Chapter 4 – Chương 4

Jared was lying in a black-leather sling suspended by gleaming silver chains from the ceiling of a small room with black walls, ceiling, and floor. His arms were stretched up, gripping the chains at the top corners of the sling, and his feet were in stirrups high on the chins at the bottom corners of the sling. His buttocks were raised off the surface of the sling by his own strength as he met and counterpunched the thrusts of Ashur Khoury's cock inside his ass channel. His eyes were big as saucers and his mouth was open and slack from the effort to belt out the yips and moans brought forth by the pounding his was taking.

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."

"Any number of men here would like to give you a lift, Jamila," Bourek said. And then he laughed. "Although they no doubt would be very disappointed to find that you aren't equipped as they wish. And, no, you may not go yet. You have been paid for two days. From your perspective, it doesn't matter whether it's Khoury or me."

"You? You aren't the same as the Arab?"

"Not in any way. It's been very difficult for me to keep my hands, let alone my eyes, off you. When we go back to the hotel, Khoury will no doubt fuck the black guy again—but you, you, Jamila, you'll be all mine."

"I don't think so."

The way Jamila had said that made Bourek look up. The first thing he saw, over her shoulder, were two hulking men in black suits approaching the table. And then he saw the sparkle of light, reflecting off the metal badge Jamila was holding up for him to see, and he moaned.

"You're a Fed?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, FBI. I wasn't just your decoy," Jamila said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "Floris Bourek, I'm arresting you on a charge of attempted illegal arms dealing."

Two burly men were hauling Bourek out of his chair. "The Syrian. Are you going to—?" Bourek blurted out.

"We'll just leave him to have his fun," Jamila said. "Unfortunately, it's not against our laws for a foreigner to buy arms, just for someone to sell them on American soil."

In the other room, oblivious to having lost their ride to the hotel, Khoury and Jared fucked on.