Another First Time Ch. 02

"Hail to the Tutweilers. Charles, Anne, hello. So good of the American embassy to send a contingent to the polo match. And who might this young man with you be?"

Marc looked up at the imposing figure astride the equally massive and magnificent horse. Charles had told him who the rider was before he'd broken away from his team after the first chukka and had ridden over to where the Tutweilers and Marc were sitting under umbrellas at the Greenwich field.

"Munitions sales. Old, entrenched family," Charles had reminded Marc earlier after also reminding Trent for the umpteenth time that his cover name for this operation, Marc, ended in a "C" rather than the usual "K." "Our target," he needlessly added. Charles, who supposedly was control for this caper, seemed more nervous about it than Trent—currently Marc—was.

Lord Harkwood was a solidly built man exuding confidence and very much taken by his own importance. He had commanded the polo field like a monarch. At some six-and-a-half feet of solid muscle, despite his evident early fifties age, it was reasonable for him to expect the deference others gave him. His piercing, steel-gray eyes, rugged, yet well-cut facial features, the wavy black hair shot with gray and matching mustache and Van-Dyke beard, gave him the look of a medieval monarch as well. He sat astride his steed like he commanded whatever he had between his thighs.

"Good wishes to you, Lord Harkwood," Charles answered. "We did promise to come watch the polo, and here we are."

Harkwood was looking at Marc while Charles was answering and it wasn't lost on the young man, whose real name was Trent Wilson, that Harkwood asked who Marc was and Charles hadn't responded yet. Marc knew Charles was gauging just how interested the target was in him, which seemed to be considerably so. Marc felt the man's eyes already were undressing him.

"Damon," the man astride the horse responded to Charles. "Call me Damon. We've had enough dealings to be on first-name basis, Charles. In fact, it's long past time you visited Falconcroft for a shooting weekend. You've been on assignment in England entirely too long not to have experienced a country estate retreat. And this young man with you. Has he experienced an English weekend in the country yet?"

Harkwood still had his eyes glued to Charles' young colleague.

"Oh, sorry, Damon. Of course, this is Marc—ending in a 'C' rather than a 'K'—Minor. He's the son of friends from Washington; here for a Ralph Lauren photo shoot."

Marc smiled and gave a little tilt of his head to Lord Harkwood in recognition of the introduction and to give him an initial return of an interest that went beyond social politeness.

"A male model, are you then, Marc with a 'C'?" he asked, the first time he directly addressed Marc, a sparkle in his eye and the look of some other form of speculation too. "Aren't you a bit young for modeling?"

The young man laughed. "I get that a lot, I'm afraid. I'm out of college now. Just modeling until I can take up a profession. Foreign affairs major at the University of Virginia. That's why I'm staying with the Tutweilers during the Ralph Lauren shoot. Seeing how the world of diplomacy fits. I might go for that myself."

Marc, who was really Trent, used the cover of male model a lot. It usually went over well with the target; it certainly did this time, as it seemed to heighten Harkwood's interest. There also was a certain bias in common thought about the preferences of a male model. It served Trent's purposes if a target got the thought early that he took cock.

"Diplomacy can be a demanding and dirty business," Harkwood said, with a small laugh. "I hope you have the stomach—and the balls—for what it takes." Turning then to Charles Tutweiler, he added, "Which reminds me that we seem to have more to talk about before coming anywhere close to a mutually beneficial understanding, Charles. Perhaps a weekend in the country will also suit to hammer that out. Maybe the weekend after next, at Falconcroft. Have you been up to Yorkshire yet? Oh, and who's this then? Sayed? I must say that if you hadn't agreed to play with the other team there wouldn't have been any competition for me today at all."

Another rider had ridden up, one in stark contrast to Harkwood. He was on a white horse that contrasted with the silky black of Harkwood's steed, and he was a world apart from either Harkwood or the others conversing in a group at the side of the field. Obviously Middle Eastern, Pakistani, Marc was to learn, Sayed Khan wore a startling white thawb, a neck-to-ankle robe, rather than polo gear. A black keffiyeh—headscarf—covered his head and flowed to below his shoulders in back, crowned with a white egal, a silken rope crown, holding the keffiyeh to his head. He was slim and not nearly as tall in the saddle as Harkwood was. Marc immediately went on guard, though, as there was a devilish look about the Pakistani, piercing black eyes, a studiously swarthy complexion and thin beard—the look of a hawk.

Another possible target in the field now?

"Do I need to introduce you?" Harkwood said to Charles, as Khan brought his horse up beside Harkwood and quieted it down.

"No, we are acquainted already," Charles answered, and Marc could feel in the tightness of his voice and the steam coming off his body as Charles stood close beside him, that whatever dealings Charles and Khan had were ones of adversaries, not friends.

"Charles was just introducing young Marc, with a 'C,' to me, Sayed. He is visiting from the States. Has completed college, he says. Modeling now, as I think you can well imagine him doing. Is considering diplomacy."

"Is he, now?" Khan said, turning his steely, assessing gaze on Marc. "A child prodigy to have finished college so soon?"

"No," Marc answered, with a laugh. "I think it may have taken me rather longer to get through college than shorter. I majored in sports more than foreign affairs."

"Obviously," Khan said, his eyes still assessing the cut of Marc's body. "And modeling. I can see that you must be in much demand in that. Quite a sport, I can imagine."

If Marc thought that Harkwood had undressed him with his eyes, he now got the impression that Khan was going much further than that with his assessing stare. The young man felt himself blush at the fantasy of Khan's hands on his naked body, gripping his hips and raising his pelvis to the Pakistani's hard need. Khan wouldn't be a big, overpowering man, but he would be an expert cocksman—and probably cruel. He had a short, multithonged leather whip in his hand which he kept flicking against his horse's withers. That too conveyed an impression to Marc that aroused him. Marc made no effort to hide the blush. Being able to do that easily added to his persona of being virginal.

"I've invited him to come with the Tutweilers for a country weekend with us Friday after next. We'll have to show him how we hunt in England. You are free for that weekend, aren't you, Charles and Anne?"

The Tutweilers nodded their agreement in harmony. No one bothered to consult Marc on his availability. But then, of course he would be available for a weekend at an English country estate. Getting close to Harkwood was the whole idea.

"Until next weekend," Harkwood said, as he turned, responding to the trumpet call for the next chukka. Even as he was turning his horse, though, he was maintaining his gaze on Marc—as was Sayed Khan.

"So, that's that then," Charles said, his voice betraying nerves, as the two polo players rode toward the middle of the field. "Harkwood and I do have much to discuss, but I had hoped that it wouldn't entail an element of Sayed Khan as well."

"So, who is Sayed Khan?" Marc asked.

"He's a munitions buyer—for elements in the Arab world and Russia that the United States most certainly does not approve of."

"He seems to have Harkwood's ear," Anne said, standing from her chair and coming up beside them to watch the two men riding close together onto the field.

"He most certainly does, I'm afraid," Charles answered. "We must see what we can do to disrupt that."

Charles was looking at Marc when he said that. And then he explicitly said what was on his mind. "You may have to distract Khan as well as soften Harkwood up for the pitch."

"No problem," Marc, who was really Trent, answered, his mind extending the fantasy of Khan's hands on his hips to the point of penetration—the flick of the whip on his flanks. It had helped in Trent's forced taking of this job that he enjoyed the work. Of the two targets, Kahn was, by far, the more intriguing to him.

* * * *

"You heard me. I don't mince words and I've had a devil of a time getting you alone."

They were in a small wooded area in the fields of Falconcroft. The hunt was going on all around them and Lord Harkwood had nudged Marc's horse into the small stand of trees and was holding the reins of the young man's steed, Harkwood and Marc close together, side by side.

"I don't know what I did to make you think—"

"You did nothing, Marc, but make my cock stand at attention the moment I saw you. We had a discussion about this at dinner last night. I don't know what you thought we were discussing, but it was about diplomacy, the field you think you might want to enter. It's a field of doing what you have to do to serve your country's needs. It's all a matter of negotiations. Everything is negotiable."

"I . . . I don't understand."

"It's quite simple, Marc. This isn't just a pleasure weekend—other than my pleasure, that is." He gave a snort. "This is a work weekend between Charles, of your country's embassy, and me. Tutweiler very much wants something I can give. We are heavy in negotiations. You have become part of the negotiations."

"Me? Part of the negotiations? Charles—"

"Charles himself placed you on the table. He said that if I came to the table on what we are negotiating, I could fuck you on the table."

"Charles said that? I don't believe . . . I've never before . . ."

"You'd better believe, Marc. You are the whole reason we're here this weekend. Charles Tutweiler and the American government have never been able to get me this close to an agreement with them. I assure you that what is at stake is very important to your government. You say you are interested in becoming a diplomat. This is what is involved. If you lie under me, I will come that much closer to giving the American government what it says it must have. Your ass for a favorable discussion with your embassy. You became part of the negotiations as soon as I saw you at the polo match."

"But I've never . . . I've never . . ."

"You've never what? You've never been fucked by a man?"

"No, never."

"Surely you have. Surely that's what male models do."

"You'd be surprised how many of us are so narcissistic that we only think of how we look, not of having sex with anyone, male or female." He made his voice waver in saying that. He was playing it to the hilt, but Harkwood appeared to be lapping it up without suspicion. Marc figured the man had a deep want.

"That only makes me more interested—and puts your government on even better footing with me. I'm surprised Charles didn't bring that into the negotiations."

"There hasn't been a reason for Charles to know," Marc answered.

"Then we won't tell Charles. I will give you five hundred pounds for your virginity—repeated takings in the same night, if I wish, of course. Charles need never know about the side agreement. You will come to my bed. Tonight. You know where my room is."

"I don't know," Marc stammered, showing confusion and how torn Marc should be about Harkwood's bold demand. "Not tonight. Certainly not tonight."

"Ah, the others have found us," Harkwood said, handing the reins for Marc's horse back to him. "We'll have to go back to the hunt. I will have you if your government will have an ounce of satisfaction from me. Think on that. This is where you can start with diplomacy."

Trembling to convey to Harkwood that Marc was thinking as much on how solidly the older man was built and how dominating and commanding he was as Marc was about the audacity and threat of his demand, Marc watched the man ride away and join up with Sayed Khan, who also was at the country estate for the weekend and whose presence Marc had heard Charles bemoan in no uncertain terms. As the horses turned away, Sayed Khan turned a knowing look in Marc's direction and flicked his horse's rump with his hand whip. Marc shuddered and felt himself harden. Of the two . . .

* * * *

Marc heard them before he reached the door—the heavy panting and deep moans. Still he reached out and pushed the door to Lord Harkwood's bedroom open enough to slide in and back himself up to the wall next to the door.

He recognized the young man under Harkwood on the massive, canopied bed with the thick corner pillars, now acting as anchors for the leads attached to the young groom's wrists and ankles. It was the groom who had helped Marc with a mount that afternoon along with others and who had been there to receive Marc's horse when he returned from the hunt. He was, Marc was sure, younger than Marc by a couple of years, although he looked older. He was stocky, but well muscled, a country lad with a mop of curly blond hair and a ready smile that went to his milky blue eyes.

He was in anything but a sunny disposition now. Spread-eagled and tied off at the four corners of the bed, he was face down on the mattress, moaning through a ball gag, a bolster under his belly raising his bulbous butt cheeks toward the ceiling, and writhing as a magnificently muscled naked Lord Harkwood hunched over his pelvis, riding crop in hand, and rode the young man's ass hard.

Marc had to admit that for some time he leaned against the dark oak wall there, inside the room and beside the door, barefoot and clothed only in long sleeping pants, as the moonlight streaming in two windows lit up the tableau of the lord riding his groom hard.

After several minutes Marc saw the groom tense, release, and collapse as Harkwood rode on. Marc stole back out of the room, returned to his own chamber, stretched out on his belly and, trembling, went into a half doze of fantasizing Harkwood doing that to him.

And then sometime later in the night he was. Marc felt the lord's heavy body dropping on his, pinning him to the bed, as, moving Marc on a diagonal on the bed, the older man's hands went to Marc's wrists, tying them together and securing them to the top right pillar of the bed. The ball gag choked off the younger man's protests. And then he was sliding down Marc's legs, pulling his sleeping trousers off. The wetness of his tongue pressed between Marc's butt cheeks and found and pressed inside the rosebud of the younger man's entrance.

Marc writhed under him, but it was no use. Pillows were being stuffed under Marc's belly, the lord was reaching between Marc's thighs and pulling his cock through and alternating the attention of his mouth between Marc's cock, balls, and anus. The younger man hardened for the older. His mind went to the images of Harkwood fucking the groom earlier in the night, and Marc writhed and moaned—and reveled and melted—under the lord's onslaught. For the moment, Harkwood was totally Marc's master.

Harkwood laughed when Mark released his seed and then went up on his knees as Harkwood slapped Marc's buttocks with his cock, ran the underside off it across the younger man's opening hole again and again, and teased the opening with his bulb. Marc's body jerked involuntarily from the flicks of a riding crop on his bare flesh.

Marc heard the snap of the condom and then his eyes went big, he tensed against his bonds, and he bit down hard on the rubber ball gag and screamed into the ball, as the lord slowly worked his hard cock past the sphincter muscle and then deep inside and began to pump.

"Open to me. Relax. Give it to me. Ah, yes. Just like that. I'm in to the root." He put his lips close to Marc's ear and whispered, "It's done now. You're undone and mine now. Relax and enjoy it. I saw you come to my chamber. You are agreeing to this."

Marc slowly did relax as Harkwood continued pumping him deep, and he did enjoy it, although he would take his time letting Harkwood know he did.

When Harkwood had ejaculated, he pulled out of Marc, turned him on his back, and lay on top of him between his spread thighs. Marc felt the curl of the older man's cock, and it was a long, thick staff befitting of the commanding figure he was, against Marc's belly. They were both panting heavily. Harkwood calmed quicker than Marc did. His face was close to the younger man's from above, and he was looking into Marc's eyes. Marc set his eyes on a combination of fright and lust.

"I hope that didn't hurt too much. You are so sweet, so yielding." Marc continued staring at him, breathing heavier than he was. Marc shut his eyes as Harkwood's lips went to his eyelids. The younger man gave a little shudder as he felt Harkwood's cock hardening again. And then the flick of the riding crop on his flanks.

"I'm sorry. I can't help it. You're just so fine. A pedigree mare. A fine ride. I'll try to be gentle this time," he murmured, as his face buried itself in the hollow of Marc's shoulder and his hands went to grip Marc's hips and move them into position. As he slowly entered and entered and entered the younger man's ass again, Marc arched his back, rolled his head up, and cried out to the headboard through the ball gag. This time, though, he used his channel muscles to grab and caress Harkwood's cock and matched the movement of his pelvis to coordinate with the thrusts of the older man's cock. Harkwood was yodeling his pleasure when the two achieved a shared ejaculation.

And then, after only a short break, Harkwood was hard again; whispering, "Sorry. I know it's your first time, but . . ." again; he thrust inside Marc again; and began driving hard, frantically, brutally, diving deep, taking long strokes, crushing the young man's body to the mattress, burying his teeth in Marc's neck, flogging Marc's buttocks and thighs with a heavier sting of the riding crop, thrusting as hard as he could. Long past gentle.

If it had really been Marc's first time, Harkwood would have put him in the hospital—or in his grave.

* * * *

Marc was on his back on a bed of moss between the roots of a tall tree in the same stand of trees where Damon Harkwood had first told him he wanted to fuck him. Marc's trousers were off and his legs bent and spread, as Harkwood came down on his knees between Marc's thighs. Their horses were tethered and grazing off to the side. It was just to be the two of them who rode out the morning after the lord had fucked Marc in Marc's bed. After breakfast, Harkwood said he had to have Marc again—away from the others. He had quivered and noisily taken in his breath when Marc lowered my eyes in submission and agreed without hesitation to receive him again.

He leaned over Marc and took the young man's mouth in his. Marc enthusiastically returned the kiss. Harkwood was still in his riding pants, but his fly was open and his hard, quivering dick projected out of it, held in his hand, being guided to between the young man's thighs.

Marc pressed his hand into Harkwood's sternum though, holding the older man away from him—a move that was more psychological than physical, because the man could have broken Marc in two if he wanted to. He looked at Marc quizzically, something of a hurt expression in his face.

"You told me last night that you would be open to me whenever I wanted you. When I said I wanted to fuck you again this morning, you—"

"Yes, but you've couched everything in terms of diplomacy and negotiations. You set the bar on that. Before I open to you, tell me that you will have good news for Charles when you talk this afternoon."