Decoy

Khoury, tall and beefy and a bit plump, was standing on the floor between Jared’s raised and spread legs. His naked torso was crouched over Jared’s and his fists locked on Jared’s wrists. He was staring down into Jared’s face, savoring the changing expressions from every thrust, withdrawal, and thrust of the not long, but slug-plump cock.

Both the young black man being balled and the Syrian arms buyer balling him were having a ball.

In the main club room, Bourek and Jamila sat at the same table, sipping their drinks, watching male strippers dancing on poles on the stage, and biding their time. It was obvious that Jamila was becoming increasingly discomforted. She had an exotic look about her that was being mistaken as that of a beautiful transvestite in this gay club, and interested men were floating around, coming ever closer to asking if she was here alone or really was with that bruiser of a sour-faced man who was sitting at a table with her but not interacting with her.

“They’ve been in there more than a half hour,” she hissed. “The Arab is getting what he wants now. Can I go? I can find my own ride.”