Business Cruise

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“I don’t think you’ll find it that easy. I think . . . oh, here they are.”

Randy broke off his sentence and went into a pose at the semicircular banquette seat in the dimly lit hotel bar. He’d drawn attention to the entrance of the bar, where three men were standing, about to enter. I knew one of them, of course—Angelo, my pimp. He was Randy’s and my pimp to be more exact. The other two evidently were the two businessmen he’d lined Randy and me up to service. This was their hotel. Some sort of car parts manufacturing convention was going on here at this Baltimore hotel.

One of the men looked like he’d attend this sort of auto parts convention—big boned and big bodied, a blustery sort of guy, with a crooked nose, borderline ugly, florid face, and balding. He wore his suit uncomfortably, like he was more accustomed to be in coveralls on the assembly line. Looks were deceiving, I knew, though. I wouldn’t blow him off as being the lesser of the two for a big tip. He didn’t look like he did this regularly—more like the guilty feeling it would give him would loosen up his wallet for a good tip.

The other guy looked like he worked out a lot and would give a guy a good workout—like he’d expect good service without expectation of a guilt tip. He looked like he thought a lot of himself and spent a lot of time to make sure that others thought a lot of him too—muscular, walking on the balls of his feet, wavy, well-groomed hair, a carefully groomed permanent five-o’clock shadow look popular with male models. The first guy looked to be in his late forties, the “looker” appearing to be late thirties, but probably five years older than he looked.

Angelo? Well, he was thin and wiry, sneaky looking—sneaky more than in looks, though—appearing to be every bit the slimy two-bit hood that he was. Alligator shoes, sharkskin suit—reptilian in every way.

As they approached, both johns looking Randy and me over well, I wondered, as I always did when I went out on a job with another rent-boy, how the two would make their pick. Randy and I were much the same in appearance—both bottle blonds, with good faces and bodies. But where Randy was a bit boyish and undersized, I was more solid, a bit taller and more muscular. I’d been told we had the same, welcoming smile, but my eyes were hazel and Randy’s a watery blue. Of the two, I think Randy would give the impression of submitting to be manhandled, overwhelmed, quickly surrendering, whereas I’d provide more exercise and sass.

This being the case, I guess I wasn’t surprised that the older guy slid in beside Randy and the younger athlete beside me. Angelo sat on a stool at the open end of the banquette. “John and John,” he said, indicating the two johns. Neither Randy nor I were surprised they both were named John—or so we were told. I quickly thought of my guy as John 1 and Randy’s as John 2. “Steve and Mike,” he then said, pointing to me as Steve and Randy as Mike. Not our real names either. John 2 repeated our names and John 1 just nodded knowingly, once again indicating that John 2 was a neophyte at this and John 1 wasn’t.

Angelo stayed around for one drink and until the two Johns signaled they were satisfied and each passed him $200. Randy and I’d each get $75 of that. If we didn’t like the split, that was just tough. Early on I’d complained about that and the split I got was a lip.

The four of us had another drink and some nervous small talk. The older guy wanted a third drink and was ordering, when John 1 said, “I’ve had enough drink. Want to see my room, Steve?”

“Sure,” I said, and we left Randy and John 2 in the bar. I didn’t really think they’d last the third drink, though. Randy wanted to get on with it and move on to doing something else tonight. He had his hand on John 2’s basket under the cocktail table, and I could see that the old guy was heating up.

John 1 was as athletic, demanding, and impersonal as I’d thought he would be. He was just there for the exercise and to get off. He had a good body and a fine cock. I didn’t have any trouble performing for him. After we were naked with some standing in a clutch, undressing each other, and frotting our cocks hard while kissing, he sat down at the foot of the bed, spread his legs, pressed me down to a kneeling position, and held my head in position while I sucked his cock.

We then went through a see-saw progression of him lifting me and settling me on his cock in his lap, facing him, and me bouncing on his shaft until he growled for me to reach back for the carpet. I arched back, with my head and hands pressed to the floor and him pulling me off and on his cock with a strong hand grip on my hips. At his command, I raised my torso, he lay back on the bed, and I rode the shaft for a while. Then, on command, I arched back to the floor for him to take over the fuck for a while. Eventually, he told me to come and I did, and then he came inside me in his condom.

This was where the surprise came in, though. As I was building up to come, I heard a card key in the door, and John 2 entered the room. He had trousers and a bahis firmaları shirt on but not for long. As John 1 finished me, John 2 was getting naked and pulling on his cock. The two of them were pulling a two-fer. John 1 pushed me off onto the floor, got up and pulled on his trousers and shirt and went out the door—to go do Randy, I gathered.

I gathered that, because John 2 then did me. He wasn’t either the athlete or the looker that John 1 was, and he had a paunch on him. But he also had the thicker, longer cock, and he made the most of it. He was all business and in it for a quick and efficient ejaculation. He hauled me up from the floor, bent me over, belly to bed, mounted and penetrated me, and took me hard in a fast, deep pump as he grasped my hips with his hands.

I thought that was going to be it, but it wasn’t. John 2 wanted his blow job after the fuck, and then he wanted another fuck, this time pushing me onto the bed at the foot on my back, slapping my legs apart, and taking me in a swift missionary position.

He gave me a good tip afterward—even considering they’d taken a two-fer—and gruffly told me in one breath that I’d been a good lay and in the next to dress and get out of his room.

I went back down to the hotel bar, where Angelo was waiting for us. Randy wasn’t there. I wasn’t surprised. Whereas John 2 was a “bang-bang, thanks and get out” kind of client, John 1 got his exercise in a fuck. But I was wrong. Randy had already come down to the bar and left the hotel. I knew this because of what Angelo said next.

“Randy tells me you plan on cutting loose and going back to Philadelphia.”

“Thinking about it, yeah,” I answered guardedly. I knew he wouldn’t take it well, which is why I hadn’t said anything to him about it yet. I hadn’t planned to tell him at all; I’d planned just to split and disappear. I had been a fool to mention it to Randy. Earlier in the evening was the first time I’d mentioned it to anyone. “There’s a Chippendales show forming there at a club and I’ve been offered a place on the line,” I offered.

“Here, come with me a minute,” Angelo said, rising from his seat at the bar. I already was standing or maybe I wouldn’t have been so easy for him to move out of the bar and to the men’s room. In the men’s room, he sucker punched me—one to the solar plexus when I wasn’t expecting it and an upper cut to my chin as I was going down. He hauled me by my hair, pushed me into a stall, locked it behind us, slammed my head into the porcelain tank top a couple of times to daze me further, jerked my trousers down, mounted me, and fucked me hard.

After he’d come, he grabbed my hair again, his other hand gripping one of my wrists and pulling my arm high and painfully up my back, slammed my head into the toilet tank again, and muttered, “You’ll leave when I tell you you can go. Not before. Got that?”

Yeah, I got that message.

It wasn’t as bad as it might seem. The beating wasn’t to my liking, but Angelo fucked just fine. I was whining for it while he was fucking me. It was his cocking more than anything else that kept me with him.

* * * *

“Get in the car. You’re going on a cruise.”

I had been walking down the street out of the Fells Point area toward the inner harbor. It was still morning, but I wanted to get into the Fourth of July mood in the inner harbor early and keep in the mood through the fireworks over Fort McHenry, the origin of the national anthem, across the inner harbor from the promenade. The old, red Cadillac convertible, Angelo in the driver’s seat, top down—both the convertible and Angelo—had pulled up beside me.

“Day off. It’s a holiday, Angelo. I want to see the fireworks.”

“You get a holiday when I say you do,” Angelo said. “And if you want to see fireworks, I’ll show you fireworks. Get in the car. You’ve got a gig. Six guys in a fishing boat—all for you. Good pay. Get in the fuckin’ car,” he commanded once more.

I opened the passenger door, slid in, and closed the door behind me.

“This is about last night, isn’t it?” I said. “About me telling Randy I was going to leave. I was just kidding him, Angelo.” I wasn’t, of course, but my ears were still ringing from where they’d hit the porcelain in the hotel restroom. I was reconsidering my options. I shouldn’t have told him where I was planning to go. If I went there now, he could find me.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Angelo answered. “Either way, this is a gig you’re not going to forget.”

He was right.

We didn’t talk. He was driving fast and we were in a convertible, buffeted by wind and making more of its “I’m too old to be handled like this” structural sounds. He got on the Baltimore beltway and then off on 173, exiting into the Stony Point area and to a marina on the Patapsco River that leads into the Chesapeake Bay. There wasn’t much activity at the marina because most of the holiday voters had already shoved off and either had sailed up into the inner harbor to join in the festivities there or down into the Chesapeake Bay for the day. Only one yacht was being prepared kaçak iddaa to be taken out, and it obviously was the one I was going on. There were six thuggish, beefy guys milling around either doing something awkwardly enough to indicate they weren’t sailors or standing with cigars in their mouths, watching the others doing something.

My heart skipped a beat. Even though we weren’t real close to them, thuggish had entered my mind mainly because, although all were just in shorts and were hairy, beefy guys ranging from their late twenties into the forties, all had shoulder holsters on with guns at their armpits. If any guys looked like mafia, these were them.

As Angelo pulled up to the end of the dock, two guys peeled off from the pier beside the yacht and walked back to us. One guy was tall and heavy, beefy and hairy. He was mean looking, his nose looking like it had met a few too many fists, but the look of him making me think that whoever had hit him had gotten the worst of the beating. The other guy was muscular, but not fat. He also was a lot better looking. Still, he looked Italian—Sicilian even—and ready to win a fight. He too was matted with hair, but on him it looked stylish and sexy—black and curly, not so thick that you couldn’t see the hard body, and puffed up nipples, under it. Mean Looking went around to Angelo’s side of the car; Better Looking came around to my side.

Better Looking opened the passenger door and I stepped out, while Angelo said something to Mean Looking. I was looking into the eyes of Better Looking, wondering if he was going to top me, thinking from the way he was looking at me that he was, and if he was hung when his eyes opened wide, staring past me, and I heard to the two pops. Mean Looking’s gun must have had a silencer on it, because I didn’t immediately identify the pops with gunshots. I felt something sticky on my arm, though. I looked down. It was red—blood. Looking around, I saw Angelo slump over toward the passenger seat, his eyes open and dead looking. Mean Looking was standing there with his gun out.

I doubled over and wretched next to the passenger door, after which Better Looking grabbed me by the arms and started to hustle me onto the dock and toward the yacht. “Why’d you fuckin’ do that, Salvo,” he yelled as he herded me.

“He demanded twice what Tony said we were paying for the whore,” Mean Looking answered, like that justified his reaction.

I was in shock and too drained to move on my own. Better Looking, who was addressed as Nick as I was being manhandled onto the yacht, was doing all of the moving. In short order I was pushed below, into the bowels of the yacht, and to a small cabin, where I was dropped on a bunk that took up most of the space. Nick withdrew from the cabin, but as he did, Mean Looking—Salvo—pushed his way inside. He was still brandishing his gun and there was a wild-eyed look in his eyes. There was something else there too—something that was like satisfaction and lust from a kill. I knew this man liked killing things.

Pointing the gun at me, he commanded, “Strip down,” in a growl. Fumbling and numb, I did so. He had a cock out of his fly in no time flat. He was hard. Killing a man had made him hard.

After reaching down, grasping my ankles, and jerking my legs apart, he lay on top of me, his good two hundred and fifty pounds pinning me to the bed. His knees pressed between mine, keeping my legs spread apart. One of his hands gripped my throat and the other one held his gun, pointed to my head. I yelped and groaned as he entered me, dry and raw. He fucked me hard, settling down to a rhythm and losing some of his animal lust as he pounded me. He didn’t lose the gun he was holding to my head, though.

“Show me you want it. Fuck yourself on it,” he demanded, and went up on his knees, his cock withdrawing from me with just the bulb inside me. “Show me I don’t want to do you. Fuck me good.” Trembling and moaning from fright as much as anything, I bent my knees, put my feet flat on the bed, and started fucking myself on his hard shaft. He was thick, and as I moved my pelvis and opened to him, my rhythm became more steady and my moans were more about the cock inside me than my fear. I turned my cheek to the bed, lifted my arms for the first time, and grasped the back of his head, running my fingers into his greasy hair. I had half a notion to go for the gun, but I knew there was little chance of surviving that. And a part of me wanted him to come inside me too—to finish me raw and make me come as well. It was an exciting feeling for a man to come inside me if the decision wasn’t mine—if I wasn’t given any chance to weigh in on the safety of it.

He laughed. “Yeah, I knew you wanted it,” he muttered.

“Fuck me,” I murmured.

“What was that? Say it louder. Yell it.”

“Fuck me! Screw me to the bed! Fuck my lights out! Give me your cum!” I cried out, arching my back. With another laugh, he placed his free hand on the small of my back, pressing my butt up to his crotch, and took over the fuck. Now that he was inside me and taking over the kaçak bahis fuck, fucking me good, I concentrated on that more than on the danger I was in.

This was why I was a rent-boy—because I liked having men inside me, plowing me. And some of the tension drained out of me—not all, not by any means—and I settled into the fuck, moving with him, responding to the raw intimacy of the barebacking, which I preferred and felt no guilt over under these circumstances. He felt it too—I could tell. He was groaning in harmony with me and loosening his grip on me, reaching for my cock and stroking me off as he fucked, knowingly giving me pleasure too. But just as he was loosening up on me to the point of me wondering again if I should make a grab for the gun, he came in a flood of cum and pressed the barrel of the gun to my temple.

Better Looking—Nick—appeared at the door. “Knock it off, Salvo, and leave him be.”

“He saw. He’s a witness, Nick.”

“He’s also the guy we bought to service Tony. What’ll you say if Tony asks for his lay and you have to say you splattered his brains all over the cabin wall? Where we gonna get another lay for Tony before we have to cast off? Leave him be for now.”

Salvo climbed off me, backed out of the cabin, and closed the door, locking me in. I lay there, working at not hyperventilating, trying to calm myself. When the ringing stopped in my ears, I realized that the yacht was moving.

* * * *

The cabin door opened. I felt a flood of relief that it was Nick rather than Salvo.

“If you can hold yourself together and do what you have to do, you can come topside,” he growled, not smiling. “You’re here to service Tony. He’s the one with the cigar. If you can’t behave, I’ll move you to Tony’s cabin and he’ll deal with you later. You won’t like the result.”

“I can manage,” I said. I almost added, “If you can keep that Salvo animal away from me,” but I didn’t think Nick would see the point of that. I’d yelled how good Salvo was fucking me while he was doing it loud enough for everyone on the ship to hear me.

“OK, then. Put this on.” He tossed a white thong bikini swimsuit to me—just a pouch in front and a string running up the crack behind. He was wearing just a Speedo himself, and he was looking in great shape.

He watched me as I put it on, his eyes plastered to my crotch. I brushed past him but then stood in the narrow corridor, close to him, feeling the heat of his body, seeing that he was hard, and letting him go up the ladder to the yacht deck in front of me. We paused briefly, long enough for him to grab a kiss and a grope. I knew he wanted to fuck me. I’d do what I could to play on that.

Topside, the five other guys were lined up at the railing with fishing poles. Only the oldest of them, nearly bald, with salt-and-pepper hair all over him everywhere else, was sitting in a chair bolted to the deck. He was short and pot-bellied and was smoking a cigar, so I knew he was Tony. The boat was anchored in deep water. I could barely see a coastline to the west. We couldn’t have gotten any farther than the Chesapeake Bay, but, for all I knew, we were still in the Patapsco River.

“Come here, you little fucker. Give me luck,” Tony called out. He was gesturing at me with a meaty paw. I went over to him, and he pulled me in between his legs, facing the water, letting me perch a bit on his raised-seat chair. His crotch was pressed against my virtually bare buttocks. He wasn’t going hard, which I thought should be the effect if I was here for him to fuck. I wondered if he’d need drugs to get it up.

The six guys already were talking business, their business seeming to have something to do with a rival gang in Jersey, across the river from New York City. There seemed to be a problem of a turf war. They talked about rubbing this guy and that guy out—either that they had already done so and were discussing the possible fallout from that or they were weighing the merits of doing so and discussing the possible fallout of that. This wasn’t good for me—that they were so openly discussing this in my presence.

Other than riding herd on the discussion, not making suggestions but either taking them under advisement or shooting them down with his reasons, Tony was interested in the fishing. He wanted to land a big one. I came in for third in his attention. He clearly was interested in me, though. I could feel him going hard inside his shorts now—he just took a while to go hard, which relieved me on the drug need question—and he was pawing me. But he did so absentmindedly, as if I didn’t rank high in his list of priorities. Since he obviously was the big cheese here, I needed him to need me, so I let my hands wander and he showed a little more interest.

Someone down the line—a guy named Mario, who appeared to be Tony’s lieutenant and was in his late thirties, in pretty good condition, but as hairy and thuggish as the rest, caught a fish. That turned their conversation off business and all were intent on catching something. Salvo caught a fish and then a young guy, thinner than the rest, not yet fully thuggish, caught one. This seemed to make Tony a bit mad—that the thug in training had caught a fish and he hadn’t. He pushed me off his lap, ready to concentrate more seriously on catching a fish.

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