Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

When I drove back into the embassy compound and turned the keys of the embassy car over to the garage supervisor, he told me, "The ambassador has requested that you go see him when you've returned."

I was afraid of this. In fact this was much of the reason that I had let my defenses down to Amir el-Basir and then, after he'd first gotten his dick inside him, had just given way, letting all of my defenses shatter on the marble floor of his pool house. I been walking gingerly around like on broken glass since I'd arrived in the emirate, knowing that at some point I'd meet up with the ambassador.

"In his office?" I asked, hoping.

"No, in the residence."

Shit.

Hunter Sean Caldwell II. He hadn't been the ambassador when I'd first received my assignment to this country. The assignment had come as a surprise, while I was still training in tech craft, mostly audio surveillance, at Warrenton, after finishing my masters in Muslim studies. I wasn't exactly at the head of my class at Warrenton, and some of my fellow students weren't that pleased that I'd gotten an assignment so early. But then most of them were still struggling with languages. My Arabic was fluent already.

I had already sublet my apartment in Rosslyn, near the Pentagon, and sold my Mustang convertible when I'd read that Caldwell would be the new ambassador. Hunter Sean Caldwell II, the last man, before today, who had fucked me. The first man who had fucked me. Before Amir just now, the only man who had fucked me. The man who I thought was a master at cocking until I encountered Amir.

Caldwell had been both the direct ancestor of the founder of Caldwell College, a university prep junior college for jocks—my sport being tennis—and its president at the time I came to his attention. I was on a work-study scholarship to augment my sports scholarship and I served drinks and hors d'oeuvre at his cocktail parties.

He was having a rough time in his marriage. I didn't know it then, but his penchant for young blond men was the crux of the problem. One night after a cocktail party, when his wife wasn't in evidence because she had flounced off to Europe, I was still cleaning up when all of the rest of the servers had left. Caldwell came into his living room, his tux tie undone and his shirt open to show a well-muscled chest covered in salt-and-pepper, curly hair, and sat in a wing chair, watching me under drooping eyelids and drinking scotch from a bottle. I could tell that he was keyed up.

He told me I could stop and that he wanted me to sit with him and talk with him. We passed the bottle back and forth while he told me of all his problems with his wife and the school and life in general. He also told me what a fine-looking young man I was and how well I could do in the university on the bases of a good recommendation from his school. He told me, in guarded references, of his weakness for young blond men, not spelling out the manifestation of the weakness but saying enough that I could hardly claim I didn't know what he was saying.

As earlier today, after tennis with Amir, I could have left at that point and we both could have maintained at least surface denial of what was being offered, requested. But the offer had been couched in references to my future and my good standing in the college. And I can't say that I hadn't been curious or tempted before. I can't say that Caldwell hadn't been able to read my vulnerability and natural inclination.

He could hold his liquor better than I could. I have no idea at what point he was kneeling between my thighs and giving me the first blow job I ever had from a man.

He fucked me in the backseat of his Mercedes in the garage, saying he didn't feel right about doing it in the house. But that was a one-time taboo. He had no trouble fucking me in the house for the months afterward. The backseat of a Mercedes in a closed garage is a hell of a place to lose your male-male virginity, but I was drunk, he was the college president, and I was barely making it through on combined scholarships—scholarships that he controlled.

He was gentle with me under the circumstances, my first ejaculation occurring while he was still sucking me and working my body with his hands as I was on my knees between his thighs, facing him in, the center of the backseat of his Mercedes. My ineffectual murmur of objection as he pulled me down into his lap and I felt the hard insistence of him. I can still hear the unzipping of his trousers in my then liquor-clouded mind as he had my torso bent back toward the front seat and was sucking on my nipples.

I remember murmuring that I'd never done it before and then the feel of the bulb of his cock at my entrance. The long, slow, painful journey of my channel down that pole, which wasn't unusually long but, I didn't know it at the time, was unusually thick, seemed like a telephone pole to me. And then, once I felt the curly hair of his pubes on my ass cheeks, the rocking back and forth on his cock, one of his arms around my waist and the hand of the other between our bellies, stroking my cock hard again. The pleasure rising up to overlay, and then overpower, the pain. My second ejaculation, and his bathing of my channel. He hadn't worn a condom. The kisses and his, voiced, but surely not seriously meant, apologies afterward as I continued to rock on the cock and it withered inside me were almost anticlimactic.

I remember having been slightly irritated at his insistence that I had just been teasing him about not having done it before and, worse, having maneuvered him into the tryst—all voiced to justify his own actions and weakness, I'm sure. But what was done had been done and I needed his goodwill, so I didn't argue. I have no idea what he would have done, how he would have reacted, if I had cried or railed against him. Since I didn't, obviously, in his mind, I had wanted it.

The apologies didn't prevent him from fucking me again that night and over the next few months again and again and again. And until Amir el-Basir fucked me, I thought that Caldwell was an expert at it and that I was lucky to have him servicing me once I had been accustomed and drawn to it.

After I'd moved on to Stanford to major in Muslim studies, with a full tennis scholarship, I left that behind and managed to forget what I'd had to do to get through junior college.

But that wasn't really fair. Much like having given in to Amir el-Basir once he'd gotten his dick inside me that first time, once the awkwardness of the backseat of the car and the first breaching of my ass ring by a cock was over, I had nothing left to protect, and I had enjoyed Caldwell's cocking. He must have enjoyed cocking me, because, though we parted amicably enough when I went off to Stanford and he presumably moved on to other young blonds, he'd obviously kept track of me and had requested my assignment to his embassy when he was tapped to be an ambassador.

A Filipino manservant opened the door of the residence, which was a wing of the recently constructed American embassy complex, built like a fortress in a compound that could withstand a siege or a rocket attack. No one looking at the building from the courtyard would even know what was office space and what was the ambassador's residence as well as the residences of other senior embassy officials.

I obviously was expected, as I only had to give my name to be ushered to a central, two-story foyer with a huge skylight overhead and a staircase sweeping up to a second-floor landing. The manservant gestured toward the stairs and looked at me expectantly.

"I'm to go upstairs?" I asked. "And then where?" I had never been in the residence. I'd only been in the country for two weeks and most of that was on leave in a hotel, busy trying to set up new living circumstances. The embassy admin officer was the one who actually arranged for housing. Mine hadn't been set up yet, and he seemed to be dragging his feet on getting me settled. I was still in the hotel.

"Excuse me, sir," the manservant said. "Yes, up the stairs, down the corridor, and the last door on the right." He gave me a look that seemed peculiar, but what did I know about the looks that Filipinos gave? And what did it matter anyway? Filipinos, like the Thai, were favorites as house servants for the wealthy for their ability to fade into the wallpaper and to take anything going on in the house in their stride—not judging, at least overtly, just serving, and serving well. After giving me directions, the Filipino houseboy withdrew—into the wallpaper for all I knew.

I knocked on the door and heard Caldwell's voice, bidding me to enter. The room I entered obviously was his bedroom—large, elegantly decorated, and with a commanding four-poster bed. I can't say I was surprised.

I also couldn't say I was surprised that he was standing at a full-length French door out onto a narrow balcony that looked down on an interior garden courtyard. Even though the courtyard was enclosed, mostly by the blank walls of other areas of the embassy, the view was distorted enough for me to know that the glass was thick and bulletproof. Nor was I surprised that he was in a robe of a gauzy material thin enough for me to tell, with the backdrop of the sunlight streaming into the window, that he was naked underneath. He was still in superb condition, these six years later, for a man in his late fifties—solidly built and somewhat stocky, but not fat. And he was half hard, with a thickness that I well remembered.

I stood inside the door, which swung shut on its own behind me. We said nothing for half a minute, during which he gave me a sardonic look and took a couple of swigs of whatever he was drinking out of a brandy snifter. Liquor. My softening-up vulnerability. He had made me drunk before fucking me at college. Amir had made me drunk before fucking me in his pool house earlier in the day.

Caldwell didn't offer me a drink. We were way beyond that.

"So, here you are. I understand you were playing tennis with Prince el-Basir's son."

"Yes."

"Went on a bit long."

"Yes."

"I put the word out two hours ago that I wanted to see you."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd call for me today. I've been here a couple of weeks. As you surmised, the tennis went on a little long." If I had meant how long he'd left me cooling my heels before summoning me as a criticism, he didn't show it. If he hadn't mellowed, he didn't really care all that much what I felt about anything. What my statement did establish, though, was that I believed I was here to answer whatever summons he made.

"And what happened afterward? Did he fuck you after tennis?"

I didn't answer. There probably was no need, in Hunter's mind, for me to answer. But that was a bit unfair. After Hunter, there had been nobody—until earlier today. Hunter obviously thought otherwise. Instead of answering that question, I introduced another topic. "I didn't know you were to be ambassador here."

"I didn't want you to know until after it was impossible for you to back out of your assignment. Does that bother you?"

"A bit, yes. I wasn't up for a foreign assignment yet. May I assume that you arranged that?"

"Muriel has left me. I'm on assignment alone. It's a tense assignment, and I have needs."

"I see," I said.

"I like the familiar. I knew of your schooling and training and that you'd fit this assignment. I didn't want to take risks, to establish new arrangements here. I knew that, with you—"

"I said that I understood."

He had put the snifter down on a table next to the window and was unbuttoning his robe. He parted the robe, which showed that he was in full erection now. He was beefy, but hard bodied. I knew that he was an avid squash player and worked out with weights. He probably still could break me in two. "It's been a long time, but I haven't forgotten. Have you?"

I knelt in front of him at the window, opened my mouth wide, by necessity, and gave him head until he growled that he wanted me naked and on the bed.

He fucked me swiftly, missionary style, to an ejaculation, and then we lay on the bed, our bodies stretched out against each other and our hands exploring, reacquainting ourselves with the hardness and suppleness of each other's bodies. Caldwell was thick but not particularly long, and he never could last long at a time. Since he'd been my only one before Amir, I had thought that sex with him was quite hot. After Amir, I wasn't sure. But that didn't really matter. He was the man in control. I knuckled under easily to a man in control.

When he had engorged again, I rolled over on top of him, saddled myself on his cock, and rode the cock cowboy style, rocking back and forth on the cock, as I knew he liked. Still, there was a businesslike, perfunctory air about it. There would be no emotional entanglements. He had tensions with his job. My major job was to be to help relieve those—without fuss or demands.

I'd never really heard of a man having a male mistress, and now it seemed that I was to be one.

"You have kept in good form," he whispered when we were laying, entwined again.

"There was no one after you," I murmured. "I want you to know that. I couldn't have gotten this job, if there was. And I probably won't be able to keep the job if—"

"I can smell another man on you," he said. "An expensive cologne. Amir el-Basir? You didn't answer me before."

"I haven't lied about there being no other man—up to today," I answered. "But knowing you were here . . . I just was riddled with worry and confusion. And vulnerable. And he's the son of a prince. I didn't get the impression I had much choice."

"I understand," he said. "But you are with me now."

"Yes," I said. "I am with you now." I didn't want to tell him that I had already arranged the next time I would be with Amir. And, indeed, I was to meet and lie under Amir at least twice a week thereafter. And Amir would take much more from me than just sex and a tennis workout. He controlled me with sex in a way that the ambassador never had and never would, and I could deny nothing that he asked of me.

"I will have your things moved from the hotel. You will be staying with me here. The Marine guards think it would be safer if there was someone else staying inside the residence—one of the younger male staffers. The Marines are already overstretched on duties. For propriety sake, your assigned bedroom will be just across the hall, but . . ."

At least now I knew why the admin officer had been dragging his feet on finding me an apartment.

But that too didn't last very long. Two months later I received a note in my mail slot at the embassy that an apartment had been assigned. It was only later that night, after Hunter had fucked me like a dog at the foot of the four-poster bed, swiftly and with little emotion, that he told me that his son would be arriving by the end of the week, to live with him in the ambassador's quarters, and that I would be housed separately, although I was still expected to attend him when he felt he needed it and could arrange it.

The introduction of the ambassador's son into the equation changed much and nearly spoiled everything.