Triple Magnum Nabilum

I had to turn my eyes away from the penetrating stare of Finn Bergstrum, so I took my first good look at his assistant, Nabil. "Satyr" was the first thought that entered my mind, and I almost was able to imagine two little horns above his ears there. Sharp, swarthy features with that almost sneer of a smile that was close to the edge of presumption and cruelty without losing an ability to claim interest and encouragement if challenged. Jet black hair and eyes, and that pointed goatee that accentuated the struggle between sensitivity and raw animalism. The struggle accentuated by the hand that reached out for his wine glass: Long, sensuous artist's finger, but curly black hair on the back of the hand down to his knuckles. He was giving me a proprietary look—which, of course, was his privilege. I'd been bought and paid for to be here.

I looked back at Bergstrum, embarrassed at the feeling that I was distinctly out of my depth and perhaps even out of my league, and further embarrassed that anything like this could ever embarrass me after what I'd seen in this business. When Leon had set this up and handed me the air tickets, he only said that this was a very special corporate arrangement, that I'd been very lucky to be selected, and that I should be very accommodating. From the amount on the accompanying check, I decided that, indeed, I could be very accommodating. I'd flown to Zurich, checked in by prior arrangement at the Hotel Softel, and had barely slept for five hours before I was called down to the hotel's intimate and heavily masculine "gentlemen's" bar.

I had known the name Finn Bergstrum even before being handed the assignment. Who hadn't heard of it? Entrepreneur on the grand scale. Instant relief to corporations in the need of being saved and even more immediate panic in the halls of corporations rumored to have been added to his takeover lists. Reclusive, eccentric, somewhere just short of God, the tabloids said. And whispers about his sexual tastes and capabilities as well—at least in the pools in which I swam. Well, I'd just met him, and already I was trembling. This didn't normally happen to me.

He was ugly as sin, a regular gargoyle. But when I looked back at him, here in the Softel Hotel's dimly lit gentlemen's bar, I was overwhelmed by his presence and the raw power he exuded. He could have tipped me over this table right here, stripped me, and plowed me in front of all of the sedate bankers and brokers sitting around us sipping their martinis and smoking their Cuban cigars and I would have moaned and moved my hips for him.

Craggy features, chiseled in a Mount Everest rawness and a powerful body, barely contained by a tailored silk tuxedo—heavy but obviously built for stamina and speed, the muscled presence of a bison. He filled the room; he owned the room. Strong hands the size of hubcaps and thick, gnarly fingers that set my butt atwitching.

There was no doubt why I was here, what I was supposed to do for him. This is what I did. I'd been told the bare facts of the deal. He'd agreed not to take over a major U.S. corporation for certain remunerations and accommodations. I—or someone like me—was just one of the accommodations. Just for one night. All the way from New York to Zurich just for one night. What I'd found in my paycheck was more than enough to cover anything that would happen in that one night. I'd done this before—if, certainly, not on this scale.

"So, is all understood, Mr. Smith?" Bergstrum asked me, as he took a long, thin cigar out of his mouth and tapped its ash head carefully in a silver-lined wooden tray. As he did so, I noticed three silver boxes, of varying lengths and widths laying on the surface of the cocktail table between us.

His milky blue eyes, peeking out from under bushy silver-gray eyebrows, pierced me, and I looked away quickly, down to his hand, resting atop the stack of boxes. Those thick fingers. My butt twitched again. Projecting ahead. Trying to remember whether I'd heard anything specific from the rumors about his proclivities.

"Yes, certainly," I answered. "I am ticketed for an early morning flight. I assume—"

"Of course I know your flight schedule, Mr. Smith," Bergstrum said, overriding my sentence.

"Then—," I started to say, indicating that I was quite prepared to vacate the bar and get on with the evening.

"Oh, do finish your drink, Mr. Smith," Bergstrum said. "I don't think that Nabil here has finished admiring you yet. And what do you think of my assistant, Nabil, Mr. Smith? Do you find him . . . suitable?"

"Ummm. Yes, of course," I stammered. What in the hell did that mean, I wondered.

"Nabil, here, is my right-hand man, Mr. Smith. My hands and eyes and my ears and my . . . well, let's just say all of my appendages."

Well, Hokay, I thought. But I wasn't being paid to be confused or smart. So I turned my face toward Nabil and gave him a friendly smile. He gave me back a smartassed look fully conveying that this night would be a double. Well, that was OK, too. That was no surprise. I couldn't shake the satyr image that pinged at my brain every time I looked at him. He wasn't tall or thin, but he was strongly built. I gauged him to be Turkish probably. Some Mediterranean blend certainly. Somewhat of a surprise set off against the hulking Norwegian. And much younger than Bergstrum. The image of the two of them fucking flashed through my mind. This was immediately followed by the vision of the two of them fucking me, and my hand trembled a little. Nabil would be nothing new, other than that satyrish puckishness about him. But Bergstrum. I just didn't know. I didn't usually lose control on the job, and he was such an ugly lump. But there was something about him that had me off balance. Those fingers. I looked at them again. Strong, thick. I couldn't help but thinking of—

"Three boxes, Mr. Smith." Bergstrum was holding up the top, squarish silver box over the table between us. "Perhaps you can give us some idea of your preference."

He flipped open the lid of the box away from me. Cigars. Five cigars, of varying brands laid out in a row, snuggled into red velvet as if they were the crown jewels—and, although I knew next to nothing about cigars, I had no doubt that these cigars were as preciously bought as crown jewels.

"Oh, no thank you," I said. "I don't smoke. Thanks anyway."

"Oh, these aren't for smoking, Mr. Smith." He paused and gave me a broad, friendly smile. I turned to Nabil; he gave me a leery grin.

"Let me tell you how we rate cigars," Bergstrum continued after that pregnant pause. "First, by length. All of these in this box are six inches or less in length. Sort of the standard size; but maybe a bit long . . . for a cigar." He gave me a piercing look; gauging whether I was following his meaning. I wasn't a dummy; I understood we weren't talking about cigars.

"The other rating is in girth, diameter, if you will, Mr. Smith. We call this rating ring gauge. A sixty-four ring gauge would be equal to an inch. The cigars in this box all range around fifty ring gauge. Again, a bit thick for a cigar . . . if perhaps a somewhat disappointing thickness for, well, you know."

Yes, I did know.

"But we have several cigars here," Bergstrum said, and he flashed me a broad smile.

"So," he continued, "there are some very nice cigars in this case. Indian Tabac Cameroon Legenda Gorilla—interesting name, wouldn't you say? At six inches in length and a fifty-eight ring gauge, it's quite a formidable cigar, as cigars go. Or perhaps one of my favorites; this is a La Gloria Cubana Series R., No. 6, which is slightly shorter at five and seven-eighths inches, but a bit thicker at a sixty ring gauge. Do these interest you, Mr. Smith, or would you like to see what is in the second box before noting a preference?"

"Oh, let's look in the second box," I said. Obviously I'd said the right thing, as both Bergstrum and Nabil gave me approving looks.

"You'll notice this box is longer than the first one, Mr. Smith," Bergstrum said in hushed tones. "These are the truly extraordinary gems of the cigar world." He took up the second box and flipped it open. Surprise. More cigars. Longer and thicker than those in box number one. Same silver encasing, blue velvet lining this time.

I could tell these were special to Bergstrum. He lifted them out one at a time, his hands trembling a bit. Those thick fingers lovingly handling the cigars. I could feel the heat rising in me. This was unusual for me. Bergstrum had something in him that aroused me. I had little question why he was so successful in the business world. Most probably called it charisma. I had other names for it.

"We are into the longer beauties now, Mr. Smith. Very few exist at this level. The Casa Blanca Magnum, at seven inches and a ring gauge of sixty is lovely, don't you think? Or this Padron Magnum Maduro at a full nine inches, fifty ring gauge." He was expecting me to be impressed, and I was impressed. I was being well paid to be impressed. I would have been less impressed if we were really talking about cigars, but, of course, we weren't.

"Now we could improve upon those, but we'd have to make choices." Bergstrum was continuing on. At this point I don't think he even needed me in the room. Nabil was sitting closer to Bergstrum now, and he was looking intently, worshipfully at the older man. And he had a hand on Bergstrum's inner thigh. This was obviously something of a precoital ceremony for the two of them. I said nothing. My paycheck was already banked.

"For length, you might like the Perfecxion A Giant, at nine and a quarter inches, but only a forty-seven ring gauge. And if your preference went to thickness, here's a Special Jamaican Rey Del Rey, at nine inches, but with a ring gauge of sixty. What do you think, Mr. Smith? Are these interesting to you, or should we perhaps go back to the first box?" Bergstrum's voice was rasping now. Nabil's hand had found his basket and was gently massaging it.

"No, this box is fine," I said, trying my best to match Bergstrum's rasping voice and to show him lustful eyes. He was clearly pleased. And I'll have to admit that the lustful eyes required no acting. Nabil's other hand was on my basket now, and I was showing him that I, indeed, was following along with this game.

"Then just maybe you might be interested in Orson Welles's favorite, Mr. Smith?"

"Yes, I was wondering about that one," I said in a breathy voice, having had my eye on the last cigar in the box ever since Bergstrum had opened it. If Nabil didn't stop his attentions, I might come right here in the gentlemen's bar. I could see by the way he'd tented up Bergstrum's pants that I hadn't been mistaken about those chunky fingers of his.

"This is a Casa Blanca Jeroboam," Bergstrum said, his voice full of wonder. "Orson Welles's cigar of choice. Ten inches long and a sixty-six ring gauge."

We all sat there for a moment, drinking in the size of that humongous cigar. Nabil was still stroking Bergstrum's crotch, but he had abandoned mine for his own.

"Would you like to make choices for Nabil and me, Mr. Smith?"

I contemplated the pickings for a few brief moments, wondering what would be most acceptable. "How about the Perfecxion A Giant for Nabil?" I said.

"And for me?" Bergstrum's eyes were slitted and his chest was heaving up and down from the attention Nabil was giving him.

"The Casa Blanca Jeroboam, of course," I said.

That had been the right answer, obviously. But I pressed on. "But what about the third box?" I asked. I could see it was longer than the other two, although much narrower.

"Ah, that would be the Triple Magnum Nabilum," Bergstrum said. "Perhaps later."

Both Bergstrum and his assistant were struggling up out of their plush club chairs at that point.

* * *

Bergstrum's room at the Softel, or rooms, I should say, were about twelve times larger than the accommodations I had been given. And they were about four degrees plusher even though, had I not seen Bergstrum's digs, I would have assumed that I'd been given the best accommodations in the hotel.

But I didn't really see much of the room. As far as the decor went, my eyes were mainly on the edge of the canopy over Bergstrum's massive bed. I was on my back at the edge of the bed, holding my thighs up and out, and Bergstrum was hunched between them and working my ass canal with the Perfecxion A. Giant cigar I'd selected for Nabil, while Nabil was over to the side, clearly in my vision, stripping down.

The cigar was somewhat of a surprise; the foreplay down in the gentlemen's bar hadn't been as symbolic as I had imagined it would be. I really was being fucked by an expensive nine and a half-inch cigar. But in my line of business and at the prices I commanded, this wasn't as surprising as some other moments in my life had been.

Nabil was much more of a surprise. The satyr impression held true. His dark-skinned well-muscled torso was smooth skin down to the waist, with the exception of patches of black curly hair around his ring-pierced nipples, but when he stripped his tuxedo pants off, I could hardly tell he'd done so. From the waist down, he was covered in thick, curly black hair that looked almost like a pelt. His forearms were equally hirsute. If he'd had cloven feet, I would have sworn he was a true satyr. As it was he certainly was horse hung.

Leaving the Perfecxion A Giant buried in my ass, Bergstrum moved back to the other side of me from where Nabil had stripped and sank into a chair, still well within my line of vision. Nabil cantered up to him and Bergstrum took Nabil's cock in his mouth and worked it up. After only a few moments, however, Nabil walked back over to me and retrieved the cigar. He went to a side table, put the cigar in his mouth, struck a match to the tip of the cigar, and took a few puffs. Then he returned to Bergstrum, stuck the cigar in Bergstrum's mouth, sank down to his knees between Bergstrum's thighs, unzipped the hulking Norwegian's tux fly, and fed on the huge piece of meat he found there. Bergstrum let his head loll back on the top of the chair and hummed and puffed on the cigar. After a bit, he groaned and lurched, and I could tell he had come.

He picked up box number two from a table beside the chair and handed Nabil the Casa Blanca Jeroboam cigar. Nabil approached me between my now relaxed legs, lifted my legs up and out, and made clear I was to hold my own legs up, which I did—ever mindful of what I was being paid for this—while he fucked me with the thicker and longer Casa Blanca Jeroboam.

Bergstrum sat in his chair, legs thrown out, cigar puffing, and a beefy hand stroking his own cock back to life as he watched Nabil slowly, and inventively work my ass canal with the Casa Blanca Jeroboam. At length, Bergstrum gave a hoarse cough, lurched up from his chair and joined Nabil between my legs. He forced the wet end of the Perfecxion alongside the Casa Blanca Jeroboam inside me, and I now was being fucked more fully and quite deeply with two counterpistoning cylinders of expensive tobacco. Nabil was working my nipples with his free hand and Bergstrum was stroking my cock and they were doing a good lip lock on each other. Those strong, beefy fingers of Bergstrum's wrapped around my cock and stroking it. Oh, Gawd. And they continued this until I ejaculated.

Then it was Bergstrum back in his chair, with Nabil kneeling between his thighs and giving him another blow job.

"You asked about the third box, Mr. Smith," Bergstrum called over to me. "About the Triple Magnum Nabilum."

"Umm, umm," I replied. Still mellow after my meltdown.

He lifted and opened the third box, which had been lying under box number two on the table. He turned and showed me the contents of the box.

Surprise. Yet another cigar. But, carumba, what a cigar.

"Ten and a half inches long, 120 ring gauge. Almost not big enough to get in my mouth, Mr. Smith. I have these made specially for me. And do you know where the name came from, Mr. Smith?"

"Umm, umm," I repeated.

"Triple Magnum Nabilum, Mr. Smith. Nabilum. From Nabil, Mr. Smith. Our own Nabil here provided the specifications for them, Mr. Smith."

"Umm, umm," I managed.

"And now I smoke this, Mr. Smith . . . while you smoke Nabil."

Oh.

While I watched Bergstrum lean back in his chair, legs thrown out, mouth puffing his huge Triple Magum Nabilum, and his hand stroking his cock, he watched Nabil fuck me with his ten-and a half-inch long, two-inch-in-diameter cock through much of the rest of the night.

Despite all of my professional training, I cried out at the first entry, and moaned and groaned and bunched up clumps of satin bedspread in my fists and did what I could not to bite off my tongue as a sneering satyr of prodigious proportions and inhuman staying power fucked me to his completion. The satyr image kept floating up, as our hips swung back and forth, my legs wrapped around his waist and my hands gripping the heavy pelting of his bulbous buttocks and heavily muscled thighs. I had been trained to please a man, and I could tell that Nabil was beside himself with lust to be drawn as far as he could inside me and to explore every nook and cranny of my channel. As he was about to pull out of me for his first shooting, I contracted my canal closely around his sword and held him inside me, riding his pelvis hard as he twitched and then lurched again and again and again. A series of little cries from the direction of Bergstrum's chair gave evidence that he was joining us in release.

After ejaculating, Nabil brought his mouth down onto my nipples and ravished them while he stroked me to another flowing. Then he turned me belly down on the bed and fucked me again to ejaculation and then turned me and dug in even deeper and stretched me even wider, with Bergstrum puffing on his Triple Magnum Nabilum and coming in consort with Nabil's spoutings as if they practiced this every night.

On the plane trip home the next morning, as the soreness of my body and my inability to close my legs made me ever grateful for the first class ticket, my one regret was that Bergstrum hadn't fucked me. I left aching for that. That was the power he had.

Maybe next time.