Interviewing a Dictator

I rolled over to a seated position and let the balls of my feet rest on the ratty carpeting. I reached for the pack of cigarettes and lit up. I'd only started smoking in the last couple of months. Nerves. I'd stop as soon as I got back to the States. Or maybe when I changed my name and had plastic surgery so that no one recognized me anymore.

I looked around the dimly lit room, protected from the blazing sunlight beyond the French doors to the little balcony by a dirty and tattered gauze curtain. I could hear the flies buzzing and hoped that most of them were out there rather than in here. The printed wallpaper, what it represented being indistinct as faded as it was, was moldy and coming off the wall in large strips. The chamber pot on the sad-looking wooden bureau had given me pause when I first entered the room, but I was assured that there was a private bath. There was, but all of the fixtures had to be cast offs from some demolition project, which gave me new respect for the chamber pot.

Sandre Grande was possibly the worst piss hole I'd ever reported from. But I was assured that this was the best hotel in the principal town of the small tinhorn dictatorship island "kingdom" in the Caribbean. The principal claim to strategic interest of the place, the nub of what had brought me here, was that it was positioned smack dab in the center of the shipping lane across the Caribbean to the entrance of the Panama Canal.

But I was on my way back up, or so Shaun had assured me. I had gotten the assignment to interview the dictator. No one else had. No one at all had since he'd come to power. No one seemed to know exactly where he stood on anything. He was a cagey guy. One of those army sergeants who was the last man standing after the recent revolution. Did he stand with the United States as he predecessor had, or did he lean toward the Cubans and Venezuelans? No one knew—except maybe the Cubans or Venezuelans, and they weren't talking. It would be a boost for anyone who found out.

And I definitely needed a boost. I'd been riding high, with a good network. But I had been indiscreet—which was putting it mildly. I still don't know who had found out and who had told. And who had taken it to the Internet. I'd thought anyway that in today's world it didn't matter. But apparently it did. Apparently I hadn't come far enough up yet. It had worked OK for that white-haired CNN anchor, the son of whatsherface, so I didn't see why it wasn't working for me. The assignments had dried up. I was on the cusp of losing my contract.

An arm came around my waist. A hand encased my cock.

"Put the cigarette out and hand me another one of those condoms, Ted."

"Again?" I asked.

"What else is there for us to do while we wait for the summons to the dictator's presence," Shaun Madden, my cameraman, producer, and lover, all rolled into one answered. "Besides you love it."

"You treat me like a slut, Shaun."

"That's because you are a slut, Ted. But a very nicely put together one. You'll open your legs for any man with a big cock and a hard body. It's a talent you have. It wasn't just the congressman who did for you. You might have survived that in the press. There's some cachet in hooking up with a congressman. It was all those other Internet photos that followed. All those soldiers and sailors. Somebody did a real job on exposing you. A hard body and a big cock—or a succession of them. You love it."

Why yes I did, I thought. That had been my downfall. I loved it. And Shaun had a hard body and a big cock. Maybe if it hadn't been a congressman, it wouldn't have made such a big splash. But it was. But, no, I knew it was the gang bang. Only one of those had made it to the Internet. I couldn't say it was an anomaly; there had been others. But the network executive probably had been right when he'd said, "Who could concentrate on what a journalist has to say on screen after knowing—and seeing—how many randy sailors he'll just lay there and let fuck him in succession?"

And afterward it was like I was an untouchable. To all but Shaun Madden. I hadn't been an untouchable to him—he had touched me as not even the congressman had, more than any of those soldiers and sailors I became addicted to. And he was the reason I still was holding onto the network job by a thread. He was why I had even gotten this interview. Only when he'd told the network executives he could get an interview with the elusive dictator, but only if I did the interview, had the wheels on printing up my termination letter ground to a halt. It would be a temporary halt if I didn't bring this interview off.

He'd said he'd help me on the way up. He was helping me get it back up right now.

"There's a hard-bodied soldier out in the hall," Shaun whispered as he nuzzled his face into the crease where my thigh met my underbelly. "You saw him—one of the men they've had guarding us since we entered the country. Don't tell me you didn't look him over good and set your mind to thinking. He gave you a good look too. If I told you to get up and go get him and let him fuck you right here while I watched, you'd do it for me, wouldn't you?"

I hesitated, but only for a moment. "Yes," I answered in a quiet voice.

"Well?"

I started to get up from the bed, but he grabbed my wrist and set me back down. "Told you so," he said. "Now, put that cigarette out and get me a rubber."

I sighed and stubbed out my cigarette. I reached over to the nightstand and picked up a condom packet. As I split the foil, he sat up beside me. He had a beautiful, muscular body—and a cock to die for. He'd had no trouble picking me up after I'd been knocked down when the rumors about the congressmen and me became photographs on the Internet. I'd started with him even before the photos with the soldiers and sailors were posted by whoever it was who had it in for me.

While I extracted the condom from the packet, he rolled the used one off his cock—his nice plump cock—and tossed it in the wastebasket. The maid tomorrow—if there was to be a hotel maid tomorrow, or even a tomorrow in this humid hell hole—would get a thrill. There now were three used condoms in the basket.

"You do it," he said, as he continued to hold me to his side, his hand working my cock.

I rolled the Golden Ticket condom on his cock, engorged again. He was three years younger than I was, fit and virile. Not long out of the Marines. As lovers went, I was very lucky to have him—if he didn't kill me trying to keep up with him.

"Knees on the bed," he said. "You're gonna fuck yourself for a while." I stood up from the bed and moved to in front of him, facing away from him. Then I came back on the bed on the fronts of my calves, my legs bent, on the outside of his muscular thighs. Reaching under my buttocks, while he continued to stroke my cock, I positioned the bulb of his thick cock and slowly descended on the shaft.

"Do it," he commanded, grabbing my waist with his big hands.

I rose and fell on the cock, using the leverage of my bent legs. He was humming and I was moaning. He was thick, and always just got thicker as my channel stretched to accommodate him. But he was right. I loved it. My channel muscles began to ripple over the cock as only a young, virile, hung man like Shaun could make them do. He was moaning too now, enjoying the feel of that.

"God, you're good," he whispered. "This. This is what all those soldiers and sailors sniffed around you to get. What the congressman risked it all to have."

I was jacking myself as I rose and fell on the cock. I felt his hot breath between my shoulder blades and the nipping of his teeth on my skin. I ejaculated, shooting out over the worn carpet, already smeared with so many stains that more wouldn't be noticed.

"Grab your ankles," he commanded.

I unfolded my legs, being careful not to lose his penetration of my ass, leaned forward and down, grabbed my ankles, and went up on my feet. He came up on his feet behind me and started pounding my ass hard, deep, and fast. He spent some time at it—long enough that I came again before he did.

Yes, he was just the lover I needed to make being in this room in this backwater of a tinhorn dictatorship—if he didn't kill me in the process—bearable.

* * * *

The fast and jolting drive across the town from the fleabag hotel to the presidential "palace" was a harrowing one. We had been pushed into the back of an ancient army truck with a tarp over the bed just the same as if we were being carted off to prison. The presidential "palace" was a ramshackle wooden, bullet hole-pockmarked building badly in need of paint that, visually, at least, appeared to lean a bit to the right—something Shaun no doubt would work into the editing of his introduction to the filmed interview to suggest the dictator's political leanings unless the man proved to be a lefty.

The venue of the interview couldn't have been any more weird, and the content couldn't have been more fascinating and revealing. It was content that would light up the networks—not just mine—when and if we could get the footage back to the States. The "if" was to become the kicker.

The venue was a large, dark room, containing not just the sitting area in which the interview was to be filmed but also a massive four-poster, canopied bed, which Shaun would have to almost hang from the ceiling to avoid getting into the frame. The dictator was no less a weird part of the venue. I had expected him to meet me in a khaki army uniform dripping with braid and medals, but he was in a dressing gown—and one that indicated that there wasn't much in the way of clothes underneath it.

I'd like to have been able to say that he wasn't a fat slob, but he came too close to that to deny it. He was tall and heavy. It was deceiving, though, as much of what looked like fat centered on a beer belly. Much of the rest of the bulk actually was muscle. He'd been a drill sergeant. That he'd worked his body hard was evident. That he enjoyed food and drink was equally evident. That he used drugs was suspected. His eyelids drooped almost as heavily as his jet-black mustache did. He was a dark man, with black hair—on more than his head. He spoke English, but not well. There was no evidence that he was educated. The only hints of his vanity were the thick rings worn on four of his fingers, and, as revealed later, the thick gold chain with the medallion pendant he wore around his neck.

Four bruisers, in army fatigues, were spaced around the room, during the interview. Two were at the door, as if Shaun and I planned to escape in the middle of the interview, and one each was stationed near Shaun and me. The dictator was paranoid and not taking any chances.

Shaun was calm as a cucumber. I wasn't, but I was doing all I could not to show that on the film. I quickly lost touch with my nervousness, though, because almost as soon as the interview started, the dictator was ranting on about the imperialist United States and of what he claimed were secret military pacts he had not only with Cuba and Venezuela but also with Russia and a few Mideast terrorist groups that I was flabbergasted to find he even could pronounce the names of let alone consort with.

He made no bones about being dismissive of his own people, who he planned to break on the wheel of padding the fortunes of the president and laid out specific plans on disrupting the passage of shipping to and from the Panama Canal, unless the United States became very generous with its foreign aid program.

As delighted as I was to hear all of this—with the man coming up with a news blockbuster every thirty seconds—and to know that Shaun was getting it all on film, I increasingly couldn't understand why he was telling us all of this.

That is until I made the mistake of asking him that specific question.

"Why, because I am enjoying talking about it and because you are never going to put any of that on your television."

"I'm not? Why not?"

"Because you aren't leaving the country. Why did you think I specified that Ted Thompson be the one—the only one—who I'd give this interview to? Especially after the publicity you have gotten recently."

"I don't know," I said, flustered, and motioning to Shaun that maybe it was time to turn the camera off.

"Precisely because of the publicity you have gotten recently. I've watched you on TV for a couple of years. You are a sexy little thing. I wasn't at all surprised when you were caught being fucked by a congressman from the behemoth to the north. And all those military men you took—very impressive. I've wanted to fuck you myself. Now I will."

With that, he stood up from his chair, dropped his robe to reveal that, in fact, he had no clothes on underneath the robe, and signaled to the four soldiers in the room. Two went for Shaun, pinning his arms behind him in the straight chair he was sitting in, taking his camera from him, and producing rope to tie him to the chair.

The other two were at me, dragging me over to the bed, pulling my clothes off me, and pulling restraints down from the canopy at the foot of the bed and down from the headboard. While they trussed me up, naked, with my arms stretched over my head, wrists tied together, and my legs raised, spread, and tied to the restraints dropped at the foot of the bed from the canopy, the dictator walked over to a sideboard and popped some pills. Since his cock filled right up into a huge erection extending out from under his pot belly, I had no question what the pills were for.

I writhed for what seemed to be a half hour or more as the dictator crouched between my thighs and fucked me. No one said anything in the room. All that could be heard were his grunts of pleasure and my whimpers and involuntary moans as, when he set up a steady rhythm, I couldn't help but go with it and to move my pelvis to the fuck and to shoot off when the hand he was stroking my cock with proved to be very proficient.

As far as I could determine only two soldiers remained in the room during this taking. Both were standing by the chair Shaun was bound to, one on each side of him. One solider had his cock out, forcing Shaun to service it with his mouth, while the other played with Shaun's camera. At some point the two traded positions. Shaun was gagging on the cocks, but doing as he was told.

When the dictator had creamed my channel in three strong spurts, he grunted and pulled out of me.

"Time for a break," he said, and he and the two soldiers left the room.

After a few minutes of being alone in the room with Shaun, both of us bound, he said, in a hoarse voice. "It'll be OK, Ted. We'll get out of this."

"I don't see how," I mumbled. Shaun, ever the optimistic one. But what other choice was there at the moment? I had brought this on myself—I and whatever bastard had exposed the congressman and me.

"Just don't make him mad," Shaun said. "Take it. No, more than that. Make him think you enjoy it. Make him want to have you again."

The dictator and the two soldiers came back in the room. The soldiers released my ankles while the dictator popped pills and his cock popped up again in response. But they didn't release my wrists. They returned to their station next to Shaun's chair, and one of them picked up the camera and played with it again, while the dictator came up on the bed on his knees and pushed me up onto the center of the bed.

He stuffed a pillow under the small of my back; grabbed my ankles and spread and bent my legs, placing my feet flat on the surface of the bed; and slid his knees under my buttocks.

Remembering what Shaun had advised, while the dictator was entering with his cock, I arched my back and cried out, "Yes! Oh, god, yes! You're so big. Fuck me, fuck me hard. Ram it up me. Give me your cum."

And, god, yes, the enhanced cock was huge—thicker, longer than the first time. I panted and gasped in taking it inside me. He was fat and ugly, but the cock on him . . . Closing my eyes and relaxing my channel, I could enjoy it. I needed to stretch more, so that when he started to pump, there would be room for friction. I willed myself to open to him. He was throbbing inside me, the pills still working to thicken him.

Startled, but clearly pleased, the dictator began to piston me hard and deep. I was opening enough by panting and relaxing. It was working; the friction was there. Skin. No condom. He was barebacking me again. My channel muscles started rippling over the plunging cock. Something I did for the young, hung, hard-bodied soldiers and sailors. And for Shaun. Never for the congressman. But I was doing it for this ugly and fat man. Because the cock was unnaturally huge and arousing.

His hands ran up my chest and he thumbed my nipples for a few minutes before returning his hands to my waist. Again there was a flash of surprise as I wrapped my legs around his back and stroked his buttocks with my heels in rhythm to the fuck. I managed to raise my torso enough to take the medallion dangling from his neck into my mouth and suck it while giving him a lustful look with my eyes. He stroked hard and faster. He was huge inside me.

Shaun had told me to pretend I loved it. I wasn't pretending.

His face came down to mine, and I closed my eyes to the ugliness of him and opened my mouth to his as he was ejaculating again inside me.

He collapsed on me for a brief moment and then started to rise.

"No, please. Stay inside me," I whimpered. "I need you again. Stay inside me until you are hard again and then fuck me again; fuck me hard." I did need him inside me still. But huge inside me.

He seemed willing, but his pills weren't cooperating anymore, and I was coming back to my senses. At length, with a grunt, he pulled himself off me.

"No, no," I cried out. "Don't leave me. Don't take it out. I want you again." Now I was acting. Flaccid, there was nothing of him that I wanted.

He sat next to me for a few minutes, looking at me with eyes that seemed almost affectionate now, and ran his hands over my torso and thighs. He grabbed my cock and stroked it, and I did everything I could to give him an ejaculation, eventually succeeding, while whimpering, "Fuck me again. Please, please."

"Later, my sweet boy," he said as he stood from the bed. "You have taken all I have for now. But later."

Clearly he was pleased with my response to his assault—and how I had played on his vanity. But also, clearly, we weren't any closer to being released and sent back to the States in one piece with the interview film under Shaun's arm than we were before Shaun told me to win the dictator over.

"Take them to the citadel," he said, with a sniff, as he pulled his robe back on. "Bring the one on the bed back to me after I have had my supper. Bring him back in good condition. Tell the men there that they can have the other one."

I was released and given my trousers—and only my trousers—to wear, by one of the soldiers, while the other soldier was untying Shaun. We were shoved through the door to the corridor and out of the presence of the dictator and hustled down to the street, where the same old army truck that had brought us to the presidential palace was waiting to take us away.

The soldiers at the truck, though, weren't the same ones who had brought us across town. And, as we were hustled into the back of the truck, where there were four soldiers—none of them ones I'd seen earlier in the day—strung along the benches, one of the soldiers who brought us down from the dictator's bedroom winked at Shaun and handed his camera back to him.

"Got good footage?" Shaun asked him in Spanish.

"Really good," the soldier answered.

As his face disappeared from the back of the truck, I whispered, "What?" to Shaun.

"Shush," Shaun said. "The two soldiers were assets of ours. I told you I'd get you out of this." He handed the camera off to one of the other soldiers in the back of the truck—all of them with rifles gripped in their hands and pointed at the tarp overhead—and pushed me back between two soldiers and onto the bench. The soldier he handed the camera to merely nodded and put the camera in a padded case as if it were the crown jewels, which, it was dawning on me, it probably was.