Sugar-Coated Hot Pepper

God, I loved this hardship assignment in Key West.

* * * *

The next Tuesday I was back at the open-air café on DuVal at the same rush hour time I'd been there when I hooked up with Manuel. I hoped he'd show up. I didn't have any way of contacting him other than through the yoga place he said he attended or the Bourbon Street Pub, and, not wanting to leave tracks, I'd try those as a last resort. He didn't show, but I ended up having a good time anyway.

He was older, perhaps late forties or early fifties, Hispanic, built like a tank, very capable and distinguished looking, and he had a nice smile. I was dressed in the casual office style of Key West—white shorts, white Polo shirt, and sandals, without socks—and thought that I might, if I didn't strike it lucky, actually check in with the office after my coffee and croissant. The office didn't need me. There were too many people and too little work already.

Even though he looked like a Fortune 500 executive, he was dressed in Key West casual: red gym shorts, sandals, and a black mesh athletic T that showed the musculature of a Zeus. Although he had been similarly dressed, Manuel exhibited as a David. This man's torso was that of a mature man—but a well-toned mature man, and looking closer, I took in my breath. He didn't have the nipple ring that Manuel had; he had a sleeve and pec tattoo—a colorful one that depicted a Japanese Samurai warrior flowing up the arm and around to where the warrior's war-like grimace of a face was staring through the captive mesh of the shirt on the man's bulging left pec.

He was standing across the table from me. The café was crowded, and once again it appeared my table had the only open chair. He was holding a coffee cup in one hand and a black leather bag in the other.

"Sorry, you look like you're about to leave," he said, looking apologetic. He also was looking Hispanically handsome. Argentina, I wondered. But then Cuba was only ninety miles away for Key West. "Do you mind if I take this chair?" he asked in a deep, rich voice.

"As long as you don't break my heart and take it to some other table," I said, giving him my version of a radiant smile. "Please, pull it up and sit with me. I was about to ask for a second cup of coffee." He smiled and sat, as I flagged down a waiter wading around the room with a coffee pot and received another hit.

"You don't have to be anywhere?" he asked, as he took a black case out of his black bag and placed it on the surface of the table. Once again I sucked air in as I looked at the case and recognized the logo of a gray G entwined with a lower-hanging yellow S embossed on a bronze medallion embedded in the case's top. I looked up into the man's eyes and found him watching me closely. I knew what the logo represented—G. S. Instrument's Van Buren sounding wand set. From the way he looked at me, I knew he knew I recognized the emblem.

He cast an obvious look at the logo on the case and then at me. I did the same.

"You are still fine with me sitting here?" he asked.

"Yes, certainly," I answered. Especially since we were here in free and open Key West, that was shorthand for him saying, "Will you go with me and let me sound you?" and me answering, "Yes." We could have gone to wherever he would fuck my cock with those metal wands then, but I guess I was being too easy for him. He wanted to savor the buildup to seducing me to it.

That was fine. But knowing I would say yes cut out a lot of preliminary fencing for both of us. "No, I'm on my own," I answered. "I have whatever time free that I want." Even though I was here as the chief of one of the Agency's listening posts, as the bureau chief, I pretty much was free to come and go as I wanted as long as I got the administrative work done. So I wasn't lying to him. I had planned to go into the office from here, yes, but that little black case of his just might change my plans.

"Hector here. Hector Lopez," he said, giving me an expectant look.

"I'm Chaz Findley," I answered.

"Are you a tourist here in Key West, Chaz?" he asked.

"Not really. I've recently arrived, but I'm working for a news agency down here." It was the same job I'd given Manuel, and it still technically was true. "And you?"

"I'm a doctor," he said, with a smile, lifting the black bag that he'd taken the black case from. The black bag did look very much like a doctor's bag, I thought, now that he'd mentioned it. I gave a little shudder at the thought of what the doctor could have in that little black bag of his. "And I own various other businesses in the keys," he added. "Pity that you aren't a tourist."

"Why so?" I asked.

"Handsome, well-built men like you who come down here as tourists are usually looking for one of two things. I'll have to admit that I like to help these men get what they want, assuming they want something very, very special. Exotic drugs, for instance. And other exotic experiences." One of his fingers went to the edge of the black leather case and he nudged it an inch toward me. He wanted me to look at the case, which I did. I don't know what more he wanted me to do, but I stole a march by moving my hand and extending a finger that touched both the case and his finger.

He smiled and said, "That's why I asked you if I could join you—in case you might be interested in joining me. I did mention that I was a doctor, didn't I? I have some special skills and some specialized interests."

"Tourists are looking for two things, you say?" I asked, knowing what his answer would be.

"Tourists with the roving eye such as I saw you have, and magnificent bodies such as I see you have come to Key West to lay or be laid—and with added benefits they normally couldn't get where they came from."

"And residents down here can't have the same interests as tourists have?" I asked.

"Of course they can," Hector said, with a smile. "Men who come to live in Key West can be connoisseurs in the art of personal pleasure and satisfaction fulfillment. I think perhaps that you can. You had that look of refined tastes about you when I looked over those at the café. Have I thought incorrectly?"

"No, not at all," I answered. It must have been the answer he desired, but he then slipped a foot out of its sandal and raised it, pressing it between my thighs from across the table. I spread my legs enough so that he could place the heel of his foot against my crotch. He pressed it into my crotch hard, and I grimaced for him, but I reached down with my right hand and held the foot in place.

He smiled again. "Which kind of tourist are you available to be, Chaz. Do you lay or get laid?"

"Yes," I answered and he laughed.

"Used or abused?" he asked.

"Yes," I again answered. His eyebrows went up.

"You recognized the logo on this box, didn't you?" he asked. He opened the box to reveal graduated sounding rods—which were used to invade and stimulate men's urethra channels. There were eight of them, slim silver rods with curved tops, arrayed on a red velvet lining.

"Yes."

"You have observed these in use before?"

"Yes."

"These have been used with you before?" He closed the case almost as quickly as he had opened it, presumably not to attract too much attention.

"Yes." I was giving him a level stare, and he was returning the same, gauging me, looking for any sign of withdrawal. I gave him no such sign.

"All eight?"

"I believe only six."

"But you would have liked to have taken all eight?"

"Yes."

He gave me another small, cruel smile and then he dug the heel of his foot into my crotch, and I held him there with my hands under the table, taking the pressure and the pain on my genitals.

"I keep a motel room not far from here, over near Lands End beach. If you will go with me there now, I will pay you $200 if you let me fuck you—$200 more if you let me fuck your cock with the sounding wands."

"But you don't want me to go with you just for a fuck, do you?" I asked. "It's not really worth your while unless I let you sound me, is it?"

"No, it's not," he conceded, with a smile. "I want to sound you."

I rose from the table and dug into my pocket for money to pay for my coffee and croissant. The man retained a nearby motel room for these trysts. He obviously was a serious player. I felt myself trembling, my cock going hard.

"No, I will pay for us both," Hector said in a commanding voice as he too stood. "And let us be straight. You will be bound. I will use you cruelly."

"Yes, it's what I want," I murmured, lowering my eyes. For him. For men like him and Sam Winterberry, I would be submissive. The money was immaterial, but the feeling of being a totally used whore was, in itself, arousing.

"You will walk at least ten paces behind me to the motel," he said.

"Yes . . . master," I answered. I had tried, but never been successful, in explaining the psychology of a switch hitter in this business. All I can say is that I found it supremely arousing to dominate a younger man while at the same time found it equally arousing to be dominated myself by an older man.

I panted heavily as I lay, curled up into myself, on the small of my back at the foot of the bed in the motel room. We were both naked. His body was beautiful for a man his age, solid, muscular. My legs were painfully bent and angled to the side, one restraint gripping my legs below the knees and linking them with a strap running around the back of my neck and other restraints on either side binding my wrists to my ankles. I was drooling and biting into a rubber ball mouth gag. I jerked each time one of the balls in a string of balls surfaced from my ass as he gently pulled on it. I'd watched at least six graduated balls, the string having come out of that black bag of his, being pressed inside my channel, which struggled to open to take them—but which had opened and taken them.

The third larger sounding rod was buried in the piss slit of my cock. Hector was holding the cock steady and erect with one hand while tugging the balls out of my ass with the other. He was crouched over me, staring down into my face, savoring every subtle change in my reaction to his playing with me with his toys.

Two balls still in my channel, he left those with his right hand now free brought his fingers to the tip of the sounding rod still outside my cock bulb. I moaned deeply as he twirled the rod slowly in my urethra channel, and then I screamed through the gag as he withdrew the rod and my ejaculation came with it.

We held there for several minutes. He was waiting for something. He was cupping my cock, so I presumed he was waiting for me to recover from having ejaculated and my cock having lost its ram-rod hard state. I was still half hard, though. But he was waiting for me to harden again. He had the seventh rod out of the case and I knew he intended to use them all before he was done. I moaned as he started to slow stroke my cock and I felt myself going hard again. And then I was groaning and biting on the ball gag and he was twirling the next-to-largest wand inside my urethra, deep. As he had promised, I was going to get all eight of them. And when he did me with the eighth one, I ejaculated again.

The last of the balls came out of my ass, to be replaced with the slide of his hard cock up inside my channel. He grasped my hips and started a serious, building pumping of my ass. His eyes went large and he laughed when he realized that I was using every leverage I could get, despite being trussed up as I was, to move my pelvis with his—to be an active partner in the fuck and not just his prey.

God, the hedonist life in Key West was good.

* * * *

I was surprised when I went to the mail slot of my apartment house on Thursday to find an invitation to a swim party on Saturday afternoon from Hector Lopez. It gave an address on a street of exclusive houses above a beach on the water in the northwestern sector of the key. The invitation was written on stiff vellum in fancy calligraphy. A less fancy note, in a scratchy hand, was enclosed in which Lopez asked me to come to the party to service a client he was trying to strike a deal with. I would be paid $500 for giving the client whatever he wanted. A subscript to that said that Hector would pay more if it wasn't evident that I'd enjoy it so much.

Cheeky devil, I thought, but it made me laugh. It also made me want to go to the swim party.

That explained the invitation. What it didn't explain was how Lopez had gotten my address. I suppose, given my name, which I'd told him—at least the name I was publicly giving down here in Key West, would have allowed him to find me. But I hadn't really been in Key West long enough to establish connections. That he could have found me so quickly spoke to the power of the man here on the key. I put in a call to Sam Winterberry back in Langley.

The house was in one of those rare enclaves on Key West where private residences had beach access to the sea. The house itself was a rambling, two-story stucco and glass modern building with a huge swimming pool and an even more expansive terrace behind it, all sitting on a rock outcropping overlooking a beach. It was an all-male party, which didn't surprise me, but on the surface it appeared to be coed as many of those in attendance were transvestites, some very convincing in their skimpy bikinis.

Lopez took me almost immediately from the front door—with a stop in a guest bathroom, where I stripped down to a blue silky Speedo—to the pool area and, as he took drinks off a tray, he handed one to me and another to a large, bulky man, in the nude, as many of the party guests already were, and introduced the man to me.

"Chaz, this is Daniel Cruz, a business friend of mine I have told you about. And I've told you about Chaz, Dan. I'll have to mingle for a while, but I will speak to you both later. I'll want to know how you are enjoying the party—and each other."

With that, he was off, and I was standing there, talking to a naked Hispanic man who probably was in his mid fifties. He was about a zillion feet tall and broad and thick of body. He'd almost certainly been an athlete at one time but age had been getting to him. He had a beer belly—not a gross one, but a noticeable one—and his pecs were beginning to be better described as breasts. He was covered in black and blue tattoos, most of which seemed to be crudely inked, and none of it telling a greater story. Still, he was a muscular man, with good bicep definition. and he had what was definitely a redeeming feature. He was hung like a bull. His balls hung low, the testicles plump and distinctive in the drooping ball sac, and his thick cock was making an effort to reach for his knees. At least it was until I was brought forward to meet him. The cock was already at half attention now, thickening, lengthening, and rising up the longer we stood there, looking at each other, neither fast on bringing up chit chat.

Daniel Cruz was clearly pleased about being introduced to me.

We both knew what I was there to provide for him. With each passing second of awkward silence, his cock increasingly told the story of where we were headed. I didn't particularly mind. He was a huge bear, but he wasn't exactly gross. And, boy, was he hung. I appreciated a challenge in that department.

I'd only drunk half of the drink Lopez had handed me—I didn't even know what it was—when the man—Dan—was reaching out with a thick-fingered mitt, taking the glass out of my hand, setting it down on a table at my elbow, and saying, "Hector has such a nice swimming pool. I think we should try it out."

"Yes, it is a nice pool," I said. There weren't many in the pool. The party was already well under way. There was loud music and dancing, and I could already see that there was humping going on on the chaise lounges and even down on towels on the beach. Whatever Cruz and I did wouldn't surprise anyone or get much attention.

"I want to take you to the pool," he said, and then, before I could tell him that was just fine with me—that I was on board with the plan—he clarified. "I want to take you in the pool." In case I didn't understand, he reached out and cupped my balls and cock through the thin material of the Speedo. "Nice, very nice," he muttered.

"Yes, let's get into the pool," I said, making my voice sound breathy, like I couldn't wait to be riding that cock of his. And, indeed, I was looking forward to the challenge.

We dove in and swam around in our own patterns for a few minutes. He was a strong swimmer—strong swimming strokes that I assumed he could match with the thrusting power of his cock. He finally surfaced in front of me as I had my feet down in a section of the pool where the water came up to my nipples. His long, strong, beefy arms went around me and he took my mouth in a kiss. He was a good, possessive kisser.

"Take your swim suit off and give it to me," he commanded as we came out of the kiss.

"You want me to take it off?" I asked. "You don't want to take it off me?"

"It is your statement that you will let me fuck you," he said. "You take it off and give it to me and you are confirming I can fuck you."

I think the whole reason I've been invited here is for you to fuck me, I told myself, but It didn't' say that to him. As I pulled the Speedo down and off my legs and handed it to him under the surface of the water, what I said was, "You can have the suit. You can have anything you want from me."

He gave me a grin and then swam over to the side of the pool and deposited the Speedo on the lip of the pool. Turning then, he motioned to me. "Come here. Come to me."

I swam over to him and he wasted no time in taking me. He turned me belly to wall, my elbows on the lip of the pool either side of my Speedo and pulled in close behind me. I could feel the insistence of his hard-on on my thigh and then his fingers at my hole. I cried out in surprise, my cry being covered by the loud music and largely unnoticed by those getting their own desires on, although a few turned their faces to me briefly and smiled in recognition of what I was getting. What I was getting was having my ass channel brutalized by thick, invading fingers, which were working on opening me up and not caring what I thought about it.

Cruz wrapped a beefy arm around my neck, pulling the back of my head into the hollow of his neck, and dug and dug with his fingers, as I writhed under his control and cried out—as much in passion as in pain—at the cruelty of his penetration. I cried out again when the fingers were replaced by the forced entry of the thick cock. He pumped me slowly for a few minutes, gaining a bit more in depth with each push, until I was able to accommodate the size of him and quieted down to deep moans and groans.

Again, only occasionally did eyes focus on us, and the faces showed nothing more than admiration for the facial expressions and moaning that the big bear of a man could pull out of me. Lopez drifted by once, stopped, looked at us and smiled, and then walked on.

When he had completely cowed me, Cruz pulled out of my ass without coming and turned me so that his back was to the wall and I was facing him. "Feet on the wall, grab the lip of the pool with your hands, ass on cock, and fuck yourself," he commanded. I understood what he wanted, and it was quite OK with me. I grabbed the lip of the wall on either side of his shoulders, raised and spread my legs, placed my feet on the wall tiles on either side of his waist, and waited as he moved his cock into position at my hole. Then, at his muttered command, I thrust my pelvis forward, taking him deep inside me in one long slide. He worked my cock with one hand, palming one of my buttocks cheeks with the other, as I rode his cock.

He held there, rock hard, for a good ten minutes, urging me to take him deep and then deeper, while I huffed and puffed to do what he demanded. Eventually, though, he lost the patience of essentially just being a gigantic dildo, grasped my buttocks and started pounding hard, both pulling me to him and thrusting forward with his hips into me. I screamed for a while, with few noticing other than smiling and nodding their heads and agreeing with each other that I was having the hell fucked out of me. At length, I lost my hold on the lip of the pool, arced my back into the water behind me. I floated in semiconscious silence while he continued slamming me on and off his cock to what was an almost simultaneous ejaculation.