Brussels Seduction

It had just been a kiss and a grope in the underground garage of the American embassy in Brussels. I'd pulled away from him and told him that he'd misjudged—that I wouldn't report him that time, but that he'd misjudged me and he should stay well away from me from then on or I'd have to report him. I wouldn't report him, though, I didn't want there to be any spotlight on a junior consular affairs officer in his first overseas posting.

And Dieter Jouret hadn't misjudged me. When I opened my apartment door two nights later, after I'd had time for the momentary encounter with the golden hunk of a local embassy driver in the dark of the subterranean garage to play over and over again in my mind—extrapolating to the possibilities of it—I just stood there, dumbfounded and trembling. I put up no resistance when Dieter entered the apartment, shoved the door shut with his foot, picked me up in his arms, and carried me into the bedroom. I lay there on the bed, chest heaving in ragged breathing as he pulled my sweatpants and briefs off—I had been bare-chested—and knelt between them and worked my cock with his mouth and tongued my ass.

I had spread my legs for him myself, my heels digging into the edge of the foot of the bed, and my hands buried in the blond hair of his head—and moaned. God, how I'd moaned as his mouth worked my cock, balls, and asshole. I nearly lifted my butt off the bed and squeezed his skull as he swallowed my balls and sucked them while two fingers worked their way into my ass.

I'd said nothing, made no effort whatsoever to tell him to stop—to repeat that I wasn't like this and would report him.

I obviously

was

like this. I'd been like this all through my first year at college, letting a senior jock spike me after a night at a beer hall—and then his friends as he spread around that I could be had—stopping only when I woke up one morning in a fraternity house and realized that all of the brothers in the house who had wanted to had known me, in succession, throughout the previous night. I was frightened and disgusted not because they had done it—or even that I had allowed myself to get so drunk that I didn't prevent it—but because I had enjoyed it.

I had been shocked when one of the fraternity brothers said that this was what I'd been rushed by the house to do. To be the house punch. To take a train whenever the brothers felt so inclined—that my willingness to be fucked had been spread all over the campus. I'd packed up my stuff and left the house that day. And I transferred colleges my second year. My father had been miffed, as he'd been in that fraternity and in that college, but I could tell him why I'd left other than that I had found I didn't like fraternity life—and that college didn't have the major I wanted to pursue. The latter was true. I decided I wanted to go for foreign affairs—of the diplomatic kind. I wasn't looking for a French guy to spike me.

I swore off on sex with men after that and thanked God that the Foreign Service exam polygraph didn't include any lifestyle questions such as that.

I hyperventilated, with my own hand going to my cock, as Dieter stood up between my legs, stripped down to reveal a glorious, heavily muscled body, and a huge erection, and smiled down at me while he snapped the condom on the cock.

Thinking back on having sworn sex with men off, I thought that at least he wasn't French—but then I realized that I was beginning to hyperventilate and be a little crazy.

"Am I right? You've been fucked before?" Dieter asked, as he smoothed the condom out along his thick cock. "I know you want it now, but it makes a difference whether you've had experience."

"It's been a long time . . . but, yes."

He came down on top of me between my spread legs, took my head between his hands, and possessed my mouth with his to cover my groans as he worked his cock inside me. He was big; bigger than most I had taken. When he was saddled, he released my mouth and looked down into my face, smiling, as I arched my back and started to pant in answer to his beginning a slow pump.

"It's OK? It's good for you?" he asked as he, at first, gently pressed in and pulled out.

"It will be good," I answered with a whimper. He hurt like hell now, but memories were coming back. He was as thick as anyone I remembered at college. And I couldn't deny that I had become addicted to the cock there before determination pulled me away from it.

"It's good, then," he murmured. "I'll fuck you good."

He took me the first time in long, slow strokes, holding me close, whispering to me, as I lost the battle of not acknowledging his right of victory and started moving my pelvis with him and rubbing my heels on the backs of his thighs.

The second time was rougher, demanding more of my cooperation and involvement, as he put me on all fours, crouched over me, and fucked me doggy style.

Later, as we were finishing up a beer and a snack at the breakfast table, I gave up all—answering his demand and gesture by standing and coming to where he sat, lowering myself in his lap, as he encircled my torso with his arms, and fucking myself on his staff.

"Do you have any fantasies?" he asked me in a murmur as I was rising and falling on his cock, and my thoughts went back six years, to my first year in college, and I leaned over and whispered in his ear, not being able to voice it aloud.

The next Saturday Dieter was driving me to Amsterdam. I knew I was being rushed, but he'd opened a door for me that had been closed for six years and that I hadn't realized haunted me as much as it did. And when he'd told me what he was offering, I hadn't hesitated to tell him I was interested.

The club was entered through a half-basement door in an alley off Reguliersdwarsstraat. The cobbled-stoned street we walked down, with glassed cube projecting out of the buildings with scantily clad men in them, hawking themselves, left little question what section of the city we were in. Some of the men were young, some black or Asian, some hairy, some dressed in leather. A sign in the alley saying "Satyr's Gehölz"—"satyr" being self-explanatory and "Gehölz" meaning "grove"—was blinking on and off in red neon lights over the door. We were met at the door by something as close to a satyr as possible with a man—bare-chested, the chest sprinkled with gold dust; hairy, animal-skin pants rising low enough to show a fringe of pubic hair and open at the crotch, although the doorkeeper had a codpiece covering his genitals; black ballet slippers giving the hint of cloven feet; a goatee; and devil's horns on the head.

The wait staff in the main room was dressed the same, but without the codpiece. Four of the entertainers on the stage that was sunk at the far end of the long, narrow room, descending in tiers with banquet tables on them, also were costumed as satyrs. The fifth entertainer, a young blond man, bound to an X cross and being lightly switched by the other four, was simply naked—and beautifully formed.

Besides the cross bar and two lounge beds on the stage, there were the skeletons of two trees in the background with neon-colored cylinders hanging from their branches instead of leaves. I had no idea what they were until, as we stood at the bar, and Dieter encouraged me to drink a head-spinning drink, the young man on stage had been released from the X cross and been laid on one of the lounge beds. His ass was turned toward the audience, his legs spread and bent, his feet on the edge of the lounge bed. Two satyrs, one crouched on either side of him, were spreading his ass cheeks, revealing that his channel was gaping over—capable of accommodating more than one of the satyrs at the same time.

Dieter leaned over toward me and whispered, "Yes, it as you imagine. Does it arouse you?"

"Yes," I answered simply.

The four satyrs had immediately begun to fuck him. They were grabbing the cylinders off the trees. They were condoms. They took him two by two.

We hadn't been in the main room long before Dieter and I had been escorted to a smaller room off a corridor entered through a beaded curtain, and three satyrs, in succession, fucked me on a lounge bed while Dieter watched.

"You said you fantasized a train, being on a string. Do you want more? Do you want what the young man on stage—?"

"Not yet. Not now," I answered, frightened at the prospect.

The experience and the promise of what it might move to far exceeded the fantasy I had whispered in Dieter's ear, and I felt trapped. But it was my own released desires that entrapped me. I was a wildcat in bed in my apartment with Dieter that night.

He lay flat on his back on the bed, allowing me to spread-eagle him and bind his arms and ankles to the corner posts, and I rode his cock hard. I rocked back and forth on the long, thick, hard cock, taking it deep into my channel. My back was arched and I was rubbing and pinching my nipples hard with my thumbs and fingers.

"Yes, ride it. Fuck yourself," Dieter murmured, smiling up at me. I slitted my eyes and imagined myself one of the men in the glass cubes on Reguliersdwarsstraat in Amsterdam, offering myself blatantly to any man coming along who wanted me. I had never been so wanton. In the fraternity house I had been drunk and I just lay there, with my legs open. Here I was exercising fantasies I never even knew I could entertain.

"Release my right hand," Dieter growled. "And raise yourself a bit on your knees. I'm going to take over the fuck."

I continued to stare down into his eyes, in a half trance, as I slowly rocked on the cock and fiddled with my nipples.

"Now," he commanded.

Shocked back into the present, I did as he bade. There was enough play in the bindings on his ankles that he could bend his knees and elevate his thighs. When he did, he pitched me forward a bit over his chest. I had to prop myself up on the heels of my hands on either side of his shoulders to keep myself from collapsing on his chest. With his free hand, he cupped my cock, giving me a sheath to slide in and out of as my pelvis responded to the rhythmic thrusts inside my channel of his cock. We came nearly together as we were kissing. And when we did, I collapsed on his chest.

"Release me," he muttered. "Then I fuck you in the shower."

I was hard when I woke in the morning, my fantasizing of selling my body from one of the glass cubes in Amsterdam having extended into my dreams. I masturbated and then groaned and rolled over on my side, ashamed at how wanton I had become in such a short time. When I rolled over I encountered another body. I was momentarily surprised and confused.

"Mount me. Ride the cock again," Dieter murmured in a sleepy voice. Sleepy or not, he was rock hard too.

I hadn't been in Belgium for more than three weeks yet. My resolve back there after my first year in college hadn't meant much.

* * * *

My shock was total. I couldn't look at the photos, but I also couldn't take my eyes off them. All I could do was try to make my mind go blank and pretend that I was anywhere but here. But Hamilton, Hamilton Boyd, one of the embassy's senior political officers, was sitting there, across the table from me in one of the consulate's interview rooms, looking at me expectantly. Waiting for me to give a rational explanation for photos of three satyrs fucking me.

I worked my jaw, but nothing came out. I wanted to say something indignant about secret cameras and the assault on my privacy—to ask him how the photos had come into his possession in the first place—but I knew how stupid that would sound. Dieter had offered the experience to me and I had shown interest—and carried through with it. It was just a good thing—for both Dieter and me—that the photos weren't taken in my apartment. I had been pretty docile with the satyrs. I had been fully wanton with Dieter that night—even in the shower, when Dieter had mostly crouched and backed up against the tiles, holding my buttocks spread with his hands while I plastered myself to him like a spider, with my arms around his neck and fucking myself on his tool with the leverage of my feet against the tile wall.

"It's a good thing these were brought to me and not the consul general," Hamilton said. "I've always tried to be broadminded, but Sarah is about as straight laced as they come. And speaking of come . . ."

I turned my head away from the photos in embarrassment.

Sarah. He had that right. We called her Sister Sarah behind her back. She gave sour grapes a good name.

"It's not what it seems. I can explain . . ." I started to say, but I just let that peter out. It was exactly what it seemed. There was nothing to explain other than that Dieter had reopened a door for me and I had walked right through. The door led to a world and a set of desires I'd sublimated and had no idea how much I still wanted. And Dieter's world included much more than I'd ever done before—even promising more than I had done as yet—and what he had introduced me to was something that I regretted going all of these years without.

"It was just a fluke . . . just that . . ." But my voice wavered and I clamped my mouth shut when he pulled out a second set of photos. The same compromising positions; different satyrs. If he'd asked me if they had been taken on a different date, I couldn't truthfully have said yes. Dieter was shown off to the side in this set of photos, his cock out and in his hand, as he watched me being fucked.

Dieter. God, they knew about Dieter too. He wouldn't be coming to me tonight?

Shit, I thought. That's how far gone I am—sitting here with damning evidence under my nose that could put me on an airplane before dark and worrying that what Dieter gave me would be stopping.

But, still, all they'd do to me was bundle me back to the States and maybe fire my ass. There was no such thing as a dishonorable discharge in the State Department. I could just say that the life didn't suit me and go on to the next job. What could they do to Dieter? He was just a chauffeur.

I had done it with a local-hire chauffeur—had let him control and manhandle me. Some embassy officer I was.

"You realize that you could be sent back to the States and be separated from the Department," Hamilton said.

Of course I realize that, I thought. Haven't you been listening to what I've been thinking?

"If you stayed here and these fell into the wrong hands, you could be compromised. And the business of the United States could be compromised as well."

I hadn't thought about that. Good, god, he was right. I hadn't thought about that. Dieter was a local, not an American staffer. He could have blackmailed me with photos like this. Would I have given him what he wanted? Yes, if I was being honest with myself—especially if he kept giving me what I wanted.

"Why, whoever held these in their hands could control what you did if you weren't sent home and fired." Hamilton had continued speaking through my thoughts.

Right, you've essentially said that already, I thought. And then I looked at him. He was just sitting there, looking at me, expectantly. He even was giving me a little smile. What did he . . .? Oh, shit.

"You say no one in the embassy but you knows about these?" I asked.

"No, no one." Still he sat there looking at me expectantly.

He wanted to fuck me. He was the one who wanted to hold this over my head under the threat of being fired and sent back to the States.

"You . . . want me to let you . . .?"

"I want you to turn this into something good for the embassy, for the United States," Hamilton said. "I want you to do certain work for my office right here in Belgium, as needed. Something that would serve the interests of the United States, something that these photos show me you wouldn't find too repugnant. Then you wouldn't have to go back to the States, you wouldn't be fired, and the consulate need know nothing at all about it."

Fuck, I thought. He's with intelligence. The senior political officer job. I should have known. That's often a title they give to the chief of station of the intelligence people. "If I cooperate with you, you will destroy those photos and won't turn me in?"

"You know I can't destroy the photos, Allen. But it would just be working another aspect of embassy business—more important business, I think, than issuing visas to Belgians wanting to go to the States."

I didn't say no. I didn't say yes, either. I just sat there, probably looking as miserable as I felt.

"I'm taking a little sail out of the marina in Oostende on Saturday, Allen. The consulate's closed on Saturday. I'd enjoy having your company."

I didn't say no. I still half thought that he just wanted to fuck me himself.

* * * *

Hamilton had told me to drive to Oostende separately. When I arrived and found the boat slip he'd given me the number for, he was there, on an old motor yacht from the thirties, which had a white hull and a polished teak superstructure and a large covered fantail at the stern. It was sort of like I was entering a movie set from the 1950s. It appeared that I was the last of the guests to arrive, as the yacht cast off and motored out into the English Channel as soon as I had arrived.

Besides Hamilton and a small yacht crew of silent men in white shorts and T-shirts, there was just me and a middle-aged Arab, who must have been of some importance, but that wasn't completely true. There also were two burly bodyguards who appeared to be Italian or Spanish waterfront thugs and stood on either side of the yacht at the fantail and kept scanning all of the ship traffic with their eyes and never looking back under the canvas cover where Hamilton, the Arab, and I sat, drinking scotch. They seemed more like fixtures than passengers, though.

The Arab seemed highly cultured—and rich—but he was dressed in the traditional robes of the Arab world. He was a graybeard but probably no older than his early fifties, and, although hawk-nosed, was not all that unattractive. He obviously was well-groomed and took good care of his body, and he wore gold rings, with huge gemstones in them, on multiple fingers of each hand. He spoke in refined tones—conversing with Hamilton in French, which I was only beginning to master myself, having studied it only for a short time before coming to Belgium specifically for this assignment.

I was there with Hamilton and the Arab as we steamed out into the shipping lane, but I wasn't being made any part of the conversation. I wasn't under any illusions. I figured I was there for the Arab—and maybe Hamilton too—to fuck, but they were making me feel as much like just a fixture up until I was needed as the two guards were.

The most attention I got was when Hamilton leaned over and pulled my T-shirt over my head and said something to the Arab that made him slit his eyes and lick his lips. He made me uncross and spread my legs and lean back and stretch my arms along the back of the bench I was sitting on too, which puffed my chest out.

I got the impression that whatever serious business they had to conduct—and I couldn't imagine any reason for this excursion other than that the Arab had information Hamilton wanted or engaged in services Hamilton sought, or vice versa—had mostly already transpired. Their conversation was more active as we pulled out of the harbor than later, tapering off as we reached the shipping channel. Although they were speaking too rapidly in French and in tones that were too quiet for me to fully hear, I did hear the term "al-Qaeda" mentioned occasionally, which is what led me to believe that the Arab was providing Hamilton with intelligence sensitive enough to require this venue.

As their conversation wound down, the Arab increasingly turned his attention to me. He seemed to be asking questions about me and Hamilton was answering them—in French—as he, also, looked at me. I got the distinct feeling that I was being assessed and talked of in terms of a commodity. And thus when Hamilton turned to me and said, "This gentleman would like you to retire with him into the yacht's master cabin," I can't claim that I was surprised.