Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

Randy was slung across the wide back seat of the Limo with his back hitting the corner where the top of the back seat met the window. He had the sensation that a crowd was milling around in that back seat, although the two thugs who had tossed him in the door and followed him were pretty much the bulk of what there was. Randy did see, though, that they'd propelled him past the seated figure of the shaykh he'd so recently given a hand job to.

The shaykh sat calmly in the middle of the back seat while one thug handcuffed Randy's arms over his head to a grab handle near the back edge of the ceiling, and the other thug was unzipping his navy white trousers and tugging them and his bikini briefs off his legs. One of the thugs was the black-suited black guy with the pistol at his arm pit. The other was an Arab. The money dispenser, Robert, was sitting in a jump seat across the wide expanse of flooring toward the front of the limo. He was just sitting there and enjoying the view.

"You have annoyed me," the shaykh said in a low voice. "We waited for you for too long."

"I didn't know you were waiting," Randy shot back. "No need for this."

He was grunting, though, because the black-suited black guy was fingering his hole with lube—and none too delicately. The shaykh snapped his fingers and pulled his galabiya over his head. Hearing the snap, Robert produced a condom packet from his trouser's pocket, slit it open, extracted the condom, and handed it to the shaykh.

Randy had the presence of mind to wonder if Robert was also going to roll it on the shaykh's rather normal-sized cock too, but it seemed royalty was able to do that sort of thing for themselves.

"You don't have to do this this way," Randy said again. "$500 is fine. I'll take cock and give you a good time. These handcuffs aren't necessary."

"You made me wait," the shaykh said. "I don't like that. And the $500 is no longer on the table now. Now I own you—if I like you. Otherwise . . ."

Randy started to object, but now he had two thugs at him, one on each leg, as they wishboned his legs and tilted his pelvis up. The shaykh came up between his spread thighs with his knees buried in the cushy seat.

Randy let out a gasp and a yell as he was skewered fast and deep and the shaykh started to pump him in quick strokes.

"You make too much noise." It was the first time Randy had heard Robert speak. Randy turned his head to find a cock being waved in his face as Robert hunched over him.

"Here. Suck this and be quiet. And be good," Robert commanded.

Randy did as he was told, and he started to let his hips roll with the fucking the shaykh was giving him. This was what he'd come out this evening to get. And this was kind of neat and arousing. Four guys all to himself. Him sucking one, the royal one cocking him, the black-suited black guy stroking Randy's cock, and the Arab thug playing with his balls.

The limo had come to a stop before the shaykh had ejaculated and Robert had covered Randy's chin and the front of his navy white tunic with his cum.

The four guys sat up and adjusted themselves. The black-suited black guy helped the shaykh put his galabiya over his head, and Robert was already exiting the car.

Randy took the moment when no one was paying attention to him to look out of the windows and reconnoiter. They were dockside in Manama harbor. Much of his view was blocked by a mammoth white yacht taking up a good third of the harbor and docked beside the limo, but Randy could see beyond it out into the outer harbor, where the USS Deringer rocked in the waves. So near and yet a world away.

"You may have him now, if you like, Tego," the shaykh said, as his two thugs helped him out of the back of the limo. Another one, probably the limo driver, an Arab wearing a galabiya, was standing outside the limo, holding the door open. "And if there's anything left of him when you are done, bring him to the ship. He still owes me a blow job—and Mustafa might be amused by him as well."

Randy eyed the black-suited black guy as he stripped his clothes off, folded them neatly, and laid them on one of the jump seats. He handed his pistol to the driver, who took it and closed the door of the limo with an ominous click, leaving Randy and the black thug inside. The thug was a muscle-bound mountain of a man. And he had a big black cock, now in arousal, that put what the shaykh had to shame.

Despite the tenuous situation, Randy melted at the sight of the hunk. This was every bit as good as he had come out for today. There were only a few guys on the ship who cocked him who came anywhere close to what this black thug had.

The thug reached up and released Randy from his handcuffs.

"The shaykh likes it this way, but I like it a little different," he growled. "You make it to the door and out, past me, and I'll let you live. You don't even try, and you're a dead man."

Randy tried. But he didn't make it anywhere close to the door. Randy put up a good fight, just as he knew the black thug wanted him to do, but he lost, just as was OK with Randy. The limo rocked wildly, as the thug picked Randy up and threw him, butt first, into the center of the back seat—and holding his arms out with fists gripping Randy's wrists—forced Randy's thighs apart with his knees and skewered the young sailor's pelvis to the back of the seat with his cock. And he thrust and thrust and thrust, as Randy yodeled to the plush ceiling of the car. Then the limo moved like a wave on the ocean, as the black thug threw Randy to the floor of the vehicle on his belly, held the young navy man's arms pinned to the floor with his fists, and his pelvis pinned to the floor with his cock, and went up on his toes and proved he could do 500 deep-thrust pushups over Randy's body and slam down to the root inside Randy's hole with each downward thrust.

Randy didn't want to reveal it, but he enjoyed every thrust.

Then the thug let Randy put his now-rumpled navy whites back on for the short stroll to the yacht.

"You are good," the thug said. "We'll do this again later, maybe."

"What if I had not pleased you—or the shaykh?" Randy asked.

"You would not be walking to the yacht then," the thug answered simply.