Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

I was bent over the bed on my belly, my arms spread out wide, held at the wrists by strong hands, my legs spread, and Salim's cock sliding into me. I knew it was Salim now. No illusions. I no longer needed Sa'eed as a buffer. I had had weeks since the encounter and I had worked it all out in my mind, had relived the taking by the son—not the father—over and over again. This was a strong, young, virile cock stretching my channel walls as it moved up inside me.

His chest was hovering over my back and his lips were in the hollow of my neck. He raised them and nipped me on the ear lobe and then put his mouth near mine. "You wanted Sa'eed last time," he growled. "Well I have found some of his love poetry, if that's what you want."

The velvet sheath whispers its sadness at the wandering sword

The sword hears the song; its blade shimmers and sings in return

Searching for its velvet sheath, singing to it to open to the sword . . .

At each use of the word "sword," he thrust his cock deeper inside me. I struggled again with the confusion of who was covering me and making love to me.

"No, no, Salim," I protested. "It's you I want, not the ghost of your father."

"Then this is how Salim fucks his men," he barked. And he turned me and flung me to the carpet, bringing me up on all fours and mounted my ass like a dog and pistoned me with long, rapid, deep strokes and slapping my butt with the palm of his hand as I cried out and grunted and moaned—and came in three gushes on the carpet. But still he rode me, until my knees and palms were bruised from carpet burns and gave out and I went down flat on the floor while he rode me some more—to his own completion.

I loved every second of it. I'd never felt so taken before.

* * * *

"I suppose you wondered why I came to Geneva," Salim said as we were laying in the bed and enjoying a smoke and talking of his father—with me doing most of the talking. Salim didn't seem all that interested in talking about his father.

"Are you going to tell me?" I asked. I hadn't, in fact, wondered a bit why he was here. I had assumed, foolish old man that I was, that he had come for me, that he couldn't stay away from me—but I couldn't say I'd actually thought about it. I could tell by his asking of the question, however, that there was something he wanted to tell me—no doubt something he wanted me to do for him. And I was right.

"I am more or less, as we say in the States, on the lam," he said.

"What have you done?"

"Nothing, of course. But there seem to be some Treasury Department funds missing."

"How much?"

"Not much. About $120,000. A computer system upgrade was contracted and delivered, but somehow the payment is missing."

"And you want me to help you?" I knew the answer to that question, so I just continued on. "How?"

"Can you launder the money for me?"

I had done many things that were not completely on the up and up in my career—especially in the similar favors I did for Arab groups—and I was in love. So, my answer was not that much of a decision for me.

Our trysts in the Kipling Hotel room continued until I informed Salim that his money was clean. The cocking that afternoon after I told him his money was clear seemed a little desultory, but I reasoned that even young men would have their off days now and again.

When I came out of the shower, Salim was gone, and an expensively suited middle-aged man of military bearing was sitting in the club chair.

"Hello, Herr Bragger," he said. "I am Sam Winterberry of the American embassy, and I believe that you are the principal attendant of several secret Mideast terrorist bank accounts at the Banca Privata Reichstein."