Political Biography

I knew that Stowell was going to fuck me, and he obviously knew that as well. Olson had told me in no uncertain terms how the two of them had shared new cadets—how they'd fucked them silly and reamed them big, left them sobbing. I just didn't know when, how much, and what kink it might take.

I was panting and moaning inwardly as Stowell guided me to the house. And my feelings were mixed. Yes, I was scared. But I wanted it, and Stowell knew I did. He'd be a cruel lover. Olson had made that clear. As we walked, I was trembling, but I licked my lips in anticipation.

* * * *

So, where did the bodyguard, Jacks, fit into this I wondered. Was he just pledged to protect the boss or was he farther into it than that. I found out.

We had come up from the water, Stowell and I, and plopped down on two lounge beds at the edge of the Bermuda grass as it filtered into the sand of the small beach. Jacks had stood under a couple of trees on the edge of the beach, in combat boots and khakis, although his shirt was open, showing a muscular chest and dog tags. He looked the part of a poster-boy Marine, and, for all I knew that's what he was. He was holding a machine gum cradled in one of his arms and his eyes were looking everywhere at once.

They didn't stray to Stowell or me much of the time, though. That wasn't where any threat was coming from. All I was wearing was a Speedo. There wasn't anywhere I could have hidden a weapon. Stowell was naked. He was big—tall and meaty, with a slight paunch, but a muscular chest and biceps, and he was horse hung, as I knew he would be. He was a veritable black bull, a bit past his prime at his age, but still obviously capable of snapping someone like me in two if he had half a mind too.

He eyed me as we both toweled off. He was half erect. I knew that it wouldn't be long before he was fucking me. I knew that's why he brought me to Parris Island. Maybe he wanted to work on the book too, but before we'd come out of the house to swim, he'd made me give him a blow-by-blow description of what Cameron Olson had done to me, and there was no question that he intended to do the same.

He pointed to one of the lounge beds and I lay down on that, as he went down on his back on the other one. He motioned to Jacks to come over and at least part of Jacks's function here became revealed. At a gesture from Stowell, Jacks went down on his knees by the lounge bed, placed the machine gun under the bed, took the general's cock in one hand, and lowered his mouth over it. As Jacks gave the general head, Stowell ran a hand over the bodyguard's head. Turning slitted eyes to me, Stowell growled. "Watch this. Lose the Speedo and jack yourself off as you watch this. Fingerfuck yourself with the other hand. I'll tell you when you can come."

Panting and moaning, I stroked my cock and opened myself up with my fingers, searching for and finding my prostate, as I watched the hunky bodyguard giving Stowell head. I came when he told me I could come, which was at the same time he did. He pushed Jacks off him, and the bodyguard stood and wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Help me up," Stowell said, and Jacks helped pull the general off the lounge bed. "I'll be in the house," the general said. "You can use him and then bring him up to the house to me."

This took me by surprise, and I turned my head toward the retreating figure of the general and started to come off the lounge bed. But Jacks was immediately on me. He had taken his trousers and briefs off at some point during the blow job and worked his cock up. Straddling the lounge bed, with both of his feet on the ground on either side of the bed, he swiftly had my ankles on his shoulders and was forcing himself into me.

I grunted and groaned, but I took him. He was a handsome devil and thick, if not overly long. I didn't resist. I'd worked myself open and hard. I was ready for a cock. I just hadn't figured it would be the bodyguard's first. He, of course, was athletic and in top shape, so he worked me hard and long. I dug my fingernails into his shoulders beside my ankles and took his dog tags into my mouth and sucked them as he plowed me—raw, barebacking me like neither of us had to worry about the future. And just now, just for these twenty minutes that he fucked me, I didn't let anything else worry me.

He exhausted me. So that, when he was done seeding me and rose from me, I gave no opposition as he lifted me up, threw me over his shoulder, and marched me into the house. I did no more than moan and murmur a quiet, ineffectual opposition, as he laid me down on the bed in the master bedroom and tied my wrists and ankles to the posts at the four corners of the bed.

My eyes were glued to Stowell, who was standing across the room, a multithonged leather hand whip in his fist. He was smiling cruelly and swishing the whip against his leg.

* * * *

I lay there, on my stomach on the bed, an arm dangling down the side of the bed to the floor. I had no energy left to raise the arm. The welts didn't sting too badly. He'd only raised a bit of blood. There were some smears of it on the sheets. Someone would wonder about that when they cleaned up the guest house. Or maybe not. In any case, it wasn't my worry. I was beginning to calm my breathing.

He'd been cruel, yes—and methodical, giving my back and legs as much attention with the whip as my chest and arms. But he'd more played with me than put power into it. His power had gone for the fucking. He'd done everything to me that Cameron Olson had done—and more. And I'd given it all to him. I'd opened my core to him, let it go spongy, and had yielded everything to him, denied him nothing, made love to his cock with the undulating walls of my channel even while he was cruelly conquering all.

He'd had me bound just at the beginning, while he whipped me on the chest, belly, thighs, cock, and balls. Breaking me down; loosening me up. He covered me close, penetrated me, pounded me cruelly, came inside me. I then was totally his. I told him so; he knew it was true. He unbound me then and turned me and whipped my back, mounted me, and fucked me again. I denied him nothing.

All the time Jacks stood at the door, leaning into the doorframe. Still in his open shirt but trouserless, magnificently hard, watching everything.

Afterward, standing cross the room, by the window, the general was going through my written notes, reading everything, shaking his head, scowling here, laughing softly there. Occasionally he looked up and gave me a hard look. I hadn't held back in my research. I'd found out a lot—a lot that he didn't know I'd find. I wasn't going to write it, of course. I knew what a political biography was to contain. But I wanted to know the whole man.

Now, I think I did.

"They are just notes," I called out softly. "Much of that wasn't going to go into the book."

"Shut up," he growled and went back to reading. After he'd been through it all, I watched him take a book of matches off the desk next to him, strike one of the matches, and light the corner of the ream of notes. When the flame was going good, he dropped it all into a metal trash can under the edge of the desk.

I knew then. In my heart then, I knew they were going to kill me. They'd fuck me again, of course—probably even rougher this time. They'd had their sport with me, but then they'd kill me. And there'd be so many ways to hide my body out here in the depth of the Marine base without it ever being found again.

What was that that Stowell had said when telling me we were going on this trip—that he could make me disappear altogether—leaving not a trace behind? There was no doubt that he could.

"Kevin." The voice was commanding, with a touch of irritation. He'd said something and I hadn't heard him.

"Yes? What?" I said.

"Your notes were useful. They told me what could be found out about me by a good researcher. I'll have to cover some tracks."

Here it comes, I thought. Would they at least let me live through another fuck? It was idiotic that I could think of being fucked at this time, but they were so good at it—both of them. And I was so submissive and needy. Stowell, of course knew that. That's why he had picked me.

He was opening a drawer in the desk beside him and taking out a thick manuscript.

"You don't have to write the biography," he said. "I've written what I want the biography to say. But you're a professional writer. I liked what you did with Paxton's biography. You'll rewrite this, in your own words. You'll just keep to the facts as I give them."

They weren't going to kill me. My emotions soared. He just wanted me to polish up what he had written. I could do that. I almost didn't catch what Stowell said next. He was speaking to Jacks.

"You take the bottom. I'll take the top."

I barely had time to turn on my back, before Jacks was up on the bed and under me. He put me in a full Nelson, his strong arms laced under my pits, pulling my arms helplessly over my head. I was too spent and exhausted to have struggled with him anyway. He moved his legs inside my thighs and spread and raised them. His thick, hard cock found my hole, which was still wide open from the general's attentions, and with a thrust and a yelp from me he was inside me.

My eyes went to Stowell, moving toward me, his erection massive and hard. He came up onto the bed between Jacks's and my spread legs, moved his cock head to my hole, and, as I cried out in pain and passion, pressed his cock inside me on top of Jacks's buried shaft.

Giving me no mercy, he began to pound me hard. Jacks was holding his thick cock steady inside.

"You. You too. Fuck him hard. You too," Stowell cried.

"But we're both big."

"Do him. Do him hard, like I am," Stowell growled. "Anything short of tearing him up. Whatever you want short of that. I want him completely cowed and malleable to the demands of either of us."

Huffing and puffing, trying as hard as I could to accommodate them, one thought raced through my mind, over and over again. They aren't going to kill me. He needs me to rewrite the biography. They aren't going to kill me. He needs me . . .