Another First Time Ch. 07

Trent watched the eyes of the hunky Norwegian UN contingent soldier widen and flash as he jerked and his body shuddered. Trent knew the soldier had filled the bulb of his condom. This was confirmed when he pulled out, went up on his knees on the pool table top, and turned and high-fived the next hunky Norwegian UN contingent coming up on the pool table.

Trent groaned slightly as UN solider number four turned him on his belly, thrust a beefy arm under him to elevate his hips, and slid inside his well-opened hole. Or at least he forced a slide. Trent grunted and widened his stance. This was the thickest cock of all so far. He sighed and murmured, "Yesss. Fuck it, fuck it, fuckit."

He was here in Cyprus to meet up with his Agency handler, Maurice, to start a new assignment. Things hadn't been going too well with Maurice. His handler was sharing less with him about operations and his fucking had gotten rougher, with more anger involved. Well, fuck Maurice, Trent thought. Trent hadn't volunteered for this job, and he thought he'd been doing a good job of it. Maybe Maurice's problem was that Trent was enjoying the job too much.

Speaking of which, number four was pulling out of his ass, to be replaced with number five.

Yes, Trent was enjoying this. This wasn't his first time on this pool table in the this gay bar. This was a favorite bar of the gay soldiers of the UN contingent. the bar opened off an alley in the Makedonitissa suburb of Nicosia, near the Green Line with the UN base running across a ridge, separating Turks from Greeks. It wasn't his first time being gangbanged by hunky and randy Norwegian soldiers on this pool table. He'd kept the last time in mind for when he really wanted to unwind and clear his mind of operations. He always liked purging his brain of one operation before moving into the next.

He did this when he wanted to show Maurice the finger without Maurice seeing him do it.

He was to meet Maurice here in Cyprus, at a beach resort on the southern coast, three days from now. Maurice probably had expected him to fly in on the day of the meeting. But Trent had come ahead, wanting to unwind—like this.

Number five had his arms around Trent and pulled him up on his knees, the guy's cock still doing a vigorous ratatattat in Trent's channel. There was nothing like a young, in-shape, randy soldier for thrust power. The soldier was holding him close, cupping his chin. Trent surveyed the small crowd of men watching him get gang fucked. They were mostly Greek workmen and Norwegian soldiers. One guy stood out, though. He was Oriental and elegantly dressed in a suit. Contrary to what Trent expected, he wasn't short. He was tall and lean. His gaze was as inscrutable as Trent could imagine, though. He sat there, straight up in the chair, when most were leaning forward, licking their chops, some with their dicks in their hands. Trent knew the man was watching him intently—but at the same time at some distance and with a great deal of assessment.

Trent shivered as number five filled his condom bulb and let Trent's torso fall to the pool table top, his heaving chest twisted, his arms extended away from his body, askew on the green felt of the table. Number five had been the last who had slapped their fee down on the pool table, money that was to be shared with the bar and that Trent didn't really care about. He wasn't doing this for the money. For him, it was some kind of in-your-face cleansing act for what he had been blackmailed into doing by the Agency.

The Norwegian warriors who had had him were gathering around the bar, boisterously chattering in Norwegian of their adventure—not paying any attention to the sweet-looking and easy piece they had been plugging. The watchers were zipping up and moving away too, the performance being over, none of them wanting to spend the money for sloppy sixths. Soon there were just the two of them in eye contact, Trent and the Chinaman. Trent presumed the man was Chinese until or unless he learned otherwise. Trent had never been fucked by a Chinaman.

The Chinaman sat there, immobile, his chin leaning on the head of a cane set between his legs and held with both hands. His eyes remained inscrutable.

Trent rolled over and gingerly sat up on the edge of the pool table, facing away from the Chinaman. He reached over for the red bikini briefs and the jeans that had been strewn on the top of the table beside where he had been fucked. He'd briefly done a bump and a grind in the bikini briefs on top of table before hunky Norwegian soldier number one had slipped them down his legs, slammed his back down on the table top and nailed his ass to the table.

Thinking of the Chinaman and of never having been done by one before and assessing what he'd seen of the man for flaws, without remembering any, Trent stretched his arms out from his body and then raised them about his head, as if taking the kinks out, and tightened his buns a couple of times. Maybe the posing would bring out some interest. He'd never been done by a Chinaman before, and he still was a bit randy.

Trent pulled on his briefs and jeans. He reached over and picked up his share of the pile of Cypriot pound notes and the euros with which the players had paid for entrée and others around had paid for the view and stuffed them in his jeans pocket. He turned as he pulled the tight mesh Athletic T over his head to see that the Chinaman was still sitting there, watching him. Trent winked at the man.

The Norwegian soldiers who had been inside him didn't even look around as he left the bar and walked out to the main drag, where he found an open-air café, sat, and ordered a coffee. The soldiers had gotten their rocks off and were done with him. All fun, no strings attached. And that's how Trent had wanted it. That's why he'd come back to burly Norwegian soldier cock on a Cypriot pool table again.

The Chinaman didn't bother to ask permission to join him when he pulled back the seat across the café table from Trent and sat down.

"How much for two hours in my hotel room?" he asked. His English was impeccable. So was the rest of him. Trent reminded himself once again that he had never been fucked by a Chinaman before. Trent collected "first times."

"To do what with me?"

"Anything that I want."

He named a reasonable price.

The Chinamen more explicitly said what he wanted to do with Trent.

Trent named a higher price and the Chinaman smiled and agreed to it.

* * * *

"Are you mine?" The voice, spoken in impeccable English, a soft British burr to it, was low, calm, but with an edge of steel.

Trent was standing in front of and close to Shé, who was sitting, fully dressed in his suit, in a club chair in his Nicosia Hilton Hotel room. Trent was stripped down to his red bikini briefs. Shé had been holding both of Trent's hands in his grip of steel, but he released one of Trent's hands and ran his up Trent's inner thigh. Trent responded by widening his stance, and, after running his fingers through the curly pubic hair above the low-slung waistband of Trent's bikini, Shé moved two fingers below the waistband, one long, slender finger running down each side of the root of Trent's cock, with the fingertip coming to rest on the top of a ball on each side, pressing into the orb. Trent felt himself going hard.

Shé tantalizingly was taking his time teasing Trent after matter-of-factly telling Trent he was going to test and hurt him. What the Chinaman had agreed to pay had told Trent that the service would be extreme.

He had already shuddered when the Oriental man told him he could call him Shé, which he said meant "The Snake" in Mandarin. Despite the impeccable dress, accent, and manners, there was something menacing, dangerous about this man. Danger aroused Trent. It made him go hard; it made him want to be fucked—to be roughed up a bit. It almost was as if Shé knew that.

"Yes, I am yours," Trent answered in a whisper.

Shé moved his hands to Trent's hips and pulled the string of the bikini down so that the waistband was pulled down just to show the root of Trent's cock in front and descended half way down his buttocks in back. Trent's cock was beginning to rise against the thin material of the bikini. Shé moved both hands to Trent's inner thighs, coaxing them further apart. Trent spread them further for him. A hand went between Trent's thighs, fingers moving up his taint, to his rim, the middle finger penetrating his puckered ass. The hole opened wide and the sphincter muscle pulled the finger in.

Shé suddenly stabbed deep inside with the finger and Trent jerked and gasped but held steady. But just as quickly Shé pulled the finger back to where the pad rested against Trent's prostate.

"Ah, a professional whore," Shé murmured in a voice of approval. He jabbed deep again with two fingers.

Trent jerked again and gave a little moan, but he still held fast. He hadn't thought of himself as a professional whore, but of course he was.

"Are you my slave? Am I your master?"

"Yes, you are my master."

"Kneel. Show me you are mine."

Trent knelt between The Snake's spread thighs. Shé had moved one hand to his belt buckle; the other was cupping the back of Trent's neck, pulling his head down. Trent fumbled with the belt buckle and zipper, which freed one of the longest cocks he'd ever seen—not thick, but impossibly long. And nearing full erection. There was little question where the name "The Snake" had come from.

Trent took it in his mouth and began to suck, while Shé, still fully clothed, leaned forward, ran his hand down Trent's back, and moved the long middle finger of his hand back inside Trent's ass.

"Whores need to be punished," Shé whispered.

* * * *

Trent was straining to take him deeper than he could remember ever taking a man before. He was on his shoulder blades on the bed, his pelvis raised as much as he could in the air, his legs almost straight out to his sides in the splits. His arms were stretched up, his hands palming Shé's bulging, straining pectorals. The man's chest was covered with a menacing mystical dragon tattoo.

The Snake was crouched between Trent's spread thighs, one arm under the small of the young man's waist, helping to hold him into position, the other hand gripping one of Trent's thighs, his cock having completed the eleven-inch straight shot up Trent's gut.

"We can do this or not," he whispered. "I am here to recruit you—and to save you from your own. It doesn't need to include punishing you this way."

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Trent growled through set teeth. "But if you don't fuck me now, I swear I'll find a way to cut your balls off. Yes. Oh, yes, Nail me!"

The Snake had begun to fuck him in long, slow, rhythmic slides. Nailing him to the quick, again and again and again.

Flat on his back on the bed now, his legs spread and bent, his arms embracing Shé's torso, Shé stretched out on his body, his cock still buried deep inside Trent's ass, and Trent's cum slathered up Shé's belly, Trent managed to say, "What the hell was that you said before you fucked me?"

"You are in danger—from your own people, Trent," Shé said. "I have come to offer you an alternative—an escape. Working for the people I work for."

"You called me Trent."

"Yes, as evidence that I—that we—know who you are, what you do."

"And you were sent to make me do what I do—let you fuck me. You were sent to fuck me?"

"Fucking you was my own decision. I gave you the option to talk instead."

"Yeah, right, with a foot of your cock already inside me. You expected me to hold off from you then?"

"No, I didn't. I didn't because I know—have learned—that you want to be fucked. That you enjoy that aspect of your job. It's part of what has your Agency disturbed about you, though. You aren't supposed to enjoy it that much—to give it priority over your work."

"I don't give it . . . Oh, God, yes, yes. All the way! Slam it deep!"

Shé was up on his knees again, clutching Trent's hips and pulling the young man's pelvis up to him. Fucking him hard, deep, vigorously this time, with, eyes slitted and fists clutching the coverlet on the bed, Trent moved his hips, meeting Shé's thrusts with counterthrusts. Grunting and groaning for ten minutes, the two men were all-consumed by the fuck.

"What did you say about being able to focus on the operation over sex?" Shé asked with a little smile as they were cooling down, Shé still on top, trapping Trent under him, the young man's ass nailed to the bed by eleven inches of cock.

"I hear you," Trent murmured. "I'm listening. So, you are Chinese Intelligence? Don't expect me to—"

"No. I'm Mossad, Israeli Intelligence. The appearance helps me operate. When we are finished fucking and I have whipped you, I'll show you my credentials."

Trent let the "whipped you" part go. He only half believed it anyway. "I'm impressed with the credentials you've already shown me," Trent responded. "And we haven't finished fucking?"

"I still have forty-five minutes left of what I paid for you. And I haven't shown you my best moves yet."

"Oh, God," Trent whined.

"You don't disapprove of Israeli Intelligence, I know. We know all about your views. I'm here to warn you that your usefulness to your Agency is winding down—that your handler is not helping your case—and that you will not be pleased with your organization's retirement policy for men used by them as you have been. You can come over to the Mossad. We'll treat you right."

"As you are treating me now?"

"I'm sure it can be arranged for me to be your handler, yes, if that's what you would like."

"I'll think about it. For now, it feels like you are ready and able to handle me again. And we have more than a half hour left of this master-slave bit."

Shé's answer was to move Trent on to his side, nuzzle up behind him, raise Trent's upper thigh with a hand, enter him, and begin to pump once again.

When Trent rolled away from Shé in the first light of the next day and put his feet down on the floor by the hotel room bed, they came down into a collection of six spent Trojan Magnums, thick with cum. He didn't know what answer to give Shé. He didn't even know if he really was with Israeli Intelligence rather than a Chinese spy.

Looking down, he saw that Shé's eyes were closed and he was breathing regularly. Trent padded out of bed and over to the chair where the older man had laid out his clothes, neatly folded. He put his hand in the breast pocket of the jacket and came up with a leather case.

As he did so, he felt the sting of the whip. The whip had been laid out on the dresser all along, a silent threat. It was a threat no longer. Shé, naked was standing over him. The tendrils of the hand whip bit into Trent's shoulder blades and, with a gasp and a moan, he rolled up into a ball as the Chinaman struck him again and again, causing pain, yes, but more surprise at the suddenness of it. Trent went hard with arousal. He realized he'd waited all night for the sting of the whip, which had been promised to him back in the café where they had struck the deal.

Shé stopped striking and no longer was standing over Trent. "Go ahead and open the case and look. Satisfied? The credentials hold true?" The voice, amused as if the whipping never had happened, floated over from the bed.

Trent looked away from the Israeli diplomatic passport to the bed. Shé was on his back, his back again, supported by pillows stuffed against the headboard. His legs were spread and bent. His condom-sheathed cock was in a miles' long erection. The whip was in his hand and he was flicking it against the surface of the bed.

"Are you mine?" he asked in a low, steely voice.

"Yes, I'm yours," Trent answered.

"Are you my slave?"

"Yes, master, I am your slave."

"Can I use you as I want to?"

"Yes."

"Will you come to work for us?"

"I don't know. I haven't decided."

"Oh, well, three out of four, and strong hope for the fourth. Come here, ride my cock, and feel the bite of the whip. I know what you like."

All that was promised happened. And the Chinaman certainly did know what Trent liked.

* * * *

Two days later, just after noon, Trent was stretched out on the sand of the Mediterranean Beach Resort on the southern Limassol coast of Cyprus. Sixty miles across the water was Lebanon, and just west of there, Israel. As he traced the fading mark of a welt across one of his biceps, he wondered if Shé had gone back to Tel Aviv. He'd hadn't given him an answer yet to the Mossad offer. He didn't know what the answer would be. He had trouble thinking past Shé's eleven-inch dick and his expertise with the whip. But then that was the basis—what Trent knew he should consider—of why Shé said Trent was in trouble with Agency.

And there had been Maurice's cold, angry attitude of late.

Maurice would be here at dinnertime, expecting that Trent had just flown in to the nearby international airport in Larnaka. Maurice was coming with the details of the coming operation—fuller details, Trent hoped, than he provided initially for the last operation. Sometime after that, they'd be off again. Would there even be time to give Shé an answer—even if Trent had one yet?

His gaze out to sea, toward the Lebanon coast, was disrupted by a passing figure. A male figure. Tall, trim, well-muscled. Yellowish-tinged brown body. Wearing a yellow micro bikini, with an eleven-inch snake coiled up in the pouch.

Trent rose, toweled himself off, and followed Shé into the hotel and to Shé's room, where The Snake fucked him for nearly an hour before either said a word.

Trent was bearing much of his weight on his shoulder blades, which were pressed into the carpet at the foot of the bed. Shé was sitting on the end of the bed, his hands gripping Trent's pelvis, which was elevated to him. Trent's legs were stretched out around Shé's hips and his arms were flung out from his side, making his body into the form of a crucifix. He had just been executed for the second time that afternoon by an eleven-inch cock.

He still was panting heavily, his own cum glistening on his stomach, when The Snake spoke for the second time.

"Are you going to come over to us?"

"I don't know. I haven't finally decided."

"But you are considering it—leaning in that direction?"

"Yes, I think so."

"We'll give you a little time to decide. I must tell you that another option for us is to take you out."

"That should help me to decide, shouldn't it?" Trent answered, his voice understandably bitter.

"I don't want to take you out. I want to fuck your luscious ass to heaven. You have a little time; not too much. In the meantime we'll watch your back. You aren't safe with your own people."

"That's comforting to know—that maybe you'll take care of my back as well as you take care of my ass." He was looking around the room for signs of a whip.

As if divining what he was looking for, Shé said, "I see that your welts are almost gone. Good. You probably don't want your Agency handler to see those. But if they give you comfort and arousal, think on what is on offer for you if you come with my people."

Trent couldn't argue that tracing welts on his skin aroused him. He didn't really give a shit about the concept of comfort.

No hello or anything when Maurice, backed up by an agent who positioned himself inside the door, stormed into Trent's hotel room two hours later.

He punched Trent in the stomach, and when Trent doubled over in surprise, Maurice backhanded him up under his chin, snapping his head back and sending him reeling back onto his bed. Maurice crouched over him, unzipping him and sliding his shorts off his legs, as Trent panted and fought to recover from the unexpected blows. Trent had gone hard.

"What is this I hear about you pulling a train for UN soldiers in Nicosia a couple of days ago? Why the fuck were you even in Cyprus earlier than you were supposed to be?"