and crushing my balls with the other. When we were nearing mutual coming, Fazil was holding my head close into his chest with a choke hold around my throat that had me seeing swirls of red and orange before my eyes. The hairy knuckles of his other hand were buried deep in my mouth and I was sucking them hard.

Then he moved the thumb and forefinger of that hand to pinch my nose closed, cutting off my last source of oxygen.

I was fighting for air, fighting for my life. Thrashing about wildly with two cocks counterpunching inside my channel and Axel pumping my cock hard. I started coming first, in long, strong flows, followed closely by Axel—and then, as I was losing consciousness, Fazil came in a gushing fountain deep inside me. I was slipping away, awash in waves of cum. 



Last Call Ch. 03



I woke up in the middle of the night, aware that something had changed. We weren't moving, and there was no feeling of a motor grinding under us.

I was locked in one of the smaller cabins belowdecks—not bound and not particularly uncomfortable, but my channel was sore. I would recover fast, but never in my life had I had such a ride as Fazil Fikret and his hulky German bodyguard, Axel, had given me in the master's cabin while we were still in sight of the Turkish Cypriot coast.

My first thought was that I was still alive—and I was grateful for that. My second thought was to sigh at the incredible double ride the two had given me. They had brought me to heights of ecstasy I'd never experienced before.

I was naked and sore, but I was thankful that I wasn't handcuffed to the side of the bunk as I had been in Fazil's cabin. And I could sense that the cabin I was in was much smaller than Fazil's.

There was a porthole above the side of the bunk, and I gingerly rose and looked out, assuming I'd see the lights of the Bosporus. We'd probably been sailing long enough to have reached the Turkish coast. And if we were at anchor, logic would dictate we had reached Istanbul.

But I couldn't see anything out of the porthole except for the hint of waves gently lapping at the side of the ship. This was strange in itself, as the ship should be displaying running lights whether at sail or at anchor, and there should be some hint of light from these reflecting off the water.

But there wasn't. It was pitch black out there—almost as if the ship didn't want to be seen. And if Fazil was actively engaged in gun running with this yacht even now, this would explain not only why the ship wasn't running any lights but also why I was here rather than back in Cyprus. I realized now that it was more than my sensual allure that had prompted Fazil to bring me on this boat ride.

As early as our meeting at the Kyrenia quayside restaurant, Fazil must have wondered at my intent. It was crushing to think that he hadn't brought me along just for the hard ride—the ride of my ass—but reason told me he was nervous about what I was up to—and who I really represented. If he'd known the truth of that, I'd probably be lying in a Kyrenia alley now with a bullet in the back of my head. It was just my fortune, good or bad, that my running of his nephew as an intelligence-gathering asset backed into contact with much bigger game.

Then I felt the bump on the side of the ship opposite from me, and I knew that it wasn't the stopping of the ship that had awakened me from my post-fucking dreams, during however long it was since I fainted from the strain of the double fuck and the lack of oxygen in Fazil's rough sex. It was a bumping of the side of the ship and the sound of something weighty being lowered down into the yacht's hold. I heard and felt a series of bumps and jolts, and the yacht shuddered and wavered in taking on something heavy.

I rose from the bed and padded painfully, almost bowlegged, over to the cabin door and tried it. As I assumed it would be, it was locked.

Still exhausted from the earlier sex, I felt around in the cabin only briefly to locate what was there. Luckily there was a small head attached to the cabin, and I took a leak and showered under a drizzle of cold water and dried myself off with a threadbare towel. There seemed to be no drawers in the room—at least none that I could find—and the cabinets were empty. The only stitch of clothes I could find was a pair of tight-fitting cut-off jeans laid out on a straight chair. I left those for the morning and stumbled back to the bed naked.

I collapsed there and was fast asleep again almost instantaneously.

I awoke, still in the dark of the night to the familiar feel of a hard cock sliding into my channel.

I was on my belly on the bed, with a heavy body stretched the length of me. I was being held immobile not only by the weight of the body on me but also by strongly muscled arms laced under my arm pits and wrapped around my biceps, with fists joined at the back my neck in a full Nelson hold.

I swallowed hard and panted and involuntarily groaned at the depth the cock reached in me. Teeth were scraping at the crease between my shoulder blades.

"You said we'd always do it in the light, Fazil," I murmured and gave him a low, sighing laugh of welcome.

"Was? Was sagst du?" a breathy, hoarse voice answered in return.

"Oh, never mind, Axel," I whispered. "Ohh, yes, like that. Ohhhhh, yesss!" The German bodyguard was fucking me in long deep strokes. More gently than I really liked, but expertly, finding every sensitive nook and cranny inside me with the bulb of his long, hard cock.

I felt like he could ride me all night like this—and he pretty much did, not leaving until near dawn, with the cum of multiple ejaculations oozing out of my channel.

And as he left me and I heard the door click shut and the lock fall into place, I realized that the ship's motors had been grinding for some time. We were on the move again.

* * * *

"Tell me about where you were planning to be going after leaving Tahir in Kyrenia the other night."

Fazil was fishing. And I knew what he was fishing for. He wanted to know what the margin was on keeping me alive and keeping him safe.

We were standing in the bridge house of the fan tail yacht, beside the captain who was at the wheel. There was no land in sight, and from the short time I'd been observing the sun, it appeared to me that we were moving west in the Mediterranean rather than in the easterly direction that would have taken the ship from Kyrenia harbor in northern Cyprus to Istanbul on the Bosporus, the strait separating the Mediterranean from the Black Sea, where the exotic city of Istanbul rose haphazardly on both sides, straddling the division between the occident and the orient.

I had been let out of my cabin at daylight and had eaten with Fazil in a small, efficiently appointed dining room. I wasn't exactly given free reign of the yacht, though. Fazil had told me when and where I could go, and the ever-present Axel was attached to me by a leather leash at our wrists. It wasn't a short leash, but if I'd taken a notion of jumping overboard, I could not have even reached the water before they pulled me back on board—if they chose to do so. I wasn't really in the mood to test that out.

"I wasn't planning this trip," I answered. "I took a taxi to Kyrenia from the Greek checkpoint in Nicosia. I was going to beg a ride back there from Tahir and then take a taxi to the airport. My luggage went to the airport the day before and is in a locker there."

"You were leaving Cyprus?"

"Yes, my tour was up," I said. "I told you that yesterday. I have no more business in the Middle East. I'm going home." I had no idea whether or not this would assuage Fazil's concerns of any interest I might have in him or his nefarious business, but I saw no reason not to throw some more flak up in the air.

"You've left no embassy car in Kyrenia?" Fazil asked.

"No," I lied. I was trying to make Fazil feel that he had days rather than hours to toy with me. Truth be known, though, the station knew I was going to meet Tahir that night, and I did have an embassy car parked on a Kyrenia Street. I had to believe the station would get as far as zeroing in on Tahir in my absence and they might also discover, as I did, that an even bigger fish, Fazil, the international arms smuggler, was involved in my disappearance. But at that point, hope diminished. I was willing to believe that Tahir genuinely didn't know I'd sailed with Fazil—and probably also genuinely didn't know that Fazil's yacht was headed west in the Mediterranean rather than to Istanbul. It was possible he didn't even know Fazil was an arms smuggler.

"But you were being seen off at the airport in Larnaca, naturally and then met again in . . .?"

"In London. I was going on to London," I answered. As usual, the truth—or a big slice of it—was the best line to take. "Or rather my ongoing assignment is London. I was going home for two week's leave before showing up in London. And, no, no one was seeing me off at Larnaca or meeting me at my home leave point. Two weeks."

"Two weeks," Fazil repeated. His voice was low, guttural. He'd been standing close behind me at the bridge, both of us looking out at the choppy sea we were headed into. All I was wearing were the jeans cutoffs and he was in a Speedo. His arms were wrapped around me from behind and he had been slowly undulating his pelvis in the small of my back for some time. The captain and Axel were just standing there as if nothing untoward was happening.

I could sense the wheels spinning in Fazil's head. With luck, I was on the cusp of receiving two weeks of grace. He wanted to play with me, I knew. All of his professional instincts were telling him that I should be shot and dumped overboard. I didn't kid myself about that either. But Fazil was a virile, needy man. I was counting on him thinking with his dick. Most men thought with their dicks. I just didn't know if two weeks was going to be enough for me to devise and execute an escape plan.

But I knew I had to do what I could to keep him wanting me for as long as possible. It was a high-risk game we both were playing. And it heightened the arousal for both of us. Fazil and I were not that much different.

He was palming my pecs and worrying my nipples with the fingers and thumbs of both hands. I reached around and slid a hand down under the hem of his Speedo and pulled his hardening cock out. With the other hand, I unbuttoned my jeans shorts and pushed them down onto my thighs.

"Fuck me, Fazil. Fuck me. Here, Now. Show these men how a real man fucks."

In gaspy tones, Fazil told Axel to untie the leash that bound us together. Axel did so and stepped back. I had no idea what Fazil planned to do to me. He had me bent over the front counter of the bridge and the underside of his cock was in my crease, rubbing up and down over my puckered hole—a hole that was opening for him at the mere memory of the work Fazil did inside me.

Fazil had his arms running up under my pits, taking the weight of his body on those, as he lifted his feet up to the shelves running on the counter on either side of me. I was getting the impression that he was going to mount me and fuck me like a dog—with deep thrusts, leveraging off the shelving edges with his feet.

But then all hell broke loose. We heard shouts and shots and a hard bump at the side of the yacht, and all three men, Fazil, Axel, and the captain, were reaching for weapons and heading out on deck where the rest of the yacht's crew members were assembly and facing toward the source of the unexpected noise.

* * * *

I had never seen so many submachine guns appear out of thin air before in my life.

Taking advantage of the absence of observation and control for the first time I'd been aboard, I darted over to the chart table by the helm and tried to take in as much as I could as quickly as I could. I wasn't an expert in reading navigational charts by any means, but someone had done me the favor of penciling in our movements and marking our progression with a series of position Xes. Just as I thought, we had sailed west from Cyprus, not east, and there was a big X marked farther along a route progression to a position off the coast of the island of Corfu, in the Ionian Sea, off of Albania.

Albania, I thought. And my mind raced over the pile of cables I'd been reading back in the station at the embassy. I recalled reports on the fear of the Muslim-Christian internecine wars reviving in the Balkans. And weaving through the reports were queries on where the Muslims were getting their arms from. I thought I might just have an idea about that.

I moved over to the side of the bridge house facing the noise and looked down. Two smaller craft were gunwale to gunwale with the motor yacht, and by the time I got into position to observe what was going on, the motley group of pirates that had boarded us were desperately trying to get back onto their crafts and push off from Fazil's yacht.

They obviously had not expected this sort of defense of a large pleasure yacht.

Axel was in the thick of a fight, and if I'd ever had thoughts that he was a gentle giant, I gave them up now. He mowed down two attackers in one direction with a burst from the AK-47 he had loosely and expertly slung at his waist. And as they went down, Axel rotated gracefully, almost like a dancer, karate chopping another one of the pirates, sending him overboard and producing a sickening crunching sound as he got caught between the grinding ship hulls. Axel was as cool as a cucumber and totally ruthless. A chill of both fear and pleasure ran up my spine.

If this unsuccessful assault told me anything about Axel, it was that I didn't want to be in his bad graces, if I could help it.

Within minutes, the pirates who were able to get away were moving their craft off our starboard at a fast clip, and Fazil, Axel, and the captain were back in the bridge house, acting as if nothing had happened, like they did this a couple of times a day—and for all I knew it wasn't a rare occurrence in these waters and with certain ships.

As we watched, I heard the boom of a canon and one of the pirate crafts disintegrated in the water in a rather colorful fireball.

"My, that was impressive," I said as Fazil slipped in behind me again and wrapped an arm around me and palmed my belly. "You handled that like this was a routine event. Do they attack random pleasure yachts on the run between Cyprus and Turkey fairly frequently?" I asked.

Fazil's grip on my belly tightened. I regretted that I couldn't see his face.

"You want to know what we're carrying down in the hold, don't you?" he whispered in my ear. His voice was menacing. I found it arousing, and as he had lowered his hand to cup my basket, I knew he could tell that he was exciting me.

"No, not especially," I lied.

"You are afraid to know, aren't you?" he asked.

"No, should I be?" I responded, with false innocence.

"We are beyond caring about that, you and I, aren't we?" Fazil was almost mocking me now, playing our little game to the hilt.

I didn't respond. The silence was deafening, as if we were at some significant watershed—and perhaps we were. Perhaps we were getting to the point of no return in plausible denial. We both knew we were playing a game here; it was just part of the game not to reveal all of our cards until the end of the game was inevitable. I wasn't going to be the one to go over that edge. My silence told Fazil that.

He laughed. "Come, I'll show you what we are transporting. I am an importer, you know. When I travel, of course I travel with something I can profitably trade. Come, come down into the hold, and I'll show you what we are transporting."

The air was electric with danger. This was what I lived for. I was in my element now, in full heat. As I followed Fazil down into the bowels of the ship, with Axel nudging me from behind, I was hardening, panting for it. Wanting them to stop in the dark corridor en route and push me to the decking and take me together roughly as they had on the previous afternoon.

Down in the dark hold, having to lower our heads to keep from hitting them on the beams overhead, all I could see were stacks of wooden boxes, crates really, the size and shape of oversized coffins.

Fazil picked up a crowbar from the deck and turned and gave me a menacing look. His eyes glittered with danger in the dim light. Axel was standing close behind me, holding me tightly below my biceps.

"Fazil . . ." I muttered. He smiled, probably thinking that I was starting to beg for my life. But what I was really begging for was the fuck. I was at the height of arousal.

Fazil jabbed the end of the crow bar under the lid of the nearest crate and flipped the top off with a swift movement backed up with massive muscle.

"Look for yourself," he said, stepping back as Axel pushed me forward to the edge of the crate and I looked down into it. "What do you see?"

"Grapes," I said. And that, indeed, was what I saw. A massive pile of bunches of green grapes loosely packed inside the crate, with insulation around the inside walls to protect the fruit from bruising.

"Yes, grapes," Fazil said, giving me that evil grin of his. "Cyprus has grapes, Turkey loves wine. Each time I sail from Kyrenia to Istanbul, I come bearing grapes for the trade—when they are in season."

I said nothing. I just stood there and looked at the grapes. Fazil had one hand wedged in the waistband of my shorts in front. He was unzipping my shorts with the other hand.

"Do you like grapes?" He asked.

"Yes, of course," I answered, "doesn't everyone?" The zipper of my cut-off jeans was down and Fazil was pushing them down over my hips.

"Ever made wine?" He asked.

"No."

"But you've seen it made, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"And what's the first thing they do?"

"They crush the grapes."

"Let's make some wine, shall we?" Fazil asked. I was naked, my shorts at my ankles, and Fazil was quickly getting naked too.

He lifted me up and tipped me into the crate of grapes onto my back, and I barely had time to spread my legs and hook my heels on the side of the crate until he was on top of me among the grapes. His hard cock was poking on my lower belly, and I reached down and took him in both hands and rolled my pelvis up to him and guided him to my hole.

He was grunting with muffled laughter. He was holding a bunch of grapes in his teeth and crushed them into my face, pushing grapes into my mouth, followed by his searching tongue.

I gasped and grunted and groaned as he pulled his cock back through my palming hands and then thrust cruelly forward, pulling grapes into me with his thrusts, filling my channel with cool juice as his thick rod invaded and spread me asunder.

We rolled around in the disintegrating grapes inside the crate as Fazil thrust and thrust and thrust inside me, fucking me furiously. His gray-black body hair was matted and slicked with the juice of the grapes. He was sweating in the close, dead air of the hold, and he smelled like a wild animal in high rut. I gripped his down-covered buttocks, luxuriating in the contracting and expansion of his glutes in rhythm with the thrusts of his hungry cock inside me. His teeth were scraping at my neck, not doing damage but making me feel like I was being taken by a great gray wolf.

He moaned of how much he wanted me, how bad I was for him, how he couldn't get enough of me, and I moaned at the exotic setting and at the danger and at the intensity of the fuck and at the glorious feel of his churning cock inside me.

After we had both come, we laid there in the muck of the crushed grapes, panting, waiting for what was going to happen next. I made to struggle up from underneath him, and Fazil took that as a challenge and turned me on my hands and knees in the muck and dog fucked me, hard and fast. And I howled for him, which made him harder and more determined to conquer and exhaust me.

When he left me, on my back in the box, no grape left uncrushed, panting my fully satisfied surrender, it dawned on me where he had the arms he was smuggling stored. The depth of the crate was much more shallow inside than outside. I had been fucked on top of illegal arms. I wondered if Fazil gave me credit for knowing that—and it chilled and excited me that perhaps he knew and just didn't care—or that part of his game was making sure I knew.

Fazil was gone, but Axel was still there, staring down at me, hardly able to conceal his own want for me.

"Axel," I whispered. I gave him a look that I knew he'd understand. "Nacht. Diese Nacht. Kom, bitte." Broken German, I knew, but I could see in the twitch of his jaw and the gleam in his eye that he understood. "Tonight, come to me, please," I had begged. 




Last Call Ch. 04



Would Fazil be this naïve, I wondered. Somehow I couldn't force myself to believe that this was just my good luck. I was locked in a room, once more on solid ground, in the heart of Istanbul. The room was in an upper story of a building high enough that I could see out over the city through a window protected by latticed ironwork, which, considering the unbroken drop to the ground, must have been designed to keep someone in rather than someone out. At the moment, I was the someone it was keeping in.

Fazil's mistake, if it was a mistake, was that the vista from the window was expansive enough that I could see the minarets of Istanbul's signature mosque, the Hagia Sophia, and the curve of the Bosporus that connected the Mediterranean and the Black Sea. Perhaps—just perhaps—he thought I would not know Istanbul well enough to get my bearings from what I could see. Or perhaps he thought I didn't know where to go from there to safety should I be able to escape.

But I did know where to go. I couldn't see it from there, but I knew enough about the ground floor of the building that I'd know my bearings as soon as I got out into the open—and I'd know exactly where to go.

And I knew that soon I'd have to make my move. Fazil hadn't fucked me in three days. I could tell that his struggle for safety was beginning to win out over the needs of his dick.

The night after Fazil had taken me in the grape crate in the afternoon and Axel had come to my cabin in the night en route to the waters south of Corfu, I was left alone, locked in my room. I had assumed that would be the case as soon as I felt the engines close down and heard the hull of another ship scraping against ours and the sounds of the reverse process of loading, as the fruit-camouflaged crates of arms were lifted out of the hold of the fantail yacht and onto another, unseen ship in almost total darkness.

Then for three days the yacht had plied the waves back toward Istanbul. A couple of times each day, Fazil had accosted me where and when the urge possessed him and had fucked me roughly and swiftly—and totally. And each night the hulking German bodyguard, Axel, had stolen into my cabin and made long and languid love to me.

There was no question which I preferred. It was the danger of Fazil that aroused me to the heights and his masterful, overpowering fucking that left me panting and blissfully exhausted. But Axel was my possible salvation. I had to make Axel love me.

But when we reached Istanbul, Fazil maintained a painful distance—painfully visible for him and me alike—during the day, and it was only Axel who continued to spend the nights in my bed, moving his meaty buttocks between my spread legs and his long, ever-hard, quickly rejuvenating dick stroking in and out of my channel.

When my opportunity came, it was by chance—I hadn't planned it other than being ever ready to take advantage of any possibility, any weakness in Fazil's security arrangements. We were nearing the end of the two-week window I had painted for Fazil on when my intelligence service would start looking for me. And I increasingly could see that wanting me was losing out in Fazil's struggle to protect himself and his arms smuggling operation.

It was midafternoon, and Fazil was entertaining some eastern European Muslims. I had no doubt these were important current or prospective clients for his arms business, but Fazil never discussed business during his meals. He was permitting me to attend the meal—indeed, I think he was showing me off to his guests, perhaps even telling them who I really worked for and how cleverly he had caught me in his web. I knew, though, that as soon as the meal had ended, Axel would take me back to my luxurious prison at the top of the house, and perhaps have his way with me, and Fazil would withdraw to the study to discuss his business with these men.

Security at the front of the house was total. Fazil's own goons were there, but so were those of the visiting eastern Europeans. No doubt Fazil felt he was safe in putting me on display during the meal.

For the first time in over a week I was fully clothed, in trousers and a polo shirt and actual footwear—ill-fitting loafers without socks. I suppose Fazil thought his deal would be endangered if he brought me to the meal naked and fucked me on the table between meal courses. The thought that he might do this, however, was ever present in my mind and kept me in heat. And from the way he looked at me from across the table during the salad course, I felt that he was struggling to keep himself from doing just that. He had been visibly in pain the last few days in which he had not assaulted me. And I wantonly had been doing everything I could during those days to make him want me.

Resisting the looks I was giving him across the table was driving him to distraction and making him irritable. The servants weren't being nearly fast or competent enough for him in their service.

"Bread. I asked for more bread," he growled. And indeed, the Turkish servants hadn't anticipated well the appetite of eastern Europeans for starches.

There was no servant in the room, however, when Fazil bellowed his demand.

"I'll see to it," I announced sweetly. I rose from my seat and was nearly to the door into the kitchen area, when Fazil tried to stop me.

"No, Jack . . . the servants—"

"It's just bread, Fazil," I turned and called back to him. "I can find bread on my own."

Fazil started to say something, but one of the eastern Europeans just then thought of something he wanted to say to him, and Fazil just waved me on with the trace of a scowl on his face.

I walked straight through the kitchen and into the pantry area and through the storage room—holding my breath for the entire interminable journey—and then I was through the unguarded service entrance, out of Fazil's prison, and headed south toward one of the main bazaars as quickly as I could without raising suspicion from those in the crowded alleyway I was maneuvering through.

I didn't dare turn to check behind me until I reached the main street at the front corner of the house, but when I did, I saw a panicked-looking Axel bursting out of the service door of Fazil's residence like he was being shoot out of a canon. His head was revolving on his thick neck as he tried to see in every direction at once. There was a mean-looking pistol in his hand, tipped with a silencer, and as soon as he realized that the alleyway was teeming with people, he slipped that into his breast pocket.

Our eyes made contact, and I saw the wounded, conflicted look in his face before I turned and plunged into the crowded street, with the crush of people only increasing as I waded through it toward the bazaar, where an elephant could hide if it wanted to.

I reached the edge of the bazaar well before Axel had come anywhere near me, and I knew that barring some fluke of movement, I was safe no matter how good the German's tracking skills were.

I had been to Istanbul before. These bazaars all had a pattern to them, simple enough when you were familiar with them. I plunged into an awning-covered area of the street that had been claimed by a coffee house, and walked quickly through a boisterous collection of yammering old men and into the building behind it that had no façade at all on the first floor of its street side. The light was dim in here and the air soupy with the noxious smoke of Turkish cigarettes and bubble pipes. The crowd of caterwauling men swirling about the enclosure and thumping each other on the back or challenging each other to meet them in the street was no less dense than it was out under the awning.

In seconds I was invisible from the street, and I just kept on walking, just as I had through the service areas of Fazil's residence that he hadn't thought of securing. Even if Axel guessed I had come in here and followed me in, no one would have told a German whether or not another Westerner had cut through the crowded room. If Axel had been Turkish, he would have gotten all the help he needed. But as a German—especially as a German—he was automatically cut off from any help.

I walked into the storage room behind the coffee house and straight on out the rear door—and into another world altogether. Here the houses were silent, turning shuttered windows onto a narrow but largely deserted residential street. Except for the cacophony of sound in the near distance, no one would have guessed that this street was within miles of a teeming Turkish bazaar.

I knew where I was going. The consulate was two, maybe two and a half miles almost due west from here, out the Istinye Dereici Daddesi and across from the Carrefour-SA supermarket on Istinye Mahallesi.

I could walk it easily, even in the ill-fitting loafers. I just hoped that Fazil was surprised enough at my abrupt escape and flustered enough with also having to entertain the east European Muslims that he hadn't, for once, thought two steps ahead of me and sent some of his goons straightaway to the consulate's gates.

But if he had thought of doing that, it had occurred to him too late, because inside an hour I was safely inside our consulate, had contacted my agency's base chief, and had caused a massive assault operation to be launched to close in on Fazil. What I had brought to the consulate was the biggest intelligence coup of the month.

But when the team of intelligence agents reached the villa near the banks of the Bosporus between the consulate and Hagia Sophia, all they found were bewildered servants surveying an unfinished meal on the dining room table, who, upon interrogation, were apparently genuinely totally unaware of the importance of the man they had been working for.

* * * *

My posting to London proved to be eerily timely. The station in our embassy there was the hub for anticipating the coming resurgence of ethnic fighting in the Balkans, and my recent stint as the "guest" of a major arms smuggler to the Muslim side of that near-term war, one who all of the Western intelligence agencies were scrambling to find and shut down, put me at the center of the station's activity.

The only real problem I had, other than the occasional, self-indulgent twinge of cheering Fazil Fikret on in his game of hide and seek, was that I still was hearing of problems with one of my old cases in Cyprus that I had assumed would cease with the passage of time. Fazil's nephew, Tahir, just wasn't taking to the control agent who had taken over from me. Tahir had proved to be a very delicate case. The information he was passing on about the Turkish Cypriot prime minister's office was quite valuable—and keeping him from revealing that he had been doing this was becoming even more important. And, as a possible link to his uncle, the station on Cyprus had to delicately work with him, trying to keep him happy—and clearly when I left he became, and remained, unhappy. It was becoming increasingly chancy trying to get him to spill information on his uncle's movements without him realizing we were even more interested in his uncle than in him.

But mostly my work was concentrated on the Muslim organizations operating out of the UK, thanks to its lenient restrictions on their political activity. And I was very good at my work. I continued to walk into the lion's mouth almost daily, going to places and speaking to people who no one else in the station had the balls to approach—and coming away almost always with yet another puzzle piece to the larger question of where ethnic animosity was leading violent action across the world.

And I easily made friends in my new environment. Some embarrassingly so. There was one junior agent, Steve, who was on his first—and to listen to his controllers, most likely his last—assignment, foreign or otherwise, with the Agency. He was brilliant and we couldn't have asked for a better analyst putting all of the pieces we were assembling together. But he insisted beyond endurance that he would be a field agent. And, as a person, he was just too obvious for words.

We were functioning under a "don't ask/don't tell" policy, and many agents, like me, were having all of their talents and proclivities put to use in the service of country without ever directly acknowledging that certain kinds of asset running required certain kinds of candy. But Steve was just too, too obvious.

Steve swirled around me like a love-sick puppy dog almost from the first day I arrived in the London station. Sniffing and simmering and wagging his tail—oh so obviously wagging his tail—and signaling for all to see that he wanted me and was mine for the plucking.

I felt sorry for him—not only was he as far away from being arousing to me as a man could get and not be a woman, but he also was so obviously a bottom himself. We just didn't fit.

But the longer I knew him the more it became clear to me that he could be very useful, and so, when I heard that his controllers were just about ready to lower the boom on him and send him home, I went to see the station chief.

"They tell me he's untrainable, that he never could be a field agent," the station chief said.

"I think he may be ideal for a specific role," I said. "It's a circumstance that is probably down to its last-ditch effort, and it's an important one. It might help us in netting one of our primary targets even. And he's perfect for it. How many can we come up with like him when that's just what we need?"

"Not many, thank god," the station chief said with a snort.

"And yet we pride ourselves in having the perfect agent for every situation, don't we?" I countered. I was trying to remain calm, analytical, convincing.

That made the station chief stop and think. "Well, I don't know."

"Let me contact the COS in Nicosia and see what we might try to arrange," I said.

"And you would take charge of him and prep him for the assignment?" the station chief asked?

"Yes, certainly." I was trying to sound more confident and willing than I really was. I didn't relish what I would have to do to prep Steve for the assignment.

"Well, all right then," the station chief said. And I felt the jaws of the vice of responsibility and accountability close over me. It had to be done, though. I didn't like loose ends, and, to a great extent, I felt responsible for that loose end.

And so it was, two days later, that I took a delighted and tail-wagging Steve to lunch at a Turkish restaurant near the embassy compound.

"I'm being reassigned to Nicosia, Cyprus, and you are taking me there to help me work into actual running of foreign assets?" Steve asked. He was incredulous. And I also could feel him shuddering under my touch. We were sitting side by side on a booth bench, and I had moved in close, thigh touching thigh, and my bare forearm rubbing against his. I thought he was going to melt on the spot.

"Yes, I asked for you, Steve. I think you'll do very well in Cyprus. And I'm personally looking forward very much to our time together as we travel."

"I . . . I don't quite know what to say. I had no idea that—"

"Just say yes, Steve. It would mean so much to me." I gave him "that" look, and I felt him trembling beside me.

"Yes, yes. Of course yes." And then I heard him switch gears with a "Uh, yes, may we help you?" I looked up at Steve's change of voice, almost an angry, protective tone to his voice.

Fazil Fikret, the international arms smuggler, was standing at the side of the table, and, looking past him at the door, I saw that he wasn't alone. But his bodyguard of the day wasn't Axel.

"Do you mind if I join you for a moment?" he asked.

"Why . . . who . . .?" Steve was sputtering.

"You may sit . . . for a moment, Fazil," I said. "But you should know that this restaurant is crawling with embassy muscle. One raised word from me and—"

"That's quite all right. I didn't come here to harm you," Fazil said. I wasn't bluffing this time about help being present. There were several of the embassy's Marine guards scattered around the tables. This was a favorite embassy luncheon spot.

"If I'd wanted to harm you, I would have done so already," Fazil said, his tone matter of fact. "I found you here weeks ago."

As Fazil folded himself into the booth on the bench across from us, Steve had built up his courage. "If you are going to threaten us—"

"Shut up, you little weasel," Fazil growled contemptuously. "I came to see Jack—if that's what he's still calling himself. Not you." Steve fell silent, stunned by the dismissal.

"Why did you come to see me, Fazil? Oh, but excuse me, I haven't done introductions. Steve, this is Fazil Fikret, the arms smuggling mastermind we are working so hard to locate. It would appear that he might be in London, at least for the moment. Fazil, this is my very good friend, Steve."

Fazil snorted, and Steve shrank into the corner of the booth in abject fear. He knew quite enough about Fazil Fikret to know the personal danger he represented.

"I came for you, of course," Fazil said. "I have learned that I am obsessed with you."

I looked over at the door and then looked back at Fazil. "Where's Axel?" I asked.

"Alas, Axel is no longer in my employ," Fazil answered. He had reached across the table and taken my forearm in his hand. I looked down at the hairy knuckles on his fingers and once again almost let my engorging cock speak for me. Almost.

Fazil saw both the brief spark in my eyes and the dying of the embers.

"Ah. You have not suffered as I have," he said.

"I have suffered," I said in a low, halting voice. Sorry almost immediately that I had opened to him.

"Then come with me now," Fazil said.

"No. I have done too much damage to you," I said.

"Nothing that means more to me than you do," he answered.

"Did you let me walk away in Istanbul on purpose?" I asked. I was challenging him on what was more important to him—what was more important to him then. I had gotten my bearings and broken free all too easily. I had eluded Axel all too easily too—but I had seen the gun Axel had burst out of the house with—and the silencer on its barrel. Spirals within spirals. International intrigue was just so . . . intriguing.

Fazil looked away, obviously not wanting me to see his eyes, afraid, I thought, that I'd see truth therein, no matter what it was.

"If even remotely true, then whatever you did to Axel wasn't deserved."

There was no answer from Fazil. And then it dawned on me.

"You didn't send Axel to me at night, did you?"

Fazil was still looking away from me, but the resetting of his jaw told me what I needed to know. When he looked back, his eyes were hooded, in control, protected from me. "Last call," he said in a small voice, almost a whisper.

The ensuing silence was painful for both of us. This was quite possibly the first chink I'd ever seen in his armor. He was bluffing, and we both knew he was bluffing. I had not dared believe he was genuinely desperate for me—for my body being worked by his—until that very moment.

"Ah," he said after a moment, as he withdrew his hands. "Perhaps not yet. But someday. Someday you'll return to me. Maybe on Cyprus."

I didn't answer. I looked down at the surface of the table, not trusting myself not to be lost in his eyes again. And when I looked up, Fazil was gone.

I looked over at Steve, cowering and trembling in the corner of the booth, and I reached my arm around him and pulled him to me. It was time to get started.

"Have I told you what beautiful blue eyes you have?" I asked.

"No. No you haven't," he stammered. And I slowly saw him forget the visit of Fazil and fall irrevocably under my spell.

"Could you . . . would you come back to my flat with me now?" I asked. And I gave him my best entreating smile.

Steve was quite a cute little piece when in the altogether. He was several years younger than I was—and he looked several more years younger than he actually was. He was slight of stature, but perfectly formed, more beautiful than handsome, his body completely hairless and shining like translucent marble, and with pert little Statue of David-like cock and balls.




Last Call Ch. 05



I truly regretted what I had to do after making Steve, the cute but oh so obvious young thing, my love slave. But it was all for a good cause, including Steve's, if he was able to take hold and prove he had talents for running intelligence assets.

I took him under my wing and into my bed in my London flat, and when I wasn't trying to teach him how to run assets in his new Cyprus assignment, I was fucking him in my bed until his eyes were swimming in cum. At first I was fully as attentive and romantic and sensitive to his needs and wants as he had been dreaming about. But slowly over the weeks of agent training in London, followed by the indirect travel into Greek Cyprus and two weeks acclimation and training there, I let rougher, more demanding, less sensitive sex creep into our relationship. I changed slowly so that Steve couldn't put his finger exactly on the point at which I no longer fulfilled his romantic dream but was overpowering him.

I started by ignoring a signal here and there that he wanted sex, and moved on to forcing sex when he wasn't in the mood or fucking him to sheer exhaustion and then fucking him again when it wasn't what he would have chosen. And then I slowly became a bit rougher with him, making him gag while blowing me, when I knew he wasn't thrilled to give blow jobs, and slapping him around a little bit at the height of arousal. And then, ultimately, mostly because it fit my plan, when we were laying low in Barcelona on our final—and we hoped undetected by the opposition—approach to Cyprus, I brought a male prostitute in from off the docks and had him fuck Steve roughly while I watched.

Steve was crying when the bruiser left, and I knelt beside him and placed his hand on my engorged dick and told him that what I had seen aroused me so much that we would do this again. And then I forced my hand between his thighs and spread his legs as he whimpered, and I worked my hardened cock inside his swollen and bruised channel and fucked him myself. Although it had all been part of a pattern I was establishing, watching the rough sex had, indeed, aroused me like none of my previous encounters with Steve had, and for the first time the sex was as good for me as it was for Steve.

Back in Nicosia at the embassy once more, it took me almost a week of showing what Steve had learned of the tradecraft to convince the chief of station to change handlers for the now-troublesome and unstable Tahir, who was our asset in the Turkish Cypriot prime minister's office.

That done, I went over to the Turkish side of the island in the afternoon and called Tahir, using our old contact system of claiming to be his tailor telling him that a suit was ready for him to pick up and needing to talk to him personally to set up a meeting, as final fitting was required.

Tahir was delighted to hear from me and started to tell me over the phone, from his own office, how unhappy he was that I had just disappeared when we had come together at last and how much he hated his new contact. I had to shush him and make him realize he was talking over an open phone line. But from his reaction, I could tell both that he was genuinely distressed I had left him and that something would have to be done quickly to placate him or he would become completely unhinged and would give us away. I also became certain that he had no idea that I had left Kyrenia with his uncle, the international arms dealer, Fazil Fikret, the last morning we'd been together. I also was still unsure that Tahir even knew what a high intelligence target his uncle was. 

"I am so sorry my shop men gave you so much trouble with your suit order, Mr. Hulagu," I smoothly inserted in his running conversation, trying my best to neutralize what he was saying. "Now about the final fitting. How about 8 PM. And I will bring my assistant with me. Sami—as for your first fitting."

Anyone listening to our conversation—I hoped—would understand that the fitting would be at 8 PM in my shop, and my assistant, Sami, would be there. But what I was relating to Tahir in code was that we were to meet at 8 PM at the Club Paradisio, where we had first been introduced by the intermediary, Sami. I also was conveying that I would have someone with me, so that Tahir wouldn't be spooked by finding that out when we met again.

When I rang off, I told Steve that we had a date with the man who would be his first asset to run here in Cyprus, if he proved able to do that. Steve got excited, and we went over Tahir's file. I impressed on Steve how important Tahir was to us, not the least because of his relationship to Fazil Fikret, who Steve had already met and whose intelligence interest to us was well known to Steve.

"Above all, you have to develop a good relationship with Tahir. Do you understand that?" I asked.

"Yes," Steve answered.

"Tahir was originally my asset, and we worked together quite well. My replacement hasn't been a good fit. You must be a good fit, or, frankly, Steve, I don't think the service will keep you on."

Steve sat there, thinking hard about that. "Do you mean—?" he started to ask.

"I mean sex, Steve. We control this asset with sex. He must be pleased. Do you understand and can you do that—for a chance to become a full-fledged agent?"

"Yes, but—"

"That means that we take two cars across to the Turkish side tonight. If I come back alone, you will be on your way to becoming a full-fledged agent."

Steve's eyes grew large. "But we—"

"There is no 'we,' Steve, one way or the other. Surely you've come to sense that—that what you want isn't what I can fully give. I have matched you carefully with the need here, Steve. If you prove yourself—if you decide to do what it takes to become a full-fledged agent—you will use whatever talents you have to the best of your ability. And, I'm happy to add, I think you will enjoy yourself in the process. Much more so than with me."

I left Steve to cogitate on these truths and went to prepare myself and to order up two sedans from the embassy carpool.

I was very happy to see immediately upon entering the smoky and somewhat seedy and practically deserted Club Paradisio at 8 PM that I had guessed correctly. There were no lights on in the club bar, except for a color wheel trained on a clichéd overhead revolving ball inset with small mirror squares. Such activity as there was was off in the booths along the wall, and the air was heavy with Turkish tobacco smoke. The gay scene in Turkish Cyprus was mainly out on the beaches and in the backseats of cars on deserted mountain roads. Only the furtive "not so sure about this" set came to the tawdry clubs in the alleyways of the larger towns.

It was the dark atmosphere in the club that had mainly attracted me to this club when I originally suborned Tahir through an introduction from the male pimp, Sami. It was nearly impossible to see who was doing what with or to anyone.

As soon as we got close enough to the bar where Tahir was waiting, hunched over and nursing an Efes beer as he waited for me to appear, for him to see us, I was pleased to note that his eyes slid right off me and onto the cute young, smallish figure of Steve.

Steve gave him a wondrous smile, pleased himself, as I'd assumed he would be, with the handsome, well-muscled Tahir. And after that Tahir barely heard what I said. He did remember enough, though, to disengage eye contact, as I instructed him to in our training sessions; palm the envelope I was holding between the seat of a bar stool and the underside of the bar; and head for the door.

"Passing," I had muttered, the signal that I had something in my palm to transfer without anyone else seeing us. "Go there straightaway. We'll take up where we left off. Be prepared."

The envelope had contained the address and the key to a carefully acquired holiday villa near the top of the Kyrenia mountain pass on the road from Nicosia to the coastal castle town of Kyrenia. I built in plenty of time between Tahir's departure from the bar and our own by ordering two more Efes beers and trapping Steve between me and the bar, facing the bar, and making him moan with one hand under his T-shirt on his chest and the other buried under the waistband of his jeans. I rubbed my crotch against the small of his back in rhythm with the very loud and quite outdated music coming from a hidden sound system.

After a nice helping of this and the downing of half of our beer, I picked Steve up and carried him over to a corner booth, stripped his jeans down off his legs, and laid him on his back on the tabletop. Dropping my own trousers, I spread his legs and moved in between them and fucked him slowly and tenderly to the rhythm of the music.

This served two purposes. It was my "no hard feelings" good-bye to Steve, who had done everything I'd asked him to do. But, more important, it fully justified our presence in the club and made anyone there who had seen us enter and brush by Tahir forget completely anything they'd seen except for the hot blond muscle stud fucking the cute little redhead on a tabletop—the evening's hot entertainment for any of the men who could draw close enough to see us in the murky smoke.

When we reached the holiday villa, the interior lights were set low and the drapes on the sliding glass door were open to the small enclosed patio beyond that was almost entirely taken up by a round pool, with Jacuzzi jets set on low. The lights below the surface of the water were on and reflected back through the water and glass wall to the ceiling of the main room, which was dominated by a double bed, with a couple of tub chairs facing it on either side. The wall across from the foot of the bed was completely covered in mirrors, which also reflected the wave effect of the pool back onto the blank wall behind the bed's headboard.

Tahir had found the "on" button for soft background music, and he was lying on the bed, waiting for us, naked.

I had my arm around Steve when we entered the villa and saw the preparations Tahir had made, and I was pleased to feel the shudder of pleasure that coursed through Steve's body.

"I've brought a present for you, Tahir," I said in a low voice. "If he pleases you, he can be your contact from now on. I'm sorry to say, I cannot stay in Cyprus. But I believe you once told me you liked redheads."

"He's so small; so young," Tahir whispered. I could tell he was entranced. He had hardly reacted to my statement that I wasn't back in his life permanently.

"And such a nice body too," I said.

While we were talking about him, Steve just stood there, shyly looking down at his feet.

Tahir rose from the bed and moved over to in front of Steve while I moved behind Steve and brought my arms around and pulled his T-shirt over his head. I then quickly shucked my own shirt. I pinched at Steve's nipples and buried my lips in the hollow of his neck, while Tahir held out a hand and lifted Steve's chin.

"Ah, blue eyes. Eyes you could swim in," Tahir murmured.

I lifted my head and looked down Tahir's torso and saw that he was aroused.

Steve was shyly sighing, swaying slightly in response to my working of his nipples, and acting demure. It was partly his character, which was high on the list of what attracted me to him for this assignment, but I also sensed he thought—correctly—that this was what would turn Tahir on. I was grateful that Steve was so quick on the uptake on that. Tahir had wanted me badly without realizing that we just didn't match up well. Steve, however, was the perfect match for Tahir—exactly what I perceived Tahir wanted: small, beautiful, young, and effeminate. The need for a romantic relationship written all over him.

"You may touch him, Steve," I whispered loud enough for both of them to hear me. "You said you loved men with muscle and thick, black body hair." He hadn't told me anything of the sort, but he understood immediately, murmured his agreement, and raised both of his small hands and ran his fingers into Tahir's heavy chest matting.

I lowered my hands and unzipped Steve's jeans and pushed them to the floor. Then I did the same with my trousers—and the three of us were equally naked.

Tahir ran one of his hands down Steve's smooth chest and through the thin red curls at his groin, and I felt Steve flinch and heard him moan deeply as Tahir cupped the young man's cock and balls.

"Sweet, delicate. Like a young boy," Tahir whispered in a hoarse, obviously pleased voice.

Tahir moved in closer and Steve let his hands roam through the patches of dark, curly Turkish hair on Tahir's chest and arms and back and thighs. Tahir looked into my eyes with an unmistakable "thank-you" expression, and we leaned our faces in to each other over Steve's shoulder and kissed.

While this was going on, I was hand pumping my cock, and when Tahir drew away from the kiss, I embraced Steve around his thin waist with one arm and lifted him by one of his thighs with the other hand and set his channel, already gauged to the size of my hard tool and lubricated by my cum from our very recent performance in the Club Paradisio bar, down on my cock.

Steve emitted a small, virginal cry upon impalement that was more chaste than anything he'd moaned in the bar, and Tahir gasped and took a step back and sat down on the edge of the bed and fisted his cock, while I raised Steve up and down on my cock and he put on a show of writhing and groaning as if this was his first time.

Tahir was trembling and almost beside himself in arousal and, when he couldn't take any more, he went down on his knees in front of Steve and inhaled the little man's pert cock and balls in one intake.

Steve's writhing and groaning and whimpering took on a much more genuine tone, and in short order I felt him lurch and jerk and heard him cry out.

"Yes, yes, my little prince," Tahir murmured. "Give papa all of it. Ahhhhhh."

When Tahir stood up, all grins and a dribble of white, viscous fluid on his chin, I lifted Steve off my cock and brought his legs up in my arms and held him out to Tahir.

"Would you like to try him out for size?" I asked. "I will sit over here and watch."

Tahir gave me a beaming smile and carefully took Steve from me and turned and gently sat him down on the edge of the bed. As I backed up and sat in one of the tub chairs, Tahir went down on the carpet on his knees between Steve's legs and lowered his torso onto Steve's.

For several moments, all I could see was Tahir's dark-skinned, hair matted, trim, well-muscled back hunched over the bed and his bulbous butt cheeks rising out of strong thighs and calves on the floor. And I saw two small, alabaster-white legs—Steve's legs wrapped around Tahir, one with his heel wresting in the small of Tahir's back right above his crack and the other rubbing at the hairy back of one of Tahir's thighs. Steve's arms were also visible coming around Tahir's back, and one of Steve's hands was buried in the hair at the nape of Tahir's neck and the other was running through the hair on Tahir's back. Both figures were bathed in the reflections of the undulating water in the pool.

Although I liked my fucking rough and fast and hard, the tableau before me was just so artistic—so right and sensuous—that my cock was throbbing in my fist.

Tahir was taking it slow, just as he had done with me without arousing me. But what he was doing was working with Steve. Steve was sighing and moaning even more convincingly that he had done with me when I was in the earliest, high romance, phase of my domination of him. Tahir was making love to Steve tenderly—just as I knew Steve dreamed of being taken. And, as I surmised, Steve's response to Tahir's lovemaking heightened Tahir's arousal too. Steve wanted to be loved and Tahir wanted to love. Romance was important to both of them. That's why it was working for them and why it didn't work for me with either of them. I wanted to be dominated and taken swiftly and totally—and I fed on danger. This was exactly why I had gone to such pains to wean Steve away from his crush on me. This was best for all three of us.

I could tell from the sounds they were making that they were lost in a lip lock for some moments. And then Tahir was on the move, slowly moving his lips down Steve's chest and over his belly and into his groin, where the red curls seemed to fascinate the Turk and to make Steve groan and arch his back in ecstasy.

Then Tahir put one hand under Steve's small, round balls and lifted his tailbone up. Two fingers of his other hand wrapped themselves around Steve's cock—still small and boyish in its engorgement. Tahir's lips and tongue went to Steve's puckered hole and feasted there while Steve moaned deeply and dug his fists into the sheeting of the bed and bunched of handfuls of silk. The heels of his feet were rubbing up and down in the hair on Tahir's back.

Steve became vocal, letting Tahir know he was being pleased and then that he was being aroused and then that it was so arousing that he couldn't endure it and then that he begged Tahir to fuck him and then if Tahir didn't stop and fuck him, he would come. 

And when Tahir sensed Steve indeed was about to come, he brought his lips up and swallowed Steve's delicate equipment once more, whole, pushing his lips to the root of Steve's cock and ingesting the small man's balls inside his cheeks, one to each side and humming. Steve writhed and cried out and grabbed for the hair on Tahir's head with both of his fisted hands and beat on Tahir's back with his heels. He arched his back and writhed and cried out to Tahir that he had never, ever been taken like this. And then he just collapsed and lay back exhausted, drained, spent.

Tahir stood then, between Steve's legs, and slowly inserted the bulb of his cock in Steve's now-gaping hole and moved his hips around in a circular motion. He smiled when Steve moaned deeply, and then Tahir slow-fucked Steve interminably until he too jerked and cried out his ejaculation. I watched the rhythmic undulation of Tahir's hard-muscled butt cheeks. Contracting and expanding in a movement that matched, in their contraction, the little cries Steve made at the deep strokes of Tahir's cock inside him. 

By the time their dance of life was completed, I had shot my wad as well.

As Tahir pulled away from Steve, I heard Steve murmur in a small voice, "Please, please, don't leave me. I've never . . ."

But Tahir showed no intention of leaving Steve. He picked Steve up in his arms and moved him to the center of the bed, on his belly, stretched out. And then, still half hard, Tahir climbed over Steve and placed his knees on either side of Steve's slim hips and then carefully spread Steve's moist hole with his fingers and pushed his still half-hard cock inside again. Tahir covered Steve's body with his own, and Steve turned his head and they kissed and whispered endearments to each other.

I had nearly dozed off when I noticed that they no longer were in full repose. Their torsos were and so were their arms, entwined with each other. And their lips were locked together again. But their hips were moving again. At first I thought it was just the dancing of the reflected water on their beautiful bodies, but their hips were moving like waves on the ocean—ever more rapidly. Both of them making the most of Tahir's now-reawakened cock inside Steve. Tahir's hard-muscled butt cheeks once more contracting and expanding, contracting and expanding, accompanied by the little cry from Steve at the contraction and his sigh at the expanding.

Although there was no violence, no hurry, no jerky motions involved, I could tell the instant when they had attained a mutual ejaculation, Tahir inside Steve and Steve dragging his pert little cock across the bed sheeting.

My ejaculation came shortly after theirs this time. Sometime during the second fucking I thought of asking Tahir if he wanted me to join them, but they were moving so perfectly together that I hesitated to intrude. And Tahir didn't act like he knew I was there at all now.




Last Call Ch. 06



The next morning I dragged into the station around 10:00 AM after my tennis workout with the gunny sergeant of the Marine Guards. I'd surprised him by winning a set in a hard-won battle. We hadn't had time for the whole match. I'd learned a thing or two during my brief stint thus far in London on volleying technique; my lover there was a tennis pro. The gunny was flabbergasted; he'd had no idea I could learn technique that fast in the short time since I'd last been in Cyprus.

As the gunny was a big, strapping black, I wouldn't have minded sharing with him some other new techniques that tennis pro had taught me—and the gunny was catching when I threw him a signal of availability. I was still looking forward to an actual encounter, though. From a look at what he had on offer in the showers at the Eleon tennis club, I was looking forward to a meeting.

I'd barely gotten into reading the cable traffic after I'd gotten into the office, when the chief of station passed my desk.

"Where's the kid?" he asked. The COS was accustomed to me working my own hours. He wanted Steve toeing the line, though. He was looking for any excuse to cut him loose.

"I suspect he'll be in by the afternoon," I answered.

"Now if he's already carousing around at night so that he can't make morning call—"

"Naw, he worked all night," I answered. "I was there for the first part of it."

"Worked all—" But then he stopped in midsentence, something dawning on him. "He didn't—?"

"Yes, he did," I said and I smiled broadly—not only from having had my plan work out so well so quickly but enjoying the look on the COS's face.

"You can't tell me—"

"I'm not telling you," I broke in. "But that little problem you had with Tahir? I think it's fixed now. At least as long as you keep Steve around and don't ask too many questions."

"Who would have known?" was all the COS said. But then he turned around and headed for his office, whistling under his breath. It was a happy tune.

"I think I can book back to London, if it's OK with you. Unless you have someone else here for me to sort out," I asked his retreating back.

"We'll call you if we need a miracle maker," he threw back at me over his shoulder. In the COS's hard-assed book, that was a supreme compliment.

At that moment the phone rang. It was gunny, at the reception desk. And he wanted me to come down.

I went down. He was looking mighty fine, all spiffed up in his Marine uniform and showered and powdered after our early morning workout on the clay courts at the Eleon.

"What's up, Gunny?" I said cheerfully. "Playing spy on me?" It was a running joke around the embassy about me and my economic attaché status. Nobody was supposed to know what I really did, but everyone did know. It wasn't much of a secret in a small embassy like this one if I was rarely seen in the economic section and the telephone board clearly showed that all of my calls were diverted from the section to the station. I'll bet even the local employees knew what my real job here was.

"I didn't know who you'd want to know about this call that came in for you while we were on the court. It originated in our consulate on the Turkish side."

"What call?" I asked. "What's the secret?"

"Here, look at the log. See for yourself."

"Where?" I was looking at the incoming call log, but it was all gibberish to me.

"There. Right there. The last call logged in from the consulate."

My blood froze in my veins, but then I immediately started having hot flashes. How brazen could he get? I'll bet he was enjoying this. Teasing us. Challenging me. The call was logged in from Fazil Fikret.

"Was there a message?" I asked in a strained voice.

"Yes, but the receptionist couldn't make heads or tails out of it and called the duty Marine on to listen to it himself. The Marine knows the importance of Fazil Fikret, so he dragged me over here as soon as I got in from the tennis courts. Here's the message. Just this."

"I looked at the memo pad. It read, 'Under glass. Now. Last call.'"

"Have any idea what that means?" Gunny asked.

"Yep, it's clear to me, Gunny. Can we go to your office. More privacy there. Then I have a few calls to make and a car to check out of the embassy pool."

"Can I come along?" Gunny asked.

"No, you can't come. This will take a specialist—guys who know how not to make waves in their work. You're too big and beautiful to be unobtrusive."

Gunny just smiled at me. A promise of things to come smile. "I know how to come," he muttered.

I put my arousal in the background, and continued with the plans I was formulating. I just took a moment for a side comment. "That's good to know, but you still can't join in on this bust. But . . . but, if that offer is still open when I get back, I'll probably be in the mood for it."

The Gunny smiled broadly. "If you're sure you can take it. I won't pretend it would be vanilla."

"After this, I think it will be just the flavor I want," I said.

After second thoughts, I didn't call the station chief until I was in the embassy sedan, on the road into the center of the Greek sector of Nicosia, and approaching the Ledra Palace Hotel checkpoint over into the Turkish side of the island. I didn't want there to be any chance I would be held in the station until after this had gone down.

"No, Chaz," I said into the cell phone. "My way, or it won't work. You don't know how clever this guy is. He has to be doing something that takes his mind off his safety. The only time I've known that to work was when he was with me. He's toying with us, but he gets off on walking the edge. Our only chance is to push him over that edge. No sooner than an hour from now. Then have your guys come in. That gives you a half hour to assemble them and get them there. It will take me nearly a half hour to drive to Kyrenia. He can't be finished with whatever he has in mind before you are in place."

"He could just shoot you, Jack. You've screwed up some very expensive business of his. To him, you are a problem."

"He always could have done that," I answered. "I will just have to take that chance. You have no idea how much of a dilemma I've been for him."

"You take too many chances, Jack. You put your hand over the flame too fuckin' much."

"Why did you go into this business, Chaz?" I asked simply. "If not for the danger of flying close to flame, what was it? I don't pretend I'm not in it for the thrill of the game."

I hung up then. I didn't go the extra mile and tell him that danger wasn't just a mental thrill for me, that it put me at my highest sexual arousal. The COS was an ice man; he couldn't understand the sexual heat that danger generated for someone like me. And that this was important to me. It was what I lived for. Even if I'd told him that, he wouldn't have understood. He would always play it safer than I did. But then, that's why he was a chief of station and I never would be.

The message Fazil had left me was sparkling clear to me. But it was just like him to leave a message that only I would understand. Where he had first taken me and fucked me into blissful oblivion was his flat in Kyrenia harbor, the glass-walled cube floating on top of the highest building of the ancient stone warehouses enclosing the quay of the inner harbor. He was telling me he was there and that he was there now. He was summoning me. The "last call" was a reminder that he would only play this cat and mouse game with me for so long without getting his rocks off before he moved on to someone else to dominate. Of course, since it was a cat and mouse game, who could claim the truth of that?

I had no idea why I had built in a margin of at least thirty minutes between my arrival and when the professional find and retrieval squad got into place around his Kyrenia building. And I didn't want to think too hard on why I had done that. He had proven time and again that he could fuck me totally inside twenty minutes and be dressed and on his way to the opera within the next ten. I guess I was still wrapped up in the danger of it and keeping all of my options open.

Perhaps I could talk him out of a good chunk of that time before he either forced my legs open to him or put a bullet between my eyes.

I was only fooling myself on that one, though. Fazil met me on the third-floor landing of his five-story building and overpowered me and fucked me there, on the stairs, my belly teetering on the railing and me looking down to the subbasement below, as he held my wrists with his strong hands and thrust his dick so hard and fast up into my channel that I swayed in precarious balance with each thrust possibly being the thrust he chose to send me careening down three flights headfirst to a hard rock floor at the bottom of the stairwell.

I grunted and panted and cried out in fear and lust and ecstasy as he took me just how he knew I wanted to be fucked.

Within minutes, however, he had let loose of one of my wrists and had me by the throat and was applying pressure with his thumb on a spot that my own training had taught me would have me out like a light within seconds. In this case, the textbooks proved entirely correct.

When I came too, I had no idea how long I'd been unconscious. And I wasn't in the glass cube at the top of his Kyrenia harbor building as I had expected. Once again he had been one step too clever for me. And once again, it made my channel itch for his masterful stroke. I was laying on my back, completely naked, on a heavy wooden dining table in a dimly lit flat, with solid walls that told me in an instant we weren't where we were supposed to be. My arms were stretched above my head, tied at the wrist with a strong leather rope that was looped around one of the table legs. And I was gagged with a black leather strap with a rubber ball in it that filled my mouth.

Fazil slapped me awake, and when he saw my eyes open, he smiled and lifted up another toy of his so that I could see it. It was a thick rubberized dildo. It dropped from my view between my legs and then I felt it enter me and rise and rise and rise up inside me. I was writhing on the table and panting and moaning, and then I felt something else at my channel, and Fazil was entering me himself, his thick, hard cock pushing in above where the dildo was buried.

He took his time—or so I thought at the time—which was a new technique for him. I got the impression from how diligently he was working me and how serious his expression was that the possibilities were good that this was his last session with me, that he was somehow performing an "in-your-face" kiss-off and good-bye taking. I recalled his telephone reference to "last call," and it was taking on a whole new meaning for me.

The big question no longer was whether he was going to fuck me but, rather, what he was going to do to me after he'd done that. But there was little I could do about that, so I gave myself over to the brutal fucking. If this was the last time, I was going to make the most of it. I started moving my pelvis with him and making the deep moaning sounds he loved so much, and he became as lost in the fuck as I was.

If he heard the sounds, he didn't let on that he had. The hint of movement up the stairs outside, the shattering of glass somewhere overhead, and then the clumping of hurried feet up and down the stairs. The frustration, I knew, of launching an assault on Fazil's glass-enclosed retreat only to find it deserted—with no place to hide there and no means of escape from whoever was coming up the stairs.

It was simple but oh so effective—if at least for only a short time. Fazil owned the whole building. Of course he could have held one of the other flats in the building over the restaurant for himself. In fact, I should have anticipated it. That first night, when he had sat in his glassed-in retreat and observed his nephew, Tahir fucking me on the bed and Fazil then fucked me more satisfyingly himself while Tahir showered and prepared for bed—and then disappeared until reclaiming me in the morning. He'd simply walked down two flights to his other flat in the building.

Time. I needed time. It wouldn't take Chaz and his team that long to think of the obvious—certainly not as long as it had taken me to think of it in my sex-hazed slavery to Fazil's talented cock.

I became even more involved in the fuck than I had been before, trying to dull Fazil's mind to the time we were taking while at the same time trying to hold off on my ejaculation, which, in itself, could trigger whatever Fazil was planning for me later. But my body betrayed me. Fazil was pumping my cock with one fist while fucking my channel with his cock and the dildo he was wielding in his other hand. And sooner rather than later, I lost control and spouted my cum all over my heaving belly, in great spasms of over-the-top pleasure.

Fazil laughed and started his flow as mine was tapering off.

And, sure enough, this was what clicked Fazil's timetable into gear.

He had said nothing to me up to this point other than his usual exclamations of how much I turned him on and how good a fuck I was.

And now he said the last thing I heard. "Farewell," he muttered in a low, hoarse voice. "You were the best fuck I've ever had."

And then his strong hands went to my throat and his thumbs pressed into my flesh there. The thought flashed into my brain that this was yet another, more deadly, immobilization technique they had taught us in self-defense classes at the Farm—instruction that was as much about offense as defense, although the lawyers wouldn't let them list that in the course syllabus. From this position, the neck of even a smaller person than the opponent could be snapped with minimum force and pressure—and maximum death.

The thumbs pressed into my flesh and I closed my eyes . . . and I zoned . . . out.



Last Call Ch. 07



It was amazing how time can move so slowly in the heat of danger—or to be more specific, how much fucking Fazil Fikret was able to fit into such a short span of time. It took Chaz and his team longer to bring me back around to consciousness than it had taken Fazil to meet me on the third-floor landing of his Kyrenia harbor building and fuck me both there and in his flat on the same floor into unconsciousness.

Although I refused to believe him, the chief of station insisted that he and his find-and-retrieve team hadn't waited the full thirty minutes I had specified before storming the building to attempt to capture the notoriously slippery and dangerous international arms smuggling king pin.

"We didn't hold off at all, Jack," Chaz declared. "By the time we got here, we were only about ten minutes short of your timetable for us to enter the building, and we came in straight away. You were taking on too much danger, and we didn't want Fikret to slip through our fingers again."

"So, where's Fazil?" I asked weakly, as I sputtered back from unconsciousness. I was sitting on the edge of the dining room table of the darkened flat in Fazil's building and rubbing the tender thumb-print bruises where Fazil had applied pressure and put my lights out after he had double fucked me with his thick dick and a dildo.

"Gone. He's slipped through our fingers again." No laugh at the irony of Chaz's statement, but no wringing of his hands, either. This cat and mouse stuff was precisely what international intrigue as made of. To a certain extent it was all a game. If you didn't win today, there was always tomorrow—except that sometimes the stakes were so high there actually might not be a tomorrow. Thus far Fikret and his gun-running operations to Muslim ethnic "cleansers" in the Balkans didn't fit the bill for direct danger to my country, though, which made his capture more of a "very nice to have" than a national necessity. That was until Fikret found a nuclear bomb to peddle.

"How could he have done that?" I asked. "I heard your guys on the stairs while I was immobilized and being choked unconscious. You were swarming all over the exits to this building from Fikret's glassed pied-à-terre at the top of the building down to the subbasement. There are no balconies and probably not even any unbarred windows in this building. How could he have just vanished on us?"

"Sometimes the simplest explanations are the best," Chaz said. I blessed him for sitting there and talking normally, one intelligence agent to another, without commenting on how they had found me—naked, trussed up, with a gag in my mouth and with a dildo up my ass. Chaz's team was crawling all over the place, but the chief of station was just calmly sitting there in his don't ask/don't tell mode and going over the case at hand with me. And I harkened back to my own thought on this when I was kicking myself for not taking into consideration that Fikret occupied more flats in this building that just the small glassed retreat on the top floor.

"We found a door at the back of a closet in the bedroom to this flat that leads into the building next door." Chaz said in a matter-of-fact voice. "I'll bet we find he owns both buildings. His escape plan couldn't have been simpler. He just walked out the quay-side door of that building while we were deep in trying to hunt him down in this building."

We sat there in silence, both appreciating Fazil Fikret's excellent use of tradecraft, but neither of us wanting to voice our admiration aloud.

"I don't suppose you remember what he was wearing," Chaz said in a careful tone. "He probably changed clothes, and he's probably hopelessly in hiding again—Turkish Cyprus is his environment, not ours. But it might help."

I sat there for a moment. This would be the final nail in the coffin, the ultimate betrayal. Chaz was right; we both knew counting on Fazil to still be in the clothes he was wearing here was hopeless. But this was the last vestige of my ability to hold anything back, to set Fazil above my duty in any form. "Worn jeans, a black turtleneck—and his hair was down. He has shoulder-length graying black hair. He almost always wears it in a pony tail. Today it was down."

I smiled grimly to myself. I knew Fazil's ponytail was already history as part of his disguise change. For several months, he would have to live with the knowledge that I'd forced him to part with that.

Chaz smiled and stood and walked over to a member of the team and passed this information on. It was useless information. We both knew that. But somehow it meant the world to both the chief of station and to me as a marker on where I stood, whether I could be fully trusted or whether I had to be played like any of our assets.

I felt the door to a highly pleasurable aspect of my life clinking shut as surely as Fazil probably felt the same thing with his departing "Farewell" statement.

Chaz came back to me. "You'll go back to London?"

"Yes, I said. I'll go back to working on tracking Fazil Fikret and all of the other Muslim extremists down—and whoever is aiding them."

"Tomorrow?"

"Not tomorrow, I don't think," I answered. "I have some reordering to do, and this is a good place to do it."

"I understand," Chaz answered.

He didn't understand, not really. He couldn't possibly understand. We were two very different people. I couldn't just go cold turkey on the high that Fazil had been giving me. I had to have a cooling down period, to adjust to realities—unless . . . Well, I didn't want to think too much about that now. But he could accept my judgment that I needed some time and space, and he could give me space—and not ask too many questions. He was among the best when it came to chiefs of stations.

"You know we'll get Fikret one of these days," Chaz said. "Someday he'll trip up."

"Yes, I'm sure he will," I agreed. "And I hope I'm there to help bring him down." And I was surprised at myself—I think I actually meant that.

"Steve dragged into the embassy just before we left," Chaz said. I was glad he had changed the subject. I was sure that he realized that he should.

"Did he?" I asked.

"Yep. And he brought some good stuff back from Tahir. And the woman we have watching Tahir in the prime minister's office also called and said Tahir was back at work this morning and acting like his old self. Not showing depression or dropping dangerous hints. It looks like Steve will work out just fine on the Tahir handling."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Want one of the guys to drive you over to the clinic on the other side to be checked out?"

It was the first and last—and closest reference—to how Chaz's team had found me in this flat.

"No. I'll be fine. In fact, I have a tennis date."

Chaz gave me a questioning look, but he didn't put it into words and I didn't elaborate.

Gunny turned out to be more than fine as at least a first-step transference from Fazil. And it wasn't much of a step away from Fazil. It involved leather boots and a sling and wrist and ankle cuffs and a riding crop—and the longest, thickest, blackest cock I'd taken for some time, wielded by a real man with the stamina that only a Marine can sustain. And as far as danger went, there was always a chance that someone other than Gunny knew about this storage room just across the wall from the ambassador's office.

"The Marines Do It Better," isn't just a pithy recruitment slogan.