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The Greek Pimp Ch. 01

By: sr71plt



This is a seven-chapter GM novella that is completed and will post within about a month from the posting of the first chapter.

*****

They had been told they needed to hurry, but George didn't seem to be in all that much of a hurry. He and Cosmo were alone in the office now. Others had been leaving for a couple of hours before, unsettled by the reports of the unexpected approaching Turkish troops.

No one thought they'd land anywhere close to this international beach resort. The Turks had been threatening to invade Cyprus since months earlier, in late 1973, and the Greek government on the island had insisted that the international community, in the form of the UN peacekeepers on the island, wouldn't permit this to happen—and even barring that, that the Greek troops now on the island would be enough to counter them.

But ever since earlier on this late July 1974 morning, the radio had been blasting reports of an amphibious landing on the island's northern coast, west of the medieval harbor town of Kyrenia. And later, there were claims of parachute landings in the center of the island just north of the capital of Nicosia, in a successful maneuver to get behind Greek army lines. 

The travel tour office, owned by eighteen-year-old Cosmo's parents, who themselves were on a skiing trip to Switzerland, wasn't located never the invasion points, however. They were in Famagusta, popular international beach resort to the stars, among them Elizabeth Taylor and Brigitte Bardot. Famagusta was on the southeast coast of the island, not the northwest, where all of the invasion reports were coming from. Surely the Turks wouldn't risk international ire by disturbing the Famagusta riviera.

That assuring reasoning had held up until an hour ago, when Turkish naval vessels were reported off the coast of Famagusta.

All morning George had been dragging his feet on helping Cosmo get the company papers moved into the secret room behind the panel in Cosmo's father's office—papers that would reveal business that went far enough beyond the legal for the family to want anyone else knowing about. George said he thought the reports of imminent invasion were being exaggerated. He was more interested in being alone with Cosmo. 

It had been a long seduction, but he knew now that Cosmo was going to let George fuck him. Cosmo was still a beautiful young man of barely eighteen. Like many Greeks, features that were strikingly attractive now would probably turn ugly in later years. It had happened with Cosmo's father. But for now, Cosmo was a beautiful, alluring Greek almost boy.

George had had his sights on Cosmo for months. And now, with the young man's parents out of the country and confusion in the air, the time to make his move had come. If they really were being invaded, who knew when the next opportunity would arise, if ever. He knew Cosmo was willing; they had kissed and groped before, and Cosmo had not discouraged him. He'd even told Cosmo what he do with him in a fuck, and Cosmo hadn't pulled away.

Cosmo came out of the secret compartment only to stumble into George's passionate embrace. They stood there, bumping against each other, hand's groping each other, lips locked, and swaying back and forth. Cosmo broke away, if reluctantly.

"Now's not the time, George. We need to get out of here and on the road away from Famagusta."

"Can't stop now," George growled, as he grabbed for Cosmo, following him out into the outer office. He got the younger man bent over a desk in the outer office and stripped of his shirt, with his trousers down around his knees, and was fucking him from behind when they heard the shooting start. The sounds of the gunfire were near enough at hand that they both looked out of the plate-glass window at the front of the office and saw the blur of the steel-gray uniforms of the Turkish invaders.

More shots and George reeled back and fell to the floor. Almost instantaneously, the steel-gray uniforms no longer were a blur on the street outside the office. They were inside. A Turkish soldier had a choking grip on Cosmo's throat and was pushing him onto his back on the surface of the desk and stripping his trousers the rest of the way off his legs.

There were three of them. Two of them were grabbing Cosmo's arms and legs and holding him down, while the soldier with the grip on his throat has unbuttoning his fly with the other hand, pulling his cock out, and thrusting it inside Cosmo's ass. 

The young Greek cried out in surprise and pain, and another soldier came around to his head, pushed Cosmo's head down from the edge of the desk on the opposite side from which the first soldier was crouched between his thighs, and forced his dick in Cosmo's mouth. Cosmo made gagging sounds, but his hips involuntarily settled in with the rhythm of the fuck. He no longer was fighting it; he was going with the fuck.

George hadn't known, but he wasn't the first one to have his cock inside Cosmo. Cosmo wasn't an inexperienced bottom.

They probably weren't at it long, but it seemed an eternity to Cosmo during which the three soldiers each took a turn fucking his ass. The third one hadn't ejaculated, though, when there was another blur of uniforms outside the office. Not steel-gray ones this time. They were the tan camouflage of the Greek army. The shooting started up again and all three Turkish soldiers pulled away from Cosmo, hit the floor, and crawled behind desks, facing the front of the office.

Cosmo rolled off the desk and crawled into his father's office and over to the secret compartment, the door to which was open. It wasn't open for long, however. Cosmo crawled into the space behind the hidden panel, closed it, and crouched in the darkness, trying not to make noise with the sobbing of the confusing violation he had just experienced—confusing because he had melted to cocking of the young, hard-bodied Turkish soldiers. 

Shooting continued for some time but stopped eventually, replaced by an eerie emptiness. Cosmo waited for what seemed like hours in the ominous silence. When he had the courage to creep out of his hiding place and to crawl into the outer office, night had fallen. It wasn't totally dark, however, light from the moon filtering in between the high-rise hotels across the street and through the shattered glass of the office window showed that the room was in a shambles.

In the semi dark, he groped around, keeping himself below the level of the desktops. He reeled back in horror as his hand touched the cold body of George. Working his way toward the front of the office, he encountered, in succession, the bullet-riddled bodies of the three Turkish soldiers who had assaulted him, their pants still down around their ankles, before he reached the door to the sidewalk.

More carnage was visible out on the street, but the fighting had moved on, deeper into the city. The tourist office was close to the waterfront, and that's the direction Cosmo moved in, keeping down and in the shadows as much as possible. Coming to the waterfront, he saw a line of amphibious landing craft spread out along the surf line of the beach. Sentries had been left there, but they were doing more lounging and smoking than surveilling. 

Looking out to sea, he could see the blinking lights of what must be Turkish naval vessels. They were standing in the sea toward the north, somewhere between the modern resort city of Famagusta and the ancient Greek city ruins of Salamis.

Cosmo was a champion swimmer. He had won swimming races down the peninsula to the southeast and to the town of Protaras, which was on the other side of a UN peacekeeper's base. The chances were better that the Turks would bypass that base, Cosmo thought, than that he could get to safety by going into the water and swimming in the direction of the battle line from where he could hear gunfire.

Hours later a UN soldier pulled the shuddering and gasping naked body of a beautiful young Greek man, not much older or larger than a boy, out of the surf in the UN zone near the town of Paralimini, several miles shorter than what had been Cosmo's goal of Protaras. The chill of both the water and of Cosmo's fear had slowed his swim. But, although the invasion didn't reach Protaras, as an evacuee and, soon, a refugee, Cosmos probably fared better by having reached a UN zone than he would have been anywhere else on the island. And until he managed to get passage to Athens, he probably fared better than most refugees. 

The UN soldier who fished him out of the surf was a strapping Norwegian trooper, who instantly fell in lust with Cosmo. A grateful—and willing Cosmo—encouraged the solider to fuck him behind some rocks on the beach when Cosmo had regained consciousness, and the soldier took the young Greek back to his tent on the base and kept him well fed and well fucked for a week as the opposing forces on the island settled down into permanent stand-off positions.

The UN soldier hadn't initiated the sex on the beach, but he hadn't resisted the encounter either. Cosmo's shirt had been torn from him by George as he bent the young man over the desk and the Turkish soldiers had taken care of the trousers. The pounding surf had ripped what was left to shreds as Cosmo swam for his life down the eastern Cypriot coast. 

At that time Cosmo was a strapping, handsome young Greek man of eighteen. He must have looked like a gift from the gods to the randy bisexual Norwegian when he dragged Cosmo up onto the beach and lifted him into his arms to carry to behind the shelter rocks at the top of the sand.

Other than the timing, Cosmo hadn't rejected the George's fumbled assault back in the Famagusta tourist tour office. He had fallen under the spell of the seduction. And although crying out at the initial pain of the invasion of George's cock, Cosmo had wanted it. He had even wanted the fucking of the Turkish soldiers once they had gotten into the rhythm of it. Thus, he was as much sexually frustrated as frightened, soaked, and exhausted when he was picked up into the hard-bodied, big-boned Scandinavian soldier. 

He was groping the soldier as he was being carried up the sand and whimpering for the man to take care of him. To take care of him in a different way than the rescuer might have originally imagined.

When the Norwegian showed confusion on how Cosmo wanted to be taken care of, the understanding of both hindered because their only shared language was English, and neither was fully proficient in this, Cosmo showed the soldier what he wanted. He had the Norwegian's fly unbuttoned and his hand wrapped around his cock as the soldier laid him on the seaweed behind the rocks. And he drew the quickly hardening big bone of the man inside him as the soldier came down on top of him. 

The two were immediately lost in lust, grunts and groans, and thrusts and counterthrusts. Twenty minutes later, the soldier rolled off to the side and murmured his apologies.

"Will you feel the need to apologize every time you fuck me?" Cosmo had asked in a weak, but satisfied voice.

With a laugh, the Norwegian rolled back on top of him.

* * * *

Cosmo held the old man's head, with its mop of gray hair, buried in his pecs and tightened the grip of his legs around the old man's hairy back, his ankles locked above the man's bulbous, but wrinkled, buttocks. Pressing down with his heels, Cosmo helped guide the thrusting of the old man's cock up into his channel. The younger man could hear the old man wheezing and his body tensing. The ejaculation was about to come. 

The old man continued to thrust his dick up Cosmo's ass, but no longer rhythmically. The thrusts were off any beat, each one perhaps promising to end in the weak spouting that was all the shipping magnate could manage at this point in his life. With effort from a partner, the old man could still get hard—and his cock had once been a very nice one—but he was losing the carry through in strength of ejaculation. Not that Cosmo or any other partner would complain of this.

The rhythm was necessary for Cosmo's own approaching ejaculation, which would be much stronger and more prolific from the eighteen-year-old than from the old man. He moved the heels of his feet to under the old man's buttocks on either side and fought to regain a rhythm with the pressure of his heels by rhythmically pressing in with each of the man's successively weaker thrusts. It was important to the old man that Cosmo come too—that he exhibit that the old man could make him come with his cock.

The yacht was rocking a bit. Andreas would be at the helm, maneuvering the yacht in wide, lazy circles in the Saronic Gulf off Athens's port of Piraeus. When the old man had rested, it would be Andreas' turn. Cosmo was always taken first, though, and Andreas only if the old man could get it up again. Andreas usually had to do the riding of the cock himself, but the old man still got off on topping Cosmo.

It was just the three of them out in the yacht on a Saturday evening. Alexander Petropopolous had a family, both a third wife and children and grandchildren, and a national reputation back in Athens. He only indulged in his fuck boys at stolen times and in remote places as this.

It had been one body blow after another for Cosmo after the Turkish invasion of Cyprus. The Norwegian UN soldier also was married, and he sheltered and fucked Cosmo for only an increasingly guilt-ridden week during the initial chaos of the invasion. With noticeable regret, but with fortitude, he'd turned Cosmo over to a refugee camp. Cosmo's family being well-known as wealthy guaranteed him a free evacuation sail to Athens. 

But the free ride stopped there. Cosmo's family was wealthy in Famagusta, but Famagusta was under Turkish occupation now, and all of the family's wealth was tied up in collapsed businesses and seized properties there. On top of this, when he processed through the consulate in Athens, he was told that the attempt to contact his parents in Switzerland revealed that they had both died in an avalanche there.

When, starving, Cosmo had entered an Athens restaurant and, after a good meal, had confessed that he had no money and was willing to work the debt to the restaurant off, he had little idea—but perhaps subconscious hope, having seen the restaurateur—that the restaurant owner would demand that he work it off on his back on top of flour sacks in the restaurant's storage room. Cosmo had been giving blow jobs and quick fucks in Athens alleys for a few weeks before that, so there was no compulsion not to lie on his back and open his legs to the restaurateur. 

Athena was adrift with Greek refugees from Cyprus at the time, and Cosmo's body was his greatest saleable asset. The restaurateur was hard-bodied and big cocked, so Cosmo had enjoyed the fuck. Increasingly, Cosmo was enjoying lying on his back and opening his legs; it no longer was all about the money. When the man was handsome, hard-bodied, and big cocked, as the restaurateur was, Cosmo would give it for free—or for the price of a shared meal, which he saw as no different from normal dating patterns.

The restaurant owner had also enjoyed the fuck and told Cosmo he would take care of him. Taking care of him entailed turning him over to a pimp after the restaurateur's wife discovered what was happening in the storage room. The pimp had beaten and fucked and sent Cosmo back on the street corners and into the alleys. Here he had attracted the attention of a more refined pimp, and Cosmo found out for the first time what white slavery was about—that men could be sold to other men.

The new pimp kept Cosmo off the streets, though, sending him on assignations in good businessmen hotels. This was where Cosmo had met the nineteen-year-old Andreas. It also was how both Cosmo and Andreas had been taken up by Alexander Petropopolous and become his weekend fuck boys.

The old man was pressing into Cosmo's body on the double berth in the yacht cabin. Alexander was wheezing and groaning. Cosmo was moving his hips and causing his channel to constrict on the cock churning inside him. The old Greek shipping magnate had a very nice cock, not long, but thick, and if Cosmo closed his eyes and concentrated on that, he could blot out the thickness of the man's body and the wrinkled, mottled skin. 

He fought hard to maintain his own arousal and bring on his own ejaculation by thinking of fucking Andreas, which he was free to do on this boat, tied up in a Piraeus marina, during the week, while both, now free of their uptown pimp, worked tricks in the waterfront taverns. Cosmo had found sailors to be hard-bodied and rough takers, which aroused him.

Feeling the old man on the brink, Cosmo clutched his pelvis to him by raising and digging in his heels in the small of Alexander's back, clinching his channel muscles rhythmically on the thrusting cock, and crying out, "Yes, fuck me just like that. Give it to me. Give me your cum!"

He felt the weak ejaculation, a little cry, and as Cosmo also shot a load up the man's belly, the old man collapsed on top of him.

Cosmo lay there, regaining his breath. The man was old and gone to fat. But he had a good cock. He became conscious that the old man wasn't also breathing hard and slow stroking his cock inside Cosmo as he usually did while he was going flaccid.

"God, you do me good, Daddy," Cosmo murmured. "You always fuck me so good. Did you feel it? You made me come too." It was important to the old man that he still made the younger men come.

Cosmo always praised the man with these or some other words after sex. Alexander was the man who took care of him. Cosmo made pretty good money on the side on the Piraeus waterfront, but it was Alexander who had rescued Cosmo from the control of a pimp who, though he picked a higher class of john than Cosmo's first pimp did, also took more of the profit and knocked Cosmo about a bit. And it was Alexander who fed him and had clothed him in the luxury of this yacht.

No response from Petropopolous, and he was laying heavily on Cosmo between his legs, with his dick now fully flaccid even though still inside Cosmo, like a dead weight.

The thought of the word "dead" brought chills up Cosmo's spine. "Daddy? Alex? Are you OK?"

No response. Cosmo struggled up to a sitting position, and Petropopolous' body rolled off him and onto the deck beside the bed.

The man was dead.

Cosmo sat there for several minutes not understanding what was obvious, not accepting it, waiting for it to be a joke the old man was playing on him or some sort of dream.

"Daddy? Alex?" he murmured, looking over the side of the berth at the body crumpled up on the floor.

No response.

"Andreas," he called out. Then he was on his feet and launched toward the cabin door. "Andreas. Come quick. It's Alex."

The two sat and looked at the body for several minutes. After the first hurried visit to the cabin, Andreas had gone back above and dropped an anchor, turned off the motors, and lashed the wheel. Then he came below again and sat down on the buck beside Cosmo. Cosmo put his arm around Andreas, and they both stared, unbelieving, at the body.

The same response to death crept into them at the same time, aided by the embrace and the patting and petting and a few brief kisses. They were young, virile men, whose lives was dominated by the fuck. It wasn't unusual that their response to death was a need to reaffirm life. Cosmo began pawing at Andreas' shorts, which was all he was wearing—Cosmo was naked already—as Andreas took possession of Cosmo's cock and stroked it hard. 

Cosmo wrapped an arm around Andreas' neck and pulled him up onto the berth. Getting behind Andreas, with both young men on their sides, Cosmo lifted Andreas' leg to open access to his buttocks, and thrust his cock up into Andreas' channel. Andreas arched his back, called out a "Yes, yes. Fuck me. Fuck me hard!" and the two were off to the races, both anxious to drift away from real life if only briefly.


The Greek Pimp Ch. 02



Thomas felt Sir Alfred jerk and then roll off to the side onto his back and almost immediately go back to sleep, the deed assured by the sound of his snores. The schedule was promising to be the same today as it had been on the first day sailing out of Southampton toward Alexandria. It wasn't much different from the previous several days that Thomas had been taken into the professor's rooms at Oxford.

Thomas was pushed onto his belly not long after dawn, and Sir Alfred covering him from above with his considerable bulk, worked his cock inside Thomas' ass and then plowed him languidly with a great deal of groaning and wheezing. When the old man had come, he rolled off Thomas' back onto his own and went immediately to sleep for two more hours. They breakfasted together in the main dining room, and Thomas had the afternoon to himself while Sir Alfred studied his archaeology tomes in the cabin, where he wanted total isolation.

They both showered before dinner in the main dining room, with Thomas giving Sir Alfred a blow job in the shower—or the other way around, if Sir Alfred was feeling frisky. The evening was spent in the smoking bar—smoking still being permitted on British cruise ships in the late 1980s—with cognac and Sir Alfred lecturing Thomas on Egyptian archaeology. This was part of the agreed regimen, where the old archaeologist was preparing the young man for the dig Sir Alfred was delivering him to just south of Luxor on the banks of the Nile. Another fuck when they went to bed, Sir Alfred on his back this time, with Thomas saddled over him and riding the cock more vigorously than the morning fuck. When Sir Alfred had come, Thomas lowered his body on the old man's until he heard the snoring again. Then he could roll off to the side and sleep until the professor woke just before dawn and wanted to fuck again.

Back at Oxford, Thomas would study archaeology in the afternoon as well. He had won the position in Egypt—through Sir Alfred, his professor—now, though. So, other than listening to the old man lecture him in the evening, Thomas had no particular reason to push the books in the afternoon. He had found the on-board casino instead.

Sir Alfred was so much the man of routine that he had been doing this for several years. Those young research fellows in archaeology, like Thomas, who wanted to make it to field digs as soon as possible, knew that, if they could stomach the professor's attentions, were presentable enough, and were willing to have sex with another man to get ahead—which most of them at Oxford, were, having come up through a public school education that championed buggery—they could compete for his annual delivery of a "promising" student to the dig expeditions in Egypt. Each year, Sir Alfred selected a research fellow, tried him out in his rooms at Oxford, and, if the young man pleased him, paid for the young man to accompany him on a paid-for cruise from Southampton, down the coast of France, through the Strait of Gibraltar, and to the Egyptian port of Alexandria. From there the professor would go to Cairo to consult and the young man would go up the Nile to some dig on a year's field assignment.

It was an eight-day cruise. When someone pointed out to the professor that the world was in the 1980s now and the plane would get him to Egypt in a matter of hours, he puffed up and said that ships had been good enough for the British for centuries—that the empire had been won on the decks of ships—and that ships were the only civilized way to travel. What he didn't say was that, by going by ship, he was able to fuck a willing young man for eight days.

Often in the evenings Sir Alfred preferred to broaden his circle of conversation. At any other time of day, he preferred his own company exclusively or that of Thomas only. Whereas many of the passengers ate at tables of eight, Sir Alfred preferred to eat only with Thomas. He made the journey on this ship every year, so the cruise line bowed and scraped to his preferences.

And knowing that he liked the company of other interesting men—never women—in the smoking bar at night, the crew made clear to provide him with company. On the first night, he was paired with a distinguished-looking Greek who also regularly took this particular sailing annually. Cosmo Eracules was barely older than forty. He was still in good physical condition, muscular and with a trim waist. He had, as was typical of many Greek men, probably been unusually handsome as a younger man. But as was also typical of many Greek men, he was losing his beauty quickly. He still had wavy hair, but the gray was fighting with the black now. And the facial features that once denoted patrician perfection were becoming coarse and rugged. He would not be called a handsome man for very much longer. He would still be called elegant for some time, no doubt. He looked particularly elegant in his well-tailored evening tux in contrast to the heavy professor's devil-may-care tweeds.

The two men must have met on earlier cruises, though, because when they came together on the first night of the cruise, they settled into comfortable discussion, only occasionally bothering to include Thomas in any remarks. Knowing his place, though, and the "good deal" he didn't want to queer, Thomas just sat between them and politely listened to their conversation, which centered mostly on political affairs in the Mediterranean and the Arab world.

From time to time Thomas sensed the Greek casting speculative eyes on him—looks that Thomas had been accustomed to from his earlier public school days. Looks that had often led to Thomas on his back and the "looker" crouched between his thighs. In this circumstance, Thomas didn't mind. He could use some relief from the attentions of the old man. The professor's cock still worked fine, but there was little virility behind it, and the professor otherwise as a lover was well past his best-use date.

The Greek looked like he would be a forceful lover in bed. Thomas had fantasized about hot Mediterranean lovers. And this man was a real mystery. He obviously was wealthy and he must of a lot to protect. He traveled with two beefy dark-skin Arab bodyguards, who stood near the doorway of the smoking bar like statues and who had been just a few paces behind the Greek when Thomas had seen him in the casino earlier that afternoon.

* * * *

"Do you find the professor's cocking satisfying enough?"

"Excuse me?" Thomas said, his head snapping up to see the Greek's eyes boring into him.

They were sitting in a remote corner of one of the bars on the ship, closely facing each other, with a small, waist-high, glass-topped cocktail table between them. A beer sat on the table in front of Thomas. The Greek was drinking whiskey.

Thomas had turned and run into the Greek, Cosmo Eracules, in the casino the second afternoon of the voyage. He had been at the blackjack table, not doing very well, and had decided to take a break even though it was early in the afternoon. Sir Alfred wouldn't want him back in the cabin for three hours or more.

As usual, the two Arab bodyguards were standing, like statutes, just inside the entrance into the casino.

"You look like you're not having a lucky day at blackjack," the Greek had said. "Perhaps you would indulge me and join me for a drink. I'm feeling bored."

Thirst won out over the frustration of gambling and Thomas followed the Greek to the bar. The bodyguards took up positions several paces behind him, but they stopped at the entrance to the bar and took up positions there.

"I know the professor's routine well," the Greek said after he'd gotten Thomas' attention in the bar. "I know that part of the price of taking young men down to Egypt and getting them signed on for field experience is that they let him fuck them en route. Are you saying that you are different from the rest? I think you are much too attractive looking for the professor to resist his routine with you."

Thomas didn't answer. Instead, he let his gaze drop to the glass surface of the table, which only served to make him gasp. The Greek's fly was open below the surface of the glass and an overlong and thick cock was hanging out. For the briefest moment, Thomas had the nonsensical thought that the glass somehow magnified objects seen below it.

"Yes, take a good look. Compare it to the professor's cock. And I ask you again if he is satisfying you? You are a gambling man. You enjoy the blackjack table. What are you willing to wager that you don't like to be fucked—but that you want more of a man than the professor is now? I can help you at the blackjack table. I will pay."

He then named a price that nearly had Thomas falling out of his chair.

"I am going to take your cock out now and stroke it with mine until you come for me. If that's not what you want, you can get up and leave now. Otherwise, drink your beer, look like nothing special is happening, and think of my cock inside you."

Thomas heard himself give a little moan as Eracules reached under the table, unzipped him, and wrapped a hand around his cock. Other than a half-hearted whimper of objection, he made no other sound while the Greek encased both cocks in his hand and began to stroke them against each other. More than offering any objection, Thomas involuntarily moved his buttocks forward on the chair and lifted his thighs over the Greek's to bring their pelvises closer together.

He tried to lift his beer glass with one hand, but was trembling so hard that he had to use two.

Eracules kept Thomas' eyes trapped with his, and he was murmuring, "To have come with the professor, I'm sure you have been fucked before. And probably by younger and more virile men than him. But probably mostly by men as young as you, men without the experience that I have. I don't know how big the largest cock you've taken, but I assure you that mine is bigger. I can tell that you want a big cock inside you. After you come for me here, we will go back to my cabin, and you will be fucked by an expert. Repeatedly. I'll bet it's been a long time since you were fucked right."

With a jerk and a gasp, Thomas came.

As promised, the Greek fucked Thomas on the bed in his cabin deeper, harder, more vigorously—and in more positions—and with more abandon than Thomas had ever been fucked before.

Pushing Thomas down on the foot of the bed after they had stripped and moving between his thighs, Eracules grabbed the young man by the ears, forced his cock in Thomas' mouth, and made him gag from a deep, vigorous face fuck. Thomas was already fatigued and gasping for air when the Greek pushed his back onto the bed, grabbed and spread his legs, thrust his cock inside Thomas' channel, and rode him hard.

Thomas writhed under him, periodically reaching a hand out to palm the hard belly of the Greek as if pushing him away or trying to regulate the thrusts of the pelvis, but finding the musculature so arousing after the weeks of lying under the flab of the professor, that his hands involuntarily traced their way up the sternum to the hard pecs and bulging nipples. Thomas came again fairly quickly, but the Greek pumped on, hard and deep. Thomas had never been fucked this roughly or gloriously before. Eracules lowered his lips to Thomas' and they kissed, with the Greek forcing his tongue inside Thomas' mouth cavity until Thomas felt he couldn't hold his breath any longer. The Greek pulled his lips away at that moment, though, and moved them down to Thomas' nipples, where he nipped at the orbs as Thomas gasped.

And came again.

The Greek laughed. "Ah, the joy of youth. Shall we count how many times I can make you come for me this afternoon? That's three. Doesn't the professor make you come this often?"

"No," Thomas gasped. "No one. No one has made me come as much as you have."

"And you want the cock, don't you? You want to be fucked hard and rough."

"Yes, yes. I want it."

Eracules pulled one of Thomas' legs up and over, turning the young man on his side on the bed and forcing his thighs together.

"Oh shit, oh fuck?" Thomas cried out. "You are so big." The maneuver had constricted Thomas's channel so that the cock churning inside him sideways felt larger than ever before. And reached deeper. This position moved Thomas to where he was looking at the cabin door. He hadn't noticed them before. Both of the beefy bodyguards were standing inside the door. Standing like statues. But Thomas could see the bulging at their crotches.

Thomas came a fourth time before Eracules did. When the Greek had ejaculated, he pulled out of Thomas and stood a few paces from the bed, facing the young man, who was moaning and trembling on the bed, having rolled over on his back. His feet were flat on the floor at the foot of the bed, but he was too tired to stand.

He watched the Greek roll off the spent condom and drop it into a wastebasket next to a desk that was within arm's length.

Thomas shuddered at the view of the magnificent hard body of the man. The hair on his body was nearly gray on his head, more salt and pepper in the thick swirls on his chest and the line leading down into his pubes, but still jet black at his groin. The cock was flaccid now, but it hung low and thick and Thomas moaned again at the thought that all of that had been inside him.

Whereas the body was beautiful the face had taken on a more sinister aspect, a cragginess and the devilish look than Thomas had noticed before in the public areas of the ship. If the man suddenly had had horns and cloven feet, Thomas would have been surprised.

"You were good. Very good. Better than I expected," the Greek said. "I wish to make a deal with you."

"A deal?" Thomas asked.

"Yes. I know that you like to play blackjack in the casino in the afternoons. I know the professor wants you someplace else for four or five hours in the afternoon. And I know you don't win at blackjack. I could give you pointers there, but I think it would be simpler if I just gave you money you can lose and be satisfied with having played."

"You want to fuck me every afternoon? What do you think I am?"

"I know what you are. We both know what you are. You are a male whore. You have sold yourself to Sir Alfred, and you made no objection to selling yourself to me. I want to harness that for the remainder of the voyage—for the benefit of both of us."

"Harness what?"

"Harness the sweetness of your ass. I have clients on board. Clients who will pay for a couple of hours of your ass every afternoon. You can play blackjack for an hour or so, then service one of my clients for a couple of hours, and still make your schedule with Sir Alfred. You'll have money to feed your gambling needs plus more."

"That's barbaric. I couldn't possibly—"

"Of course you can. I'm trying to be civilized about it. But we both know what you are. Do you think the professor will be pleased to sponsor you for a dig in Egypt if he knows you are so free with your body? Letting him fuck you is one thing. Giving it to me is something else. And yet you still want it from me more than from him, don't you?"

"Yes," Thomas admitted in a weak voice. Seeing the man standing there, with his magnificent, sensual body, Thomas wanted him again even now.

"So it's a deal?"

"Certainly not."

"Perhaps my bodyguards here can help convince you want you want and that this is a good deal for you. I'm going to go take a shower. I'll ask you again when I finish."

He motioned to the two bodyguards, who immediately began to strip down. In panic and fear, Thomas started to backpedal up toward the headboard of the bed, but with a laugh, one of the bodyguards reached him, grabbed his ankles, and pulled him back to the foot of the bed. Both men were in erection, although neither had the girth or length of Eracules' cock. If anything, though, both were more heavily muscled, regular bodybuilders.

Bodyguard one moved his hands from the grip on Thomas' ankles to the young man's waist. He lifted Thomas effortlessly in the air, twisted and sat down on the foot of the bed, and brought Thomas down into his lap, facing away from him. Thomas cried out and began to writhe as the man forced Thomas' channel down on his cock. Thomas lashed out with his fists, but he wasn't beating against the bodyguard underneath him, he was beating, ineffectually, against the chest of bodyguard two, who was close in front of him, working his knees between Thomas' thighs.

Bodyguard one reclined onto the surface of the bed, bringing Thomas' torso down with his, while bodyguard two grabbed Thomas' legs under his knees and spread his thighs.

Thomas cried out and was panting and groaning hard as bodyguard two worked his cock inside the young man's channel above that of bodyguard two. The two bodyguards shared his channel, the second one providing the pumping action and the first one just keeping his cock hard and deep inside Thomas. The young man didn't fight for long. He collapsed like a rag doll and whimpered and moaned to his fifth ejaculation of the afternoon.

By the time Eracules came out of the shower, Thomas was willing to agree to anything he wanted.

For the next six days, while Sir Alfred closeted himself in the cabin for a private study time, what both Thomas and Eracules called Thomas' blackjack afternoon settled into the professor's rigorous routine—with no one telling the professor what Thomas did in the afternoons beyond playing cards in the casino.

Six one-hour blackjack sessions, with Thomas progressively getting better at losing progressively less money. And six separate men, ranging from their late thirties to their sixties in six separate cabins for an hour and a half each on six separate afternoons. And then, because Thomas shyly said he wanted it, a one-hour session alternately with the Greek and with his bodyguards in Eracules' cabin.

As Sir Alfred and Thomas came down the gangplank at the dock in Alexandria to the bustle of activity, Thomas' eyes caught the view of one of the Greek's bodyguards placing Thomas' suitcases in the open trunk of a black Mercedes limousine. The other bodyguard was holding a door open to the backseat and Eracules was standing beside the car and looking toward the ship. The professor's luggage also stood on the dock near the car.

"Is the Greek giving us a ride to the hotel?" Thomas asked as they approached the car.

The professor just grunted.

When they got to Eracules, Thomas saw that the Greek had a wad of money in his hand. He held it out, and Thomas was surprised to see the professor, at his side, extend his hand and take the money.

"What—?" Thomas started to say, but the bodyguard at the trunk of the car had already slammed it shut and moved forward and grabbed both of Thomas' arms from behind him.

Thomas wailed, "Sir Arthur!" as the bodyguard pushed Thomas into the backseat of the car and went in after him.

Eracules muttered, "A very nice one this time, Alfred. Try and bring one as nice as this next time," to the professor and then climbed into the backseat, where the bodyguard was manhandling and subduing Thomas.

The other bodyguard closed the back door, got into the driver's seat, and maneuvered the Mercedes into a U-turn.

The last that Sir Alfred saw of Thomas was his face in the rear window with a panicked look and a gapping mouth. The noise on the docks was too loud to hear whatever Thomas was screaming.



The Greek Pimp Ch. 03



Had he really drunk enough to be this woozy? His head was swimming, the sound of his ears being the rushing of water—real or imagined?—and he was having difficulty distinguishing teak walls from sienna brown curtains on the portholes and from separating his tremors from the slow bobbing of the yacht. Why, in this state of confusion, could he feel every luscious sensation of his dick sliding up and down in the channel of the Thai cabin boy? Or rather, the Thai cabin boy rising and falling on his dick, now that he thought further on it.

Samit was doing all of the work. Thane was lying on his back on the bed that took up most of the cabin, and the small Thai was straddling his hips, the heels of his hands dug into Thane's nipples as he arched his back and licked his lips in apparently deep pleasure, while slowly rising and falling on the dick. Samit's channel was tight and his muscles were rippling over Thane's cock in a most arousing way. Thane couldn't think when his cock had been this hard or the channel had been this tight, even as slicked up as it was. The sliding was easy and gave off a slight slurping sound—a sound that harmonized with the lapping of the water on the ship's hull. Did that mean the ship was moving?

How and when had Thane lost control and become so woozy?

The slickness of the channel, his ability to feel the sensation of the muscles undulating on his cock? Protection. Had there been a condom? Why couldn't he remember how this had come to pass? Had Samit offered himself or had Thane, drunken, forced him? Not likely forced him, if Samit was on top and doing the stroking—and seeming to be getting so much pleasure out of the fuck.

Why couldn't he think straighter? Why was he so confused? And why could he feel every crease and knob inside Samit's channel and the slickness of him? Surely if there was a rubber ...

Leaving Macau for Bangkok. The thought shot across his brain, a brief, clear thought. Why weren't there more? Why couldn't he put two thoughts together? Where was the Greek? They had been sitting in the fantail, looking at the lit-up bulk of the Venetian Macau Casino and hotel complex, and drinking scotch. Drinking scotch.

The Greek was his ride ... he had agreed to take him to Bangkok in his yacht, hadn't he? Did the Greek know Thane was fucking his Thai cabin boy? And how did Thane even know Samit was the Greek's cabin boy? Or even that his name was Samit?

Samit had been serving them the drinks. And as he had been doing so had been smiling shyly at Thane. What was that the Greek had asked? Something about whether Thane liked the Thai cabin boy. And in what way? And telling Thane to drink his scotch.

Cabin boy. Oh shit. Was this merely a boy? Were they in international waters, or still in Macau, or, worse, in Chinese waters? But, no. That was clear. He'd been told that Samit was small bodied, the way that many Thai were small. That he was, in fact the same age as Thane. Old enough. Was that before or after the Greek had asked him if he wanted to fuck the cabin boy? Had the Greek really asked him that? Not a boy ... or so he was told. Had he asked or had the information been volunteered to him—as part of the question of whether he wanted to fuck the Thai? A man. But the body of a boy. The channel of a Hoover vacuum cleaner, though.

Thane heard himself laughing. He didn't feel the laugh, but he heard it. Briefly he checked his memory banks on whether there were any hysterics in the laugh. There didn't seem to have been. But the laugh seemed so disembodied. Entirely unlike the sensation in his cock—such sensual pleasure there that every focus of his body was racing to center on it, to make the most of it. Strange.

And the laugh hadn't only been disembodied, it had been in stereo—but his laugh higher range than the echo.

"A Hoover vacuum cleaner. Very funny."

Had he said that? Surely not. The voice was from across the room. A lower register than his. The Greek's. Cosmo Eracules. The ugly, almost simian, but, at the same time, sensual Greek who had clucked at Thane's loss and volunteered to give him a ride from Macau to Bangkok for fucking privileges en route. That much was clear to Thane. But how had that translated to Thane lying on his back and the Thai cabin boy riding his cock?

The Greek had smiled up at Samit and asked if he wanted to be fucked by Thane. That memory clearly scanned across Thane's brain. The question was as jolting as the one the Greek had straight out asked him in the casino bar.

"Would you like to see my yacht?" he'd asked. "It's just across at the casino marina. Then I very much would like to fuck you."

That had brought Thane up short. "Excuse me?"

"I would pay, of course," the Greek had said. "You do let men fuck you for money, don't you? Didn't I see you leave the bar with that Chinese general and go through those beaded curtains over there? One of my bodyguards told me he spied the general fucking you in one of the small dressing rooms. He's an ugly bastard and you're really quite a stud, so I assume he paid you for it."

Thane had given up trying to stonewall at that point. And here he was. But what had the Thai cabin boy's response been to the Greek's question whether he wanted to be fucked by Thane? Is this what he really wanted? The scotch—the Greek had kept pressing him to drink the scotch. And his world had begun to spin.

The bother of the difference between the tactile sensation of the Thai's channel sliding on his cock and his inability to "feel" his facile muscles returned. And not being able to stop this rushing of water in his ears or feel himself laugh or know that he had spoken?—because surely the Greek had gotten the Hoover image from him. The tight, hard feeling in his cock. Building up to something big. The cloud-stepping pleasure of the sliding of the slick, tight channel on his cock. And now ... now ... Oh, shit! The Thai had moved a hand behind Thane's bare butt and was fisting and squeezing and rolling his balls.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, Shit! I'm gonna ..."

The explosion of the ejaculation. Thane lifting his torso off the surface of the bed. Grabbing Samit's thick, black hair and pulling him into a kiss ... as ... once, twice, and again ... Thane fired off. The gush of cum. Cum everywhere inside the tight ass. Dribbling down Thane's still-hard cock, as he jerked. Once, twice. More eruptions.

No condom. No way there had been a condom. Who gave a shit? That was ... spectacular.

Moaning, lying his shoulder blades back on the bed. Samit grinning down at him. Squeezing the cock with his channel—rhythmically. Pulling three last little spurts of cum out of him as his body jerked with each release.

Two heads. Samit had two heads. One so ugly it was arousing, though. The Greek. Peering, leering over Samit's shoulder. Samit leaning his torso down toward Thane's chest, but not actually touching it. Samit turning his face to the Greek's for a deep kiss. The Thai cabin boy moaning and groaning through the kiss.

A new sensation. Something else. Oh, shit, the bulb of another cock. Pressing at the root of Thane's cock, buried still in the Thai's channel. Not as hard as before he'd jacked off, but not flaccid either.

What in the fuck? Another cock, forcing itself into the Thai's channel, on top of Thane's cock.

No way. No way can the Thai's tight channel take it.

But it was taking it. Opening right up as the Greek slid inside, along the top of Thane's cock, making Thane moan too and arch his torso—and, involuntarily—bend and raise his legs and dig the heels of his bare feet into the tops of the meaty, naked mounds of the Greek's ass. Rubbing the small of the Greek's back with the heels of his feet—in rhythm with the moving of his pelvis, the ever-so-slight stroking of his cock inside the channel of the sensually groaning Thai while the Greek's cock began a stroking of its own, sliding in and out on the upper side of Thane's cock.

The Greek moving his cock, fucking the Thai cabin boy, but also fucking Thane's cock. No other way of describing it—stroking in the Thai's channel, still tight, but stretched to accommodate them both, and also stroking along the top of Thane's cock.

Thane hardening up again. Stroking too. Joining in with this horrid ... fantastic double fuck. Groaning and moaning—in three registers, the Thai's voice even higher than Thane's. Writhing and bucking, all three against each other. And the Greek pistoning, with Thane, hard as a rock again, balls aching, stroking too.

Grunting expletives in English, Greek, and Thai, as the three worked as one toward a combined goal—exploding as one. Together. Kisses and exclamations of satisfaction and release all around.

* * * *

Thane woke up with a headache, having no question, by the rocking sensation, that the yacht now was under way. He was spread-eagled on his back on the bed, the sheets rumpled so wildly that he had no trouble remembering what he had done the previous night.

But all of it? Was all of it true, not just partly a wild dream? What the fuck? That would be horrible. He hadn't even thought of doing that before. Surely he hadn't. He'd have to think about that. What if he had been the one in the middle? He shuddered at the thought. But he also felt himself hardening up at the thought. Nope, it was nothing he'd ever do. He wasn't sure he could think straight even now. What the fuck had he been given the previous night? It couldn't have all been liquor. The scotch tasted fine. Of course what did he know about fine scotch?

It was horrid—just the thought of doing that, the double fuck, Thane thought as he increasingly accepted that the double fuck had happened. His hand involuntarily went to his hard cock. In the back of his mind, a radically different thought was tugging at him—it had been totally arousing. He'd gone with it—in a big way. He'd never been so hard. He'd never ejaculated so profusely. It was exhilarating. It was bliss. After they'd finished and the Thai and Greek had drawn away from him, he'd had a feeling of loss. He had wanted to do it again. Then, not now, of course. Not when he was sober.

He would never, ever do it again.

"Good morning, sir."

Thane looked up. The cabin boy, Samit, dressed smartly in black pants and a white shirt, was standing, grinning, in the cabin doorway. He had towels draped over his arm.

A vision of the Thai, his lithe little brown body naked, straddling Thane's pelvis—the Greek grinning over his shoulder—raced through Thane's mind. With every effort he could manage, he slammed the door on that image.

"You will want to shower before breakfast," Samit was saying. "As you shower, I will lay clothes out for you. It's a balmy day on the sea. You have many tennis clothes. I will lay a set of those out for you."

Thane lifted his head and peered at the Thai cabin boy standing in the cabin doorway. To do so, he had to look down the full length of his naked body. For some reason looking at Samit was making his dick twitch. It already was hard.

Oh, yeah, He'd fucked the little guy last night all right. And Samit had been really, really good. But it just wasn't him. Thane groaned. The Greek appeared in the doorway behind Samit.

The image that had been in his brain knocked on the closed door again.

Thane's impression of the Greek, Cosmos Eracules, who had identified himself as a Greek shipping fleet entrepreneur when he had put his arm around Thane at the baccarat table to console him and to offer his help and then followed him into the casino bar, with his bodyguards several steps behind him, had changed from that night. Hooded eyes that were almost Oriental but that bored right into a man. A squat, graying, middle-age bulkiness that was as much packed with muscle as fat, and a hairiness that was more hinted at then observed at the Venetian Macau Casino on the peninsula's Cotai Strip, but that had been fully revealed to Thane the previous night.

A sense of power and privilege and command.

"Thank you, Samit," the Greek said from behind the Thai. "Mr. Carlin will be showering and taking his breakfast later. He has his passage to start working off now—using his passage." Thane heard the dry, deep laugh that he'd heard several times cutting through the fog of the previous night.

"Yes, Mr. Eracules," Samit said, lowering his eyes, a half smile on his face and backing into the passageway as Eracules pushed past him, already untying his velour robe and opening it to reveal his squat, hairy body in full, thick erection. The Thai clicked the door shut behind him.

Thane had no more time than to contemplate just how hairy the man was, and how thick and up-curved his erection was, and how big and low-hanging his ball sac was before, robe flopping open, the Greek was at the foot of the bed, grabbing Thane's ankles and pulling Thane to the foot of the bed, splitting and raising Thane's legs, thrusting inside him, and pounding, pounding, pounding, while Thane arched his back and writhed under the onslaught.

"Oh, shit. Oh fuck YES!"

* * * *

Thane had been served his breakfast in his room and given time to contemplate what was happening here. He had been active with men, both fucking them and being fucked by them. He certainly hadn't doubled before, though. And he hadn't done anything much that approached that kinkiness.

Still he had come onto the yacht eyes wide open. The Greek had made him acknowledge that his ass was the Greek's for anything he wanted to do between Macau and Bangkok. Eracules said that the rough fuck before breakfast was to make a statement of what Thane had agreed to and to voice pleasure that Thane had so willingly given in to it.

"You have known many men, yes?"

"Not that many."

"But when you have needed to use your body, you have done so—and taken pleasure rather than resentment out of it, yes?"

"I guess that's true. All I really want to do is play competitive tennis. But until you make it into the top one-fifty at least, you have to do what you have to do to continue to be able to make the second week."

"And you make it into the second week often, with this tennis of yours?"

"Not often. Not yet. Actually, not at all yet. But I'm getting close."

"You know that you are very good with the sex, don't you? A beautiful body. A very nice cock. You could do far more than just make it into the second week giving pleasure to men. You realize this, don't you?"

Thane didn't respond.

"Well, it's something to think about," the Greek said, as he slapped Thane on the rump and stood up from the bed. "And if you are interested, I can help you. You can do much better for yourself in a partnership arrangement." Having said that, Eracules turned and left Thane alone in the cabin to shower and dress.

Thane didn't want to give what the Greek had said much thought. He knew he was sexy, yes, but that would pass. So would tennis-playing years on the pro circuit. But tennis was his passion. He had needed the transportation—badly. At twenty, he was at a place in his tennis career that he needed either to start going up the ranks in tournaments or go into the family business. And the trash disposal business, no matter that his father was known as the trash king of San Diego, just didn't match Thane's view of his future.

As far as tournaments, though, he was still in the minor ATP leagues, barely winning enough to keep him going. He'd gotten to the third round in the Tokyo tournament, which had been enough to get him invited to the PTT Thailand Open in Bangkok in late September—and had come with enough prize money to fly him there, although he'd have to live on a string during the tournament if he spent the money on air fare. The Bangkok tournament had a prize purse that wasn't astronomical, but just by showing up, he could pick up enough to get him to his pro job at the San Diego tennis club he worked at while living with his parents and waiting for the season to start up again. But he'd been greedy. He wanted to live well the week or two he'd be in Bangkok.

A Japanese businessman who had attended the Tokyo tournament and who had sniffed around Thane there and had exchanged a good restaurant dinner for a fumbled fuck and comfortable night in a snazzy apartment, had offered to take him to Bangkok by way of the gambling tables in Macau for free—well, for occupying the businessman's bed. And the thought of the air money Thane would save muddled his mind. Taking the Japanese guy was no sweat either. He was all foreplay that required little from Thane other than to open his legs to receive a weak, fast-shot fuck from a tiny cock after the man had sucked Thane off.

The Japanese businessman was fickle and had a roving eye. He picked up a swishy young blond who was cruising the tables at the Venetian Macau, the world's largest casino—an upscale of the Venetian in Las Vegas—and had left Thane high and dry at the Chemin de Fer baccarat table in the Red Dragon area of the casino. Thane fed his anger at being abandoned less than half way to Bangkok with unwise decisions at the baccarat table.

The Greek had been at the table, a hulking bodyguard standing behind him. He had followed Thane from the bar where he had propositioned him and then Thane had left, without answering him, back to tables. Thane had looked around to see if the Japanese businessman had returned before settling back into a baccarat table.

"Your friend seems to have deserted you—along with your luck, young man," the Greek said after the play had gone on for a short while. He folded his hands in front of him, leaned over the baccarat table, and peered at Thane with those piercing, all-knowing eyes of his that Thane had already seen trained on him while the Japanese businessman was still present and bankrolling Thane's play. Thane had the sensation of being undressed. And he knew that look, although most didn't exude the power and command that the Greek did when they cast their eyes on him.

Thane's attention was on the man's folded hands. The hands were massive, the fingers thick. The backs of the hands were hairy, curly jet-black hair sprinkled with gray, and Thane felt the fuzz on his own back chafe on the starched white shirt of his tux as he looked at them. He melted to hairy men—and the size of the hands and fingers had a promise in them. The man had a massive signet ring on the middle finger of his right hand. Thane's imagination was running wild at what the man might be capable of doing with that ring. It may have made a difference that the Japanese businessman had been so small, so lackluster and prissy in his lovemaking. Thane was in the mood for rough sex from a manhandler.

"No problem," Thane had answered. "I don't need him anyway."

"His dick too small for you? He isn't enough man for you?"

Thane's head snapped up. "You are very direct. When you were this direct in the bar, I excused myself."

"I am good at assessing people, and bad about engaging in meaningless chit-chat. Was the Jap's dick too small for you?"

"Yes, if you must know."

"Was the Chinese general's better?"

"Not much."

"Mine isn't. What was the Jap going to do for you? He looks too old and frail for you to be with him by preference. You are a professional male prostitute, are you not?"

"No, I am not." Thane bristled at the assertion, his flash of defensiveness occasioned by how many times in the past week he'd asked himself the same question—was he just a male prostitute? "I'm a professional tennis player. There's a tournament I'm signed up for in Bangkok next week. He was going to pay for my flight there."

"Ah. It so happens that I leave for Bangkok tonight myself. And I have a yacht in the harbor here. I might be willing to give you a lift."

"Might?" Thane asked after a brief pause.

"Yes, might. I feel the need to go to the men's room. You do too, I think."




The Greek Pimp Ch. 04



Last thing. And always the chore Tyler hated the worst - getting his tux tie worked right. It wasn't helping that he was crouched over the galley counter in the Lucky Card's cramped main cabin or that his hands were trembling from the risk he was taking. He had to get himself into this monkey suit quietly because he didn't want to wake Axel, in the other cabin.

They had had quite a row over what Tyler was about to do - risk the twenty-five-year-old Southern Cross 39 sailboat that was both his pride and joy and his home. He and Axel had fought over Tyler using the Lucky Card as a stake at the grand Monte Carlo Casino to raise the money he needed to sail back to Fort Lauderdale. He supposed he could always break back into racing cars when - and if - he could get back to the States. He had done well in that, mostly because of the risks he was willing to take. Then, in the heat of the argument, Axel had come down on Tyler on the berth, encased him in his arms, and fucked him as Tyler wrapped his arms around his Austrian lover. After they'd tired each other out, Axel had told Tyler he'd give him the money he needed, that he could afford it.

But as a matter of pride - and because flying by the seat of his pants like this was how Tyler floated through life - Tyler refused. Then they'd fought again. And fucked again to make up.

Tyler had agreed to think about it. And he had thought about it until Axel went to sleep. Now he was working on getting his tie properly fixed so that he'd look like "somebody" when he entered the casino and put the Lucky Card at risk.

He paused on the dock after stepping off the Lucky Card, looked out beyond the marina at the magnificent set of buildings that housed Monte Carlo's casino and the principality's cultural icons, the Grand Théâtre de Monte Carlo and Les Ballets de Monte Carlo, and fought the intimidation of such an imposing setting. He turned and took what he hoped wasn't his last look at the Lucky Card as its owner, squared his shoulders, and strolled more nonchalantly than he felt along the dock, practicing the posture that he knew would give him entry to the posh casino. He looked good - very good - and confident and wealthy, and he knew he did.

* * * *

The evening wasn't going well for Tyler. He had won some and lost some during the early part of the evening, winning enough to entice the overconfident gambler he was to remain and losing enough to discourage him from cutting his loses. At this point he would have enough for a few more days on the continent, an airplane ticket home, and enough to carry him for a couple of months while he looked for a dream-ending job in the States - but without the Lucky Card.

He gravitated toward a European roulette table more, he probably didn't realize, because of the croupier at the table he eventually landed at. The young man, perhaps not much older than Tyler's own twenty-five, spoke French but had the dusky skin of a North African. Tyler thought that he perhaps was from Morocco or Algeria. Wherever he was from, he was naturally sexy and sultry. Deep bronze skin, black curly hair, and fluttery eyelashes. His big brown eyes had a well-practiced aspect of knowing he had strong powers of seduction - and that he turned his attention to men. Indeed, it was apparent to Tyler that the croupier, who was identified on his name badge as Harun, had caught - and held - Tyler's attention from across the gaming floor and that the young man's mystery and charisma had been enough to pull Tyler to his table.

Harun was controlling the wheel. Another croupier was operating the paddle that either pulled the losing chips off the felt-top table into the house pot or delivered the winnings. A chef de partie - game supervisor - hovered over the table, making sure all was in order. The latter was dressed in a tuxedo but there was little camouflaging that he was a glorified bouncer, here to keep the players under control.

Tyler sat next to an elderly matron dripping in diamonds and wearing a lavender silk evening dress with a plunging neckline that should have been a turtle neck at her age and in her emaciated condition. He recognized his mistake almost immediately, as she turned her face to him and gave him a sly look with a wink. One claw-like hand went immediately to his thigh and the other one raised above her shoulder and she snapped her fingers.

"A drink of the young man's choosing," she cackled to a waiter who had instantly appeared. "And another martini for me." She made sure that he saw her adding a few of her high-end chips to his pile and give him another wink.

Tyler said nothing, but neither did he push the chips back. If she thought this had bought him, she was very much mistaken, but he welcomed the free drink and he saw her for what she was - an addicted gambler. Her brief misunderstanding that he sat next to her as some sort of gigolo she was acquiring arrested her attention only momentarily. Her attention went immediately back to the table when the croupier named Harun called out, "Faites vos jeux" - place your bets - and tossed the bead into the spinning wheel.

Tyler had sat too late to enter the game yet, which gave him time to look around the table. He had drifted here completely absorbed in Harun, the croupier. Now he saw that the old crone had every reason to believe he was coming on to her. The table had eight seats, four to a side, and only the old woman was on the side where he sat. He easily could have sat down leaving a chair between them.

Three of the chairs across the table from him were occupied, or more accurately, two and a half of them were. A young punk-looking man, probably a rock star and nearly recognizable to Tyler, was in one chair, and a gorgeous, but model-thin and vapid-looking blonde, half on his chair and half on the one next to him, her arms draped around him and her face nuzzled into the hollow of his neck, occupied the one-and-a-half chairs. One chair away from them sat a hulking Greek. He looked every inch the shipping magnate who had acquired his empire by hard work from the deck of his first ship and who now covered what was still a rough, no-nonsense, peasant in the trappings of great wealth.

Although the rock star was as engrossed in the game as the old biddy was, and the blonde was totally focused on the rock star, the Greek seemed to be almost off-hand in his placing of his bets. His eyes, hooded and knowing - almost undressing Tyler where he sat and speculating and assessing what the young man was doing there and what his desires and vulnerabilities were - kept moving from his chip pile to the betting numbers on the felt table top and then to Tyler.

The man was what one politely would say was mature - probably in his mid-fifties - and ugly when each aspect of him was considered separately. He also was hairy, although this didn't tot up against him in Tyler's mind. But the package was commanding, mysterious, and intriguing in its own way, and the man exuded power and domination. Tyler felt like the man's eyes were stripping him in every way. But that was precisely the sort of man who aroused Tyler. If he commanded Tyler to strip and took him right here on the top of the roulette table, no one in the casino would intervene, and Tyler knew he would let him do it. The looks the old Greek gave him told Tyler that the man wanted to fuck him.

And this was even without the presence of the swarthy, big-bodied bodyguard standing behind and to the right of the Greek's chair, with his glowering eyes scanning back and forth across the casino floor.

"Rien ne vos pois" - no more bets - rang out in Harun's deep baritone, and even the Greek looked away to see where the bead landed in the wheel. The Greek moved his arm off the surface of the table as the second croupier paddled the chips over into the pile in front of him, showing no reaction at the small fortune that had been added to his larger one, evidently taking victory as his due.

Tyler started off cavalierly, betting plein, his bet going on a single one of the thirty-six numbers, which would afford him the biggest pot win but at thirty-five-to-one odds. He had no luck at these odds and hedged his bets with a "square," a carre, in which he placed the bidding chits at the adjoining corner of four numbers and thus bettered his odds fourfold of winning something. He did better at this, but after not much more than an hour, he was reduced to going with a colonne - a full column bet. Dwindling success at this about wiped him out.

The rising of the elderly woman from the table, and her murmur to save her seat while she was visiting the ladies room, served to snap Tyler into the realization that in one more spin of the roulette table, the odds were that he would be totally wiped out. No more time in hotels or restaurants and no plane ticket back to Florida.

He stood up from the table. The chips he had now were barely enough to cover getting back to the States. The Lucky Card was gone. He smiled bitterly with the thought that, in recognition of the boat's name, he should have tried his luck with cards rather than the wheel.

The Greek spoke for the first time. "Surely you're not leaving, young man. The evening has barely begun."

"You have all my chips," Tyler answered bleakly, trying to maintain a tone that salvaged his dignity.

"Not all. And I have enjoyed your company. I have enjoyed looking at you and dreaming of what might be."

So, he was right, Tyler thought. The man wanted to fuck him. He just looked down at the pile of chips mounded up in front of the Greek. The Greek was fondling them, running them through his hands, making love to them with his beefy fingers.

The game had gone on around them. The old lady was momentarily gone and Tyler and the Greek weren't placing bets but rather were staring at each other across the table and speaking in low tones that no one seemed to hear. If the croupiers and chef de partie were listening, they made no sign of it, in keeping with their professional training. The rock star only had eyes for the numbered squares on the table top and the spinning of the wheel and ears for the sound of the bead bouncing around in the wheel. The blonde, more than half drunk, and virtually draped on the tattooed arm of the rock star, only had eyes and ears for him.

"I could return the stake you came in with," the Greek said in a low voice, his eyes looking intensively into Tyler's face. "What did these funds represent?"

"My sailboat. I sailed it from the States three months ago."

"Is it a beautiful sailboat?"

"Yes," Tyler answered. "It's a thirty-nine-foot Southern Cross, built in 1986. It carried me across the Atlantic without a groan." The Greek's question brought tears to his eyes. He should have listened to Axel. He didn't fully understand what the Lucky Card meant to him until he had foolishly lost her.

"I have no use for a sailboat, beautiful or otherwise. I have a beautiful yacht of my own. But there may be something else you have, something equally beautiful, that I might have use for. I could give you your sailboat back - if you promised not to gamble it away again - in exchange for something I wanted."

"And what would that be?"

"I think you know. I would like the use of your body for, say, a week."

"The use of my body." Tyler looked around the table again. The croupiers and chef de partie were supposedly intent on their jobs - keeping the roulette table in action. And the rock star, whose attention also was absorbed in the game play, himself was betting enough to justify keeping this table open. The old crone was on the other side of the casino floor, liberating a martini from a tray and making small talk with a young, quite presentable waiter.

"You mean sex." He said in a resigned voice.

Picking up on the resignation, the Greek smiled and said, "Yes. Just the use of your body; you would not be damaged permanently. And you would not lose your sailboat. I believe, in watching you - especially how you have been watching the croupier here - that you even would enjoy the week."

"Starting when? Tomorrow?"

"Starting now."

"I would need to go back to the boat to pick up some things."

"Omar will accompany you," the Greek said, gesturing to the silent, heretofore unseeing bodyguard hovering behind his chair.

When they reached the gates where the dock of the marina split out into the walkways to the boat slips, Tyler told the bodyguard to wait at the gate and he would return in a few moments.

In the time it had taken him to walk from the casino to the marina Tyler had decided not to go through with it. The Greek was intriguing, but there was something about him . . . something that made Tyler feel he was dangerous and more of a risk than even Tyler wanted to take. He decided that, if he could, he would push the Lucky Card away from the pier when he got there and try to get it out into the harbor before the bodyguard could react. It was a cowardly act and something bred completely by panic. Tyler didn't consider himself a thief. And he didn't have the deed back to the sailboat. The Greek had said he would redeem that at the casino's cashier's office and have it for Tyler when he and the goon returned.

When Tyler got to the slip where he'd left the Lucky Card, though, the sailboat wasn't there. Stricken and confused, he looked wildly about him. Perhaps in his nervousness with the whole deal, he'd misjudged where Lucky Card's slip was. But, no he hadn't. It should have been right here. And there was something here. Two duffle bags, sitting on the pier. His duffle bags. Filled with his clothes.

The things he told the Greek he was coming back to fetch, not intending to fetch them at all.

The sailboat - and Axel - were both gone.

The goon had followed him out onto the walkway to the slip. Tyler turned toward the land. The man was so big he took up the full width of the pier. There wasn't much of a question that Tyler was going to pick up his duffle bags and follow the man back to wherever the Greek wanted him.

Even though he had been about to cheat the Greek and give him the slip, Tyler still felt stinging anger and frustration that Axel had done the very same thing to him. He'd taken Tyler's Lucky Card and deserted him. Tyler was in no mood to consider that, at least until he gave the Greek what the Greek wanted, the Lucky Card wasn't Tyler's - it belonged to the Greek. After he had redeemed the papers on the boat, then Tyler could start to track down Axel and what then really would be his property again.

* * * *

Deflated and abject, Tyler stood, naked, in the main bedroom cabin of Cosmo Eracules' sleek yacht moored off of, but in sight of, Monte Carlo.

"Turn, please, and bend over and spread your cheeks for me, please." Fully clothed in his tuxedo, now smoking a cigar and hefting a snifter full of brandy, the Greek inspected Tyler from across the room. "Very nice. Better than I expected. The deal was for whatever I wanted, for a week starting tonight. You do accept that, right?"

"Right," Tyler said, not really caring at the moment. His world had crumbled anyway. Axel had become his rod, the steadying influence in his life. And now both he and the Lucky Card were gone. It didn't matter much if Tyler got the deed back to the Lucky Card. It wasn't here and he had no means of tracking it - and Axel - down. At least that's how he felt at the present, darkest moment.

Tyler had met Axel Schmidt - or that was the name Axel had given him - in Portugal two weeks earlier. Some mail Tyler had seen while they were together had suggested that Axel really was a Hapsburg. They had both been staying at a B&B, Romantik Villa, on the Portugal coast in the village of Algarve. Tyler was in Algarve for thrills. He was forever taking risks, pushing himself to the limit. Crossing the Atlantic by himself in the Lucky Card had been one of these risks. Now it was cliff diving, also called tombstoning, off the Algarve cliffs, one of the most popular - and dangerous - locations for this activity.

They had met in the courtyard of the gay-friendly Romantik Villa, overlooking the ocean, over breakfast, the villa owners being both discreet and adept at matching their guests who had not come otherwise attached. Tyler usually lived on his boat, which was slipped down in the Algarve marina, but he occasionally took hotel rooms on land while he did a thorough cleaning of the boat - and of his clothes and himself - before moving on to the next promise of a thrill. He also occasionally sold his sexual favors to add to his income while he stayed in these hotels. He had picked the Romantik Villa specifically for this possibility.

He'd already jumped off the cliffs into the ocean twice the previous day. It satisfied him and he planned to do it twice more this morning from a higher cliff into a smaller patch of water before sailing down to Gibraltar and then into the Mediterranean. He had spent the previous afternoon and evening cleaning the sailboat and at a Laundromat, spending two nights in the Romantik Villa's smallest room.

Axel was in the master suite. He dressed for comfort - which today was only in a T-shirt and shorts, with sandals, no socks. Tyler wouldn't have said he was handsome - a protruding jaw precluded that - but he was tall and lean, while still being well-muscled, and was maybe five years older than Tyler's twenty-five. A German or an Austrian. Tyler didn't know which, so he settled on German - but he later found Axel was Austrian when he bridled at being called a German. He was big boned, with big hands and feet and a bit stooped and walked with a bit of awkwardness. Tyler wouldn't - and never did completely - associate Axel with wealth. He moved with a diffidence and shyness that tagged him as hands-on working class.

Tyler, who was model-handsome, and giving off the false air of wealth and of supreme confidence, had, at first, bristled a bit when the villa's owner asked him if Axel could be seated with him, but he slowly warmed to the conversation of the Austrian, which was straightforward and knowledgeable on any topic that came up.

And he was to find that a protruding jaw didn't show in the dark and actually had some advantages when giving head.

"I do it, I guess, because I enjoy the risk," Tyler had said to Axel's question about why he dived off the Algarve cliffs and planned to do it again from a greater height.

"But it seems so dangerous, and you aren't really trained for it, are you? I hope it's not a self-destructive impulse, because you are much too beautiful a young man to be risking yourself like that."

"I suppose that there is some obsession with danger involved," Tyler answered. "I was a racecar driver before deciding to buy a sailboat and cross the Atlantic - which was one of the greatest challenges I've experienced. And as soon as I mastered racing cars, I guess I lost interest in that. But what brings you to Portugal, Axel?"

"I'm traveling across Europe, fucking young men, looking for one to take home to the family castle, I guess."

Tyler laughed at that, taking it for a joke - not only the image of this gangling, shy man cavalierly fucking other men but also the mention of a family castle. But when he looked up, Axel was giving him a level, calm stare.

"You said you couldn't leave Algarve until you found a replacement monitor for your sonar," Axel said. "I know where you can get one, and I'll go buy it for you if you'll come up to my room after breakfast and let me fuck you."

Tyler was speechless. The man was talking about wanting to fuck him so openly and in such a straightforward manner.

"You do let men fuck you, don't you? This is a gay hotel, and there are only three options on that: bottom, top, and both ways. You are much too young and beautiful just to want to be near the players. Henri said he was sure you would be a bottom when he suggested we breakfast together - and that you'd be submissive in sex. He also said that you probably hadn't been fucked in a while and needed it. I have found that Henri was quite observant in these matters. He's been right in every other young man he's selected for me to fuck. I assure you that I'm very, very good. If you want a second opinion, feel free to ask Henri. If you don't like the first fucking, we needn't do it again, of course. That said, I usually make a man come more than once in a session. I have a very big cock."




The Greek Pimp Ch. 05



The platinum blond was groaning and making whimpering noises. Cosmo was fucking him slowly, treating him like he was precious crystal, and marveling at the unknown why that the young man was bringing out his sensitivities in this way. The Greek pimp had been so anxious to get inside the young man, Devin, a singer in the Abias Club of the Mazagan Casino, in El-Jadida, near Casablanca, Morocco, that, as soon as he'd gotten him on board, he'd just bent the small man over the foot of the bed in the main cabin of the yacht. 

The platinum blond had one small foot on the carpet. He was suspended over the bed with his other leg bent on the bed. Cosmo had one hand cupping the young man's breast and the other pulling back Devin's arm so that he was held steady and completely at Cosmo's mercy.

When recruiting a male prostitute and trying out the goods, Cosmo Eracules usually fucked them mercilessly—and then had his bodyguards fuck them as well, often in tandem—to ensure they could take it. He wasn't doing that with Devin, though, and didn't completely understand why. The beautiful young man with the platinum-colored hair cascading down to his shoulders, the milky blue eyes, the small, but perfectly formed slim body, and the alabaster-white skin had somehow spun a spell over him.

Cosmo had once been beautiful as well and had spun similar spells over men. But now, in his late fifties, he had gone the way that many Greek men did—from Apollo to a grizzled Zeus. Nearly hairless of body as a young man, Cosmo was now matted on the chest, forearms and calves with curly salt-and-pepper. His once arresting-featured face, the imperfections of which all balanced out to a distinctive visage of beauty, had now had the features coarsen to an ugliness that still, nonetheless, was arresting and commanding. The body had thickened, but he was still a heavily muscled, powerfully built man.

What hadn't changed was that he still had a thicker and longer cock than most men, he had the stamina of a thirty-year-old, if no longer a twenty-year-old, and he knew how to use his cock to subdue and dominate a man.

He turned his leg so that he could look down to where the cock was buried between two milk-white orbs. He simply couldn't believe that something that thick was inside such a diminutive rosebud of a hole. But it was. He was only in four inches, less than half his length, and was moving the cock slowly in and out. The cock was pulsating and the muscles of the channel walls receiving it were undulating on the cock, making love to it. This had rarely happened to Cosmo before. He could do it in his youth himself. Now he was feeling what his lovers then felt and knew one of the secrets of keeping a man enthralled.

He was torn. He wanted to let loose and fuck the hole hard and deeper, but something inside him was holding him back, telling him to treat this small beauty like spun glass. His needs were getting the best of him, though. Four progressively deeper slides buried him seven inches inside.

Devin was panting hard and moaning deeply.

"Am I hurting you?" Cosmo asked. Why had he asked this? He was a pimp, assessing a prostitute for onward sale. When had he ever asked one before whether he was in pain? If they couldn't take pain like this, he threw them back. His clients paid for only the best. Of course, as virginal as this young man seemed, there was a market for that too. It wasn't a market that Cosmo served, however.

Devin murmured something between pants, and Cosmo crouched over the young man's back and leaned his ear toward Devin's moving lips.

"Fuck me good, Daddy." Devin turned his head and took Cosmo's mouth with his. His free hand went underneath his flat belly and found a small, but fully erect cock, and he began to stroke it. The undulation of his channel muscles seemingly was intent on pulling Cosmos deeper inside him.

With a groan, Cosmos sank his cock in another inch and began to stroke more rapidly.

Devin cried out, "Shit, yes!"

What sort of young demon was this, Cosmo asked himself. He was so shy and blushing in the club where Cosmo had assumed he was virginal and untouchable until a barman leaned over Cosmo's shoulder, asked him if he wanted to fuck the young singer he was mooning over, and named a price.

The Greek pimp was about to let out the stops and test the young man's metal just as he did any prostitute prospect, when Devin's channel squeezed his cock and he ejaculated—almost simultaneously with Devin, who had been stroking his own cock.

Cosmo stood, pulled off the spent condom and tossed it into a nearby wastebasket.

"You are so hairy—and so powerful," Devin whispered as he turned onto his back and looked at Cosmo's beefy body towering over him. "And, god, that cock. Let me suck you." The voice was one of a child, a high-pitched tenor, and almost to the point of baby talk. Such a contrast, Cosmo thought, already feeling his juices begin to flow again. What was this magic the young man was spinning? He moved in between Devin's thighs and Devin cupped his heavy balls. He moved his tongue to the balls, and Cosmo shuddered and moaned.

This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. He was the master, not the other way around. The Greek pimp, roaming the world, picking up handsome young studs, and selling their services to rich high rollers. He had a commission to provide young men to an Arab prince here in Morocco. He'd been closing the deal on another young man, a German, when he'd heard Devin singing in the beach resort's Abias Club and was smitten.

"You are hardening again—so soon," Devin murmured after tonguing up one side of Cosmo's cock and down the other. "And so big. So very big."

"Have you had many men before? I didn't think—"

"Not many. None before going to work in the club. And none as big as you are."

All questioning ceased then, as Devin's lips opened over the bulb of Cosmo's cock, and the older man wasn't able to manage much more than a succession of moans.

"Wait," Cosmo murmured a bit later as he stood closer in between Devin's legs and the young platinum blond, having pushed a pillow under the small of his back, was tugging at Cosmo's rehardened cock, pulling it to his hole. "I have to get another rubber." 

"I can't wait. And I want to feel you fully inside me," Devin cried out. The childlike high tenor voice made Cosmo shudder, and he grabbed Devin's waist in both hands and, this time, thrust deep inside him, giving no quarter, giving him the entire length. 

Devin jerked and groaned. "Yes, all of you. Fuck me hard!"

Cosmo crouched at the end of the bed, pulled Devin's pelvis up to his, and began to stroke hard and deep. Devin's boyish torso arched back toward the surface of the bed, with only his shoulder blades and cheeks touching the surface. He was whimpering but he also was murmuring a litany of "yes, yes, yes, like that, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me." He grabbed Cosmo's beefy thigh with one hand and his own cock with the other, as Cosmo blotted out all thought of working with spun glass and stroked, stroked, stroked, deep, hard, fast. And fired off again and again and again, with the small beauty under him crying out "Yes, give it to me. Give me your cum!"

No one for years and years had pulled so much cum out of him—and given him so much pleasure. Pulling his cock out of the hole and watching the rosebud close right up again, with cum dribbling out and down the young man's inner thighs, Cosmo again was amazed at the treasure he'd found—and, possibly, ruined by losing his control.

But Devin already was reaching out for him and murmuring, "Do me again, Daddy. Fuck me again. You're so big. Nobody fucks me as big and deep as you."

Intellectually, Cosmo wasn't fooled. He'd told this before to men he wanted to impress as well. But emotionally, Cosmo was stricken. All of his experience and training as a prostitute himself and a pimp were tossed to the winds. He was lost to this luscious young piece. He was already having second thoughts about passing him on. Almost. Maybe as he felt old age coming upon him and his sexual prowess weakening, he just wanted to believe.

Later, after Devin had agreed to the astronomical sum Cosmo cited for Devin to sleep with a couple of rich men at the casino, Cosmo showed Devin to a smaller cabin on his yacht, The Apyko, where Devin would be staying as long as he was with Cosmo.

"I can't stay in your bed?"

"Occasionally, yes," Cosmo answered. "But I think you'd kill me with your sexiness if you were there every night."

They passed a room where the young German, who Cosmo had found losing at the punto banco table in the casino and had propositioned in the Abias Club bar as he watched Devin sing—progressively more interested in the platinum blond than the sultry, athletic Kurt—had been stashed.

He was on the berth saddled on top of one of Cosmo's bodyguards, a big, black Nigerian, and was riding the cock for all he was worth. The German had not hesitated at Cosmo's proposal to pull him out of debt. He had a great body and a hard, thuggish, but alluring, in its own way, face. Cosmo, who had tried him in a stall in the men's room at the club; backed against the back wall; legs spread over the toilet seat; and the German plastered on his pelvis, arms around his neck, feet leveraging off the wall, and channel bouncing up and down on his cock, figured he'd fuck anything for money.

The bodyguard didn't have that much money. So, Cosmo reassessed that the German would fuck anyone just for the hell of it. But he had a great body. He was highly salable. He was so wild he was time dated, though. Cosmo knew he'd flame for just a short time. The trick was to grab him and sell him at his brightest light.

* * * *

It took some time of unease for Cosmo Eracules to realize what was making him very uncomfortable with this scenario. When it hit him he began to sweat and to get lightheaded. His heart beat faster in his chest, and he felt a pain under his sternum. This had happened to him occasionally of late, and he had done what he could to push it into the background. He'd been blessed with good health all his life. He hadn't seen a doctor since he was a teenager in Famagusta, Cyprus. It wasn't convenient for him to get into that sort of maze now.

He was sitting in a club chair in a fourth-floor suite of the Mazagan Beach Resort on the Mediterranean coast just outside Casablanca, Morocco. Beside him, in another chair, sat Devin. Behind them stood a Nigerian and an Arab, Cosmo's current bodyguards and general "muscle." The Arab he'd come to sell the German and Devin to was in the other room, the suite's bedroom. His own two bodyguards, both Arabs, were in there as well. Cosmo was seated so that he had a clear view of the king-sized bed in the other room.

Kurt, the German, was on his back, naked, on the bed. He was bound. His arms were stretched over his head and tied together at the wrists. His legs were spread and bent, feet flat on the surface of the bed, held in place by restraints at the ankle that tied off around the bottom legs of the bed on either side. He had a ball gag in his mouth and pillows under his buttocks, holding his pelvis elevated at the edge of the foot of the bed. The Arab was standing between his legs, pulling his robe—called a dishdasha—over his head. His naked body was lean, but well-muscled. His cock was long, but not thick. He was in full erection.

The Arab thrust his cock into the German's hole strongly, grabbed him by the waist, and started to pump hard and deep. Kurt was going with the fuck, elevating his pelvis more by pushing off with his feet and matching the rhythm of the Arab's fuck with the swinging of his hips. Cosmo nearly rose from his chair in frightful recognition of what this reminded him of. But he thought better of it and sank back down. It couldn't be the same, he thought. And the Arab sampling the goods was part of the very lucrative deal.

The Arab leaned over and put his mouth on one of Kurt's nipples. From the jerking Kurt was doing and the offbeat change in the move of his hips, it was evident that the Arab was chewing on the nipple. When he moved to the other one, Cosmo could see the smear of blood on the first one. The Arab's hands were going to Kurt's throat, and he was rhythmically choking and releasing. Kurt was gasping for air, which wasn't easy with the ball gag in his mouth. He had completely lost the rhythm of the fuck and collapsed on the bed, his head turned toward the bedroom door, and a panicked look in his eyes.

Cosmo was shuddering, something he'd only once done before when he was in this position, and Devin placed a calming hand on his forearm. Cosmo turned to look at Devin and was slightly dismayed to see that the young platinum blond's eyes were wide and he was licking his lips. He was enjoying the spectacle in the other room. Cosmo wondered if the young man understood that he was being sold to this Arab as well, that it soon very well would be his limits being tested on that bed.

The Arab produced a short, multithonged hand whip and flicked it over Kurt's chest and thighs enough while he was stroking with his cock to raise welts. This must have been particularly enjoyable to the Arab as, with a jerk, and a long, hissing sigh, he came. He withdrew from Kurt's ass, pulled the condom off, turned, and walked into the living room of the suite. One of the bodyguards in the bedroom took up the position between Kurt's thighs that the Arab had vacated, entered Kurt's ass with a thick cock, and began to slowly pump.

"He will do nicely, sir," the Arab said as he walked into the room, his cock swinging low but still half hard. "Is this the other one? He looks luscious, but I wonder how long he will last. He looks much too delicate."

"I didn't catch your name," Cosmo said. "Or where you're from."

"I'm from Kuwait. My name is Amir. Amir al-Shabat."

Cosmo almost cried out in dismay. Al-Shabat. A relative of Jamir al-Shabat—the man who had used Andreas this same way years and years ago and had forcibly bought him—and who had wanted the young Cosmo too, and would have had him if Cosmo hadn't escaped. He'd never heard from Andreas again. Selling a man to a man such as this—

"And is this sweet young man the other one you've brought to sell me?" Al-Shabat repeated. "You guarantee he is of age? Although perhaps I'll pay you even more if he isn't—and if you can attest that he's still a virgin."

"No, no. This is my young protégé," Cosmo quickly said, standing, and pulling a confused-looking Devin up from his chair. "I only brought the one today. If you are pleased with the German, I'll bring you another like him."

Another like him, Cosmo thought, one who is hardened to it all; one who has half a chance to survive it.

In the other room, the bodyguard was being replaced between Kurt's thighs by the other one. Kurt once more was alert, with his pelvis raised. As the second bodyguard entered his channel, he began moving his hips, going with the fuck. He had recovered and was going with the fuck—at least for now.

But could Devin take this? He showed surprising resilience, but Cosmo couldn't imagine that his slight body could take what Kurt's was getting. And besides, Cosmo was realizing more now that before how much he wanted Devin for himself.

Unsuspecting and very pleased with Kurt, the Arab confirmed that he would be interested in having two or three more young men like Cosmo, and Cosmo, Devin, and the two bodyguards backed out of the suite.

* * * *

Devin clung to Cosmo's chest, lying on top of the Greek on the bed, his pelvis in motion on Cosmo's cock, draining him yet again. Cosmo's balls ached from the number of times the young man had drained him this evening—when Cosmo was supposed to be out at the casino, filling the Arab's order.

There was such a thing as too much of a good thing.

The next day, they were driving into Casablanca in a hired limousine, which came to a stop at a nondescript wooden door in a compound wall. The door was opened to them by a young Arab, with sultry looks and downcast eyes with fluttering eyelashes, who looked not much older than Devin.

Once inside the courtyard to the palace, the fabulous wealth of the owner was evident. Devin was smitten with the lavishness of everything he saw. He was equally in awe of the distinguished-looking gentlemen, much of the same age as Cosmo, who met them at the top of one of the wooden stairways rising to balconies at various locations in the stone-paved courtyard with a massive iron fountain in the middle of it.

The room that the filthy-rich, titled, and reclusive Baron Henri Bourbon, wearing a burgundy-colored silk robe, ushered them into was a combination lounge and bedroom. The walls and bed curtains were covered in silk, the floor with Oriental carpets. Everything spoke of old money—and lots of it.

Devin was duly impressed with the opulence of the room—and with the length of the baron's cock, which rivaled that of Cosmo, when the man opened his robe. The young platinum blond raised no objection when, with Cosmo sitting and watching from a wing-back chair, the baron asked to see Devin naked. Nor did Devin object when the baron pressed him down on the bed at its foot on his side, pulled one of Devin's legs up along his torso, with Devin's ankle at the baron's shoulder, held Devin's side down with the other hand, and slowly, at great length, fed his cock into Devin's ass.

As the baron stroked inside Devin, Cosmo was a bit put off that Devin was making the same noises of wanting the fuck from the man's long cock that he had made with Cosmo. But by now Cosmo had figured out that the young man was just playing the hand he held in the game of survival, just as Cosmo had done all his life. The catch was that Cosmo cared for this young man—more than he had for anyone before. It was perplexing and scary for him. He had made it through life being as hard as nails. He couldn't give in to his desires at this point.

Cosmo stayed in the room through the second fucking. Devin was on his belly at the bottom edge of the bed, with the baron standing between his thighs. Devin's arms were pulled back and his chest arched up by the baron's grip on his wrists. The young man was begging for an ever-deeper fuck as the baron's cock slid far up inside him, withdrew nearly the whole way, and then the long slide again. Cosmo noted that the baron seemed to like to hold Devin in bound positions, but he made little of that other than the quirk of it.

"I believe I would like one more sample before I decide," the baron said when he was finished. "Perhaps Mustapha can show you into another room and be of service to you in the meantime."

Mustapha, the young man who had opened the compound door to them, was a sweet fuck. Cosmo took him missionary style because he wanted to see the eyelashes flutter as he pumped the young man's channel.

"God, the cock, the cock, Master. Gigantic. Thick. You're killing me," Mustapha was crying out.

Cosmo didn't feel toward this sultry piece the way he felt toward Devin—and was determined not to become maudlin. He had been fucking the young man at no more than seven inches depth. He dove all the way in and increased the pace. "No, this is killing you."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Mustapha cried out. He began to pant and moan deeply. Cosmo fucked harder. He had to give up these concerns for the men he fucked that Devin had raised in him.

After he'd finished, still saddled as he went half flaccid, although he knew he wasn't finished, and with Mustapha still moaning, he asked, "Am I bigger than the baron inside you?"

"You know I cannot say you are, Master."

Cosmo was tracing some red welts on Mustapha's chest and touching at a blue bruise on his side. "Did the baron do this to you?"

"I fell down the staircase from the balcony. I . . . oh, oh, OH!"




The Greek Pimp Ch. 06



The man put his arm around Rick's shoulder as they left the elevator on the fifteenth floor of the Mandalay Bay hotel casino in Las Vegas. When they'd met in the lobby of the hotel, the man hadn't even maintained eye contact with him other than to nod his head toward the bank of elevators, signaling that Rick was to get on an elevator with him.

The john was maybe forty, a bit stocky, but well muscled. The suit didn't fit him like it would a businessman used to wearing them. Rick had guessed him to be someone who worked with heavy machinery. He'd made sure the guy's money was good before leaving the theater. The john was square-jawed and cauliflower eared and bald on top. But Rick liked the evidence of muscle and the edge of roughness to him - and the bit of nervousness he displayed. He could be controlled, he might be enjoyed, and he'd already shown he had the cash to pay.

They moved down the hall, the man gripping the slim blond close into his side like maybe Rick would bolt and run back to the elevators before they got to the guy's room, which was far down the hallway.

A beefy black guy, obviously a thuggish bodyguard, was standing at a door they had to pass. Room 1562, Rick saw marked over the doorway. The bodyguard's eyes followed them all the way down the hallway. A slight sneer in his lips told Rick that he knew exactly what was happening here. The john's room was four doors farther down, 1570. The grip was tightening, and what had appeared to be nervousness was melting away. Rick had a brief moment of panic as he often did when he went into unknown territory like this. Maybe the guy wasn't as much a wide-eyed out-of-towner as Rick had gauged him to be.

There had been fewer temporary flashes of fear, though, since he'd taken up with Jose. Rick worked a male strip club a couple of blocks off the main strip in Vegas - sort of a working man's Chippendale cabaret. He'd been working there ever since he'd stopped in Las Vegas en route to his unattained dream of Hollywood. He'd been a real hit back in his little Tennessee town. Star on the football field despite his small stature and slimness. Just give him the ball and watch him weave between those lumbering tackles. This was a result of his dexterity on the field and his "moves." They were dance moves. His mother had had a different kind of stage dream for him than he had and had sent him to several years of dance. That helped him on the football field and on the high school drama stage. The training helped him now, where he danced and stripped down from a tuxedo with three other guys three times nightly at Boyfriends.

The big money, of course, was in who might be waiting for him at the stage door after the last performance of the evening.

The football coach and drama coach had fought over him for his last two years of high school. Then one night not long before graduation they'd shared him in a backstage dressing room. The coach had had the biggest dick and a number of friends in town to share him with and by the end of June Rick was opening his legs for any man who had $20 to spare.

His mother asked him what he planned to do in life and suggested New York. While bending him over a chair arm, Rick's former drama coach thought Los Angeles would be a better bet and said he had some contacts who would help him get across country. One of the contacts was the manager of Boyfriends, and Rick was still here after two years.

Where Jose came in was that he was a cop working vice in Las Vegas. He was in on a sting of a politician's private party at the Bellagio. Rick had been caught naked on a bed with the politician's dick inside him. Jose liked what he saw and got Rick out of the hotel suite when the other cops weren't looking.

"I can protect you," he said, as they clumped down stairs at the hotel.

"How so?" Rick had asked, still pulling a T-shirt down over his chest.

"Stick with me and I'll let you know where and when the raids are. I can keep you from being rolled up in these stings."

"Yeah, in exchange for what?" Rick asked, seeing a big piece of his hard-earned income flying out the window. He didn't have a doubt he had to accommodate this guy somehow, or he'd be on his tail from now on.

Jose had shown him by grabbing him from behind, slamming his back against the wall at a half landing of the stairs, stripping his trousers off as he captured Rick's mouth in a deep kiss, and lifting the smaller man by the thighs and setting his channel down on Jose's up-curved hard cock.

Rick didn't even think of resisting. The cop held all of the cards.

Rick gasped as the cock went in and in and in. He hooked his legs on Jose's hips, buried his face in the hollow of Jose's chest, threw his arms around Jose's neck, and held on for dear life as the Hispanic hunk fucked him hard and deep.

Two days later Rick had moved in with the vice detective. The cop still held all of the cards, but Rick was getting the hang of how to manipulate him to his own advantage. Besides, he fucked really, really well.

It was evident coming into hotel room that the guy - Rick thought of him as the Tractor - wanted to act all macho. He got behind Rick with an arm around the younger man - the man was more chunky than tall, but he still was taller than Rick was - and started pawing at Rick's clothes, undoing his belt buckle, unzipping him, unbuttoning his shirt, pushing his trousers down his legs.

"Get on all fours," he growled in Rick's ear and then when Rick had done so on the carpet just inside the door to the corridor, the man quickly mounted him and started a vigorous doggy fuck.

Rick put up with this for a few minutes but then said, "Let's do this right. Let me do you Vegas style."

Grunting, the man pulled out of him, and Rick lithely rose off the ground and guided the man over to the bed, sat him down, and knelt between his spread thighs. The man leaned his torso back onto the surface of the bed, the heels of his hands pressed into the coverlet, and moaned as Rick gave an average-sized cock a deep-throat blow job.

By the time Rick thought they were finished, with the Tractor on his back on the bed, purring, while Rick, in full control now and digging the heels of his hands into the man's pecs, rode his cock, while making all of the appropriate comments of what a man the Tractor was. The man's cock was nothing to write home about, but Rick enjoyed watching how his beefy muscles clinched and rippled as Rick rose and fell on the cock and the man thrust his hips up. At climax, Rick leaned down and bit a taut nipple and the Tractor howled and ejaculated great wads of cum into the bulb of the condom.

With a growl of lust, the man pushed Rick off him and over onto his back, covered Rick's body with his, and thrust hard inside him with his cock again and again and again. To give the man that lingering feeling of power, Rick cried out, "Yes, yes. Fuckin' yes! You're killin' me!" But the Tractor was going flaccid and wound up a dead weight on top of Rick, panting and wheezing, so Rick didn't lose control. He took the man's head between his hands and brought their lips together. After the kiss, he whispered, "You're the best."

The Tractor would remember the blow job and the fuck and feel that he'd gotten his money's worth - and that he sure would like to do it again. But most of all, he'd remember that a young hunk who'd turned everyone on when he danced and stripped on stage had told him that he fucked the best.

"Come see me at Boyfriends again," Rick said as he was pulling his trousers back on and the man was on his back, on the bed, watching him. He didn't get any further than that into the possibility of a replay. All the guys thought they were so good in bed that he'd just give them another one for free. And that wasn't going to happen.

Rick left the room alone some forty minutes after going in. He was tucking his shirt into his trousers as he walked and trying to avoid eye contact with the bodyguard still standing outside the door four rooms down from where the Tractor was lying on his back and moaning softly to himself in satisfaction.

The bodyguard waited until the elevator door closed and then opened the door to 1562 and mumbled something to the Arabic bodyguard who had been on station inside the door. The Arabic bodyguard came out of the room and took up the station the black bodyguard was vacating as he moved toward the elevators.

* * * *

As Rick was walking down the corridor at the Mandalay Bay with the Tractor and past the beefy black bodyguard standing by the door to 1562, inside 1562, the Greek pimp, Cosmo Eracules, was getting a full body massage from a young Frenchmen named Emile.

An aerialist artist with the Cirque du Soleil Michael Jackson extravaganza at the nearby MGM Grand, Emile had gone to great lengths to set this encounter up. At the moment, instead of Eracules being in control, as he assumed he'd be, the Greek pimp was putty, almost literally, in the hands of the dark, sultry, and sensuous Frenchman.

The Greek, barrel chested and somewhat thickening at the waist but still a well-muscled bull of a man was lying on the bed, his heaving, hairy torso and his right cheek of his face flat on the surface of the bed and his arms stretched straight out from his sides and clutching the edge of the bed on either side. His hips were elevated, as Emile had coaxed him up on his knees. His legs were spread, and Emile was crouched behind him, one hand holding one of Eracules' hips, the other one snaked through the Greek's thighs and slowly milking the older man's thick and long cock. Emile's tongue was massaging the inner walls of Cosmo's channel a couple of inches.

Cosmo hadn't been fucked in years. He'd been doing all of the fucking for nearly two decades. But now he was whimpering and begging for it - from the beautiful young, perfectly built Frenchman with the long, thin cock.

The Frenchman had established full control earlier when, having given Eracules a sensual massage on his back, buttocks, and thighs, Emile entered his channel with two greased fingers - with only sighs as an answer - and massaged Eracules' prostate to an ejaculation. When Eracules had come for him, Emile pulled the Greek's body to where his head flopped over the foot of the bed, and Emile rose from the bed, came around to the foot, took a firm grip of the Greek's wrists, spread the older man's arm's wide, and presented his cock to Eracules' mouth. Stunned into high lust for the beautiful young French acrobat, Cosmo took the cock in his month and allowed Emile to press it deep into his gullet and stroke.

The Arab bodyguard standing by the door was poised on the balls of his feet, ready to spring at the first sign of the Greek pimp's rejection of such an unusual invasion of his boss' body, but Eracules was fully lost to the charms and skill of Emile.

He didn't even signal to the bodyguard later when Emile, crouched behind Eracules' raised pelvis, stopped stroking Cosmo's cock, took his tongue out of the wide-open hole, mounted the Greek's pelvis, and started the long journey of his cock up towards the intestines of the man.

He began to stroke slowly and deep. No condoms were in use here. Emile was a prodigious producer of cum. Eracules was going to get filled up.

Emile and Cosmo had seen each other the previous night at the MGM Grand. Emile was swinging his patterns above the stage and Cosmo was in the audience. Cosmo was shopping for a young man or two that he could peddle to lonely businessmen at the Bellagio. Eracules liked to winter in Las Vegas. At his age, even the Mediterranean was getting too cold in the winter. That was in temperature; it was too hot for him just now as the police of various nations were beginning to cooperate in honing in on shutting his operation down. Emile was identified as one possibility for his new stable of young men.

Eracules still held to the principle of not suborning men who weren't already prostituting themselves in some way, though. So, at the end of the show, he'd sent the black bodyguard backstage with some money. Recognizing the bodyguard as having been with Cosmo, Emile perched on an oil barrel in the back far reaches of the props room, slipped the money he was given in the waistband of the tights he no longer was wearing, wrapped his legs around the small of the black giant's back, and let the bodyguard fuck him. He also accepted the invitation to visit Eracules here at the Mandalay Bay.

The black bodyguard was able to report that Emile took the money and a big, black cock without a hint of hesitancy - and with a great deal of apparent expertise.

Emile had done so because this wasn't the first time he'd seen Eracules in action. He'd been at Monte Carlo, swinging below the rafters of the casino there in his aerial performances, on more than one occasion when Eracules was recruiting talent. Emile had fallen for Eracules and wanted a piece of him. He also had researched Eracules' operation and thought he knew of a better way to do it in the twenty-first century. Here, in Las Vegas, was his chance.

He showed up to the room at the Mandalay Bay with massage equipment, surprising Eracules into agreeing to a massage. It appeared to Eracules that this is what Emile thought he was being asked to come here to do, and Cosmo was sent initially into confusion. Emile had him on the bed, oiled, and the massage started before the Greek regained his bearings. He decided the sexual subjugation could come later - but he never had an opportunity to gain control. He was lost to Emile early in the massage when Emile was leaning over him, deep-throating his cock, and running oiled fingers up into his ass channel.

By the time Rick was leaving the Tractor's room and the black bodyguard was peeling off to follow him, Emile had reversed the fuck. Eracules was on his back on the bed, groaning and breathing heavily, as Emile perched over him in a side butterfly position, facing up toward the ceiling, and holding his torso over Eracules' hips with his legs and arms supporting his weight, and rising and falling on the Greek's erect cock. The position moved from there to a full butterfly position, with his body in the same alignment as Eracules' but, again, hovering over him and looking up at the ceiling, while Eracules held him at the waist with his hands and raised and lowered his channel on the cock.

"Give it to me. Give me your cum," Emile gasped in a raspy voice.

Cosmo ejaculated, but Emile wasn't satisfied he had it all. He crouched down into the Greek's lap, reached down and grabbed Eracules' ankles, and started pounding his channel up and down on the Greek's cock. With a groan Cosmo came again.

He was lost. He had been some time since he'd recharged this quickly and come this profusely.

* * * *

It was later in the afternoon. The black bodyguard had returned, dragging Rick with him. The bodyguards knew that their boss was collecting men, and the black bodyguard was proud that he'd found one himself. Rick had thought, "What the hell" on a quickie when the bodyguard stopped him in the hotel lobby and propositioned him. The black man banged him so hard in a stall in one of the men's rooms off the casino that Rick put up no resistance to being hauled back upstairs. He must have stumbled out in the corridor, because when the bodyguard entered the room, Rick was slung over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

"Is he conscious?" Eracules asked.

"Yeah, and he's a super lay, boss. And he took money for it."

At Eracules' direction, he and the Arab bodyguard moved to subduing and breaking Rick in further on the bed. Rick was on his back on the bed, his wrists tied and pulled above his head and tied off at the headboard. The Arab's knees were under Rick's buttocks, with Rick's thighs hooked on the Arab's meaty hips, and the Arab was pulling Rick's channel on and off his hard cock with the strength of his hands gripping the young man's waist.

Rick's head was flopped over to the side, a vacant stare on his face. He was softly moaning, which both bodyguards said was really sexy. The black bodyguard was standing beside the bed, changing a spent condom for a new one. This was the second go at Rick by each of the bodyguards. Each time one of the bodyguards came, a wad of cash was thrown down on the bed where Rick could see it. He wasn't asking to be untied and leave. He was coming periodically himself, which signaled that he was still willingly involved.

Eracules and Emile were sitting off to the side, at the other end of the room, where there was a sofa and a couple of chairs with a little table between them. Emile was still naked. Eracules was wearing a hotel robe but was naked under that. A laptop commuter was open on the table between them and Emile was flipping through Web pages and talking to Eracules.

It wasn't only Cosmo that attracted Emile. He had ideas about how to improve the business he knew Eracules was in - and that he'd like a piece of too. He wanted to throw the operations up on the Internet.

"Two Web sites," he was saying. "Completely separate, both passworded. One a come-on for the talent and the other a shopping place for the buyers. You wouldn't have to do all of this traveling, and the business would expand."

"And I could operate it from one place?"

"Yes, we could. Do you have a home base?"

"Limassol. Limassol, Cyprus."

"Where all those hot videos are filmed?"

"Yes, but I'm not into that business."

"But we could be. But why Limassol?"

"I'm Cypriot. That's close to where I was born and raised. It's on the Cypriot coast. My yacht is in a marina there."

Eracules was looking from the computer screen back to Emile and over at the bed and then back at the naked Emile. His robe had pulled open at his lap, and he was in erection. "Perhaps. It sounds interesting. But right now - "

"You want to fuck again," Emile said, with a smile.

"Yes," Cosmo answered. He didn't want to say yes. He'd had this yearning with Devin and had fought it off. But he was even older now, more needy now. The young Frenchman was coming on to him strong - both with sex and with this business proposal. He should step away. He was losing control. But . . .

Emile rose and turned to where Cosmo was sitting. He leaned down and they kissed. While they did so, Emile pulled the robe Cosmo was wearing open and sat in his lap, facing him, lowering his channel on the thick, hard cock. He wrapped his arms around Cosmo's neck and pulled the older man's face into his chest. Cosmo's lips opened over a nipple as Emile started to rise and fall on the cock.

On the bed, the Arab was moving toward the side and pulling at the spent condom on his cock. Smoothing a new condom up his hard cock, the black bodyguard was pushing his knees between Rick's thighs and under his buttocks.

"You were asked to come here because I want to use your talents," Eracules said later as he and Emile were walking toward the door to the corridor. Emile was pulling on his T-shirt, but his trousers and briefs were still folded over his arm.

"To be fucked by other men for money." Emile said.

"Yes. I already know you do it. I didn't ask you to come here before I knew you'd do it. You'd be making money too - and in a safe environment with men of wealth."

"I came here because of you," Emile said. "I came to show you a better way to do business in today's world, but I also came here because I wanted you. I don't want to fuck other men. I want to be your boy."

"It doesn't work that way. The way we - "

He didn't finish the sentence. Emile had pushed him up against the wall next to the door and was on his knees, pulling Eracules' cock into his mouth.

"No, please. You're going to kill me. I'm not a young man any . . . oh, god, oh shit. Yes!"

The cock hard again, Emile was crawling up Eracules' body, raising his feet to rest flat against the wall on either side of the Greek's chest, tilting his pelvis up, pulling Eracules' cock inside him, and then throwing his arms around the Greek's neck. Using the leverage of his feet, he began to vigorously fuck himself on the Greek's cock, as Cosmo was pressed against the wall, somewhat in a crouched position, knees bent.




The Greek Pimp Ch. 07



"Bah, it's too acidic this morning." Cosmo pushed the plate of lasagna away from him and looked out over the rocks leading down to the Mediterranean at his Limassol, Cyprus, home. He rubbed his sternum, trying to rub out the dull pain there as he admired his yacht, the Apyko, at anchor in the cove. There were many memories connected with that boat. Through the years it had been his anchor. He thought back on the man who had given it to him, the Greek shipping magnate, Alexander Petropopolous. How much had happened in Cosmo's life since then? It had been quite a ride.

"Perhaps you should go in and take some antacids and lay down," his young lover, Emile, said. "I've just about got the matches set up for the day."

The two men, the late-fifties Greek pimp and his early twenties French protégé, were sitting on the terrace of Cosmo Eracules' home base in Limassol, finishing up a lunch after their night of fucking and morning of exhausted sleep entwined in each other's arms. The housekeeper had finished cleaning the house and had left the lunch warming in the oven for them before leaving. They were alone in the house. The new Internet-based business model Emile had gotten set up had obviated the need for the muscle provided by bodyguards, and the expense of that had been dispensed with.

Over the year since Emile had attached himself to Cosmo in Las Vegas, the older man had become increasingly dependent on—and controlled by—the younger man. Not only was Emile completely redoing the business of procuring the sexual services from young studs to match up with the needs of rich men willing to pay well, but he was completely controlling Cosmo Eracules' life now. His own sexual needs were insatiable, and he did everything he could to keep the Greek pimp's unusually thick and long cock hard and pleasing him.

The Greek had aged considerably in the past year and had lost much of his commanding presence. He had sensed that the control of his business had slowly slipped out of his hands. He didn't even half understand what Emile was doing with all of this Internet manipulation. If Emile left him now, he wouldn't know the first thing about what to do to run the business. He would have to start from the ground up doing it the way he had done it for over thirty years before Emile came along—going to sea in the Apyko along with some strong-arm helpers and plucking young male whores down on their luck out of this casino or that and selling them to white slave brokers in the Arab world. There was still a market for this. He knew he could reconstruct the business. He just, most of the time, felt too tired to do so.

And the tiredness, he was sure, was from the insatiable demands from his young lover. There was little he could do about that, because he was a prisoner to the young man—a willing prisoner. He was besotted with the French acrobat, Emile. The former aerialist had a beautiful body, and a long, thin cock that could snake up into Cosmo's channel almost to his stomach, it seemed, and caress his channel walls in a way that made Cosmo explode again and again in glorious ejaculations—still strong and voluminous despite his age. And such a sweet hole that was able to caress and undulate over Cosmo's own cock, again in a profusion of ejaculations. And the positions—the small acrobat had no end to inventive positions that peaked Cosmo's arousals.

He was a gift for a man at this age. Cosmo couldn't live without him. He had never had a lover to equal him—and he had experienced a legion of men in his life.

But Cosmo was tired, oh so tired.

"I think I will go in and lie down for a bit," Cosmo said.

"Good idea," Emile said, not even looking up from the laptop, where his fingers were dancing over the keys. He was naked, his body berry brown from being naked most of the time under the strong Cypriot sun. Cosmo ached for him even though he had been repeatedly drained dry in the night by the young man's virility and demanding body.

He had a hard time finding sleep. The dull ache in the center of his chest just wouldn't go away, and now one of his arms felt numb. But at last he drifted off.

He had no idea how long he had slept. He only knew that he was waking to Emile's cock sliding inside him. He was on his side and Emile was embracing him from in back. The cock was sliding in and in and in.

"Emile. Not now, please. I'm so tired. So very tired." The pain was there again and he couldn't even feel his arm. It was pinned under his body. Probably asleep.

"And I'm randy and you looked so enticing lying here asleep. Gave me a raging hard-on."

"You've always got a hard-on. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!"

Emile was pounding him hard. "Shit, can't get deep enough in this position."

"Emile, please."

"You know you love it. You can't get enough of me." He pulled out, pushed Cosmo onto his back, grabbed his ankles and pulled him down to the foot of the bed, wishboned his legs, and thrust his cock deep inside. "There, that's better."

Cosmo moaned. "Emile." He was panting so hard, he couldn't speak further. But why wouldn't Emile believe he wanted—no, that he needed—to stop? Of course he loved being fucked by Emile. His body was betraying him, striving for fulfilled sex no matter what else was happening internally. But why wasn't Emile listening to what he was saying rather than being guided by his body's lust for sex? His mind raced over the previously nearly forty years. Had he ever done this to one of the young men he was procuring? Had he ever guessed wrong just because their bodies were in heat no matter what else was happening with them?

The image of one of the last ones recruited face to face, Rick, floated in front of his face. He'd said yes, but how genuine had that been? And Kurt not long before that. But he'd almost charged into the opportunity, so no sympathy was lost on him. Sympathy? Cosmo couldn't afford sympathy for any of the young men. Who had shown him sympathy when he was in their position? That would truly mark the beginning of the end. The tennis player? Hardly. The Chinese manufacturer who had bought him had sent him to tournaments. He hadn't done well in them, but that wasn't because he wasn't given his chance.

Devin. He had wanted to stay with Cosmo. And Cosmo had wanted him to stay too, but couldn't afford to let his guard down like that. If the young platinum blond had come to him with Emile did, would he still be with him? Perhaps. But, yes he should feel guilty about that—just some guilt, though. He had tried to save Devin by denying him to Amir Al-Shabat. How should he have known that the baron would be worse? Even there, he shouldn't have tried to intervene in what was inevitable. It never favored him to think too much on the men he sold the young male prostitutes to.

"What? Hard and deeper? Can do," Emile was saying. He laughed and picked up the pace, letting go of one leg so that he could grasp Cosmo's cock and stroke it. Cosmo started thrusting his pelvis, meeting the rhythm. "There, knew you wanted it."

The Greek ejaculated with a weak sigh.

"Got another one to give?" Emile said with a laugh. "Maybe something exotic." He turned Cosmo onto his belly, stuffed a pillow under his pelvis, pushed his legs apart, grabbed his wrists, and bowed the older man's chest up and back, taut, as he thrust his cock home again and began to pump hard, deep, and fast.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," Cosmo muttered weakly. The pain in his chest was searing. He had gone hard too and could feel the cum rising inside him as the force of Emile's thrusts rubbed the bulb of his cock on the silkiness of the pillow under his pelvis.

Emile stroked hard, fast, deep, relentlessly.

With a little cry Cosmo ejaculated into the pillow, the cry caused not just by the orgasm but also because of the explosion of pain in his chest. His world blacked out.

Emile fucked on, not realizing for some time that he was fucking a dead man. When he suspected something was wrong, he released the older man's wrists, and the body just collapsed forward onto the bed.

"Cosmo? Are you OK?"

Emile sat on the bed beside the body for several minutes, not believing what had happened, waiting to wake up from the nightmare.

The sounds of the vehicle motors turning off out at the gates to the compound caught his attention and brought him back into the world. He stood and ran to one of the bedrooms at the front of the house. Black SUVs were parked in front of the compound gate, and men in police uniforms were getting out of them. They had submachine guns. He ran back to the main bedroom at the back of the house. There were police boats down in the cove. Armed policemen were swarming over the Apyko.

He only had a few minutes. They had anticipated something like this. Emile had acknowledged that there was a risk in putting the business up on the Internet—but he had reasoned with Cosmo that it was no more dangerous than the way Cosmo had been playing the game for years. Cosmo hadn't told him that the old operation was beginning to feel the pinch of discovery and apprehension.

Giving the slumped body of the Greek pimp one last, mournful, look, Emile raced over to the painting over a bureau in the bedroom and swung the frame aside. Such was the nature of the control he had asserted over Cosmo that not only did he know where the safe was, but he also knew what the combination was and how much cash was stashed in it with the various passports they'd bought under assumed names.

He also knew of the secret passage going from the basement to behind rocks outside of the compound walls. When Cosmo had returned to Cyprus—and to a city not far from the Famagusta beach resort that he'd had to flee in the Turkish invasion of the island and that was still held by the Turks—he'd been so nervous about security that he'd had the secret passageway built.

Grabbing cash and his laptop, Emile raced down the stairs to the basement, giving a shudder on the first floor at the sound of the pounding at the door and the smashing of the glass in windows by the butts of the policemen's submachine guns.

He'd have to redo the Web sites, of course, and change the banking arrangements, but he'd manage. Cosmo Eracules had managed from similar beginnings for nearly forty years. And he was just as clever as Cosmo had been.