This is a prequel story to "Silas's Choice"
*****
Carlos was finishing his set on the drums when he saw his two minders move toward the gambling floor of the Toscana. He took advantage of that to lay his sticks aside and hop off the platform at one end of the club's floorshow room. Looking as nonchalant as he could, he sauntered back to the murky corner where the big bruiser was sitting at a table alone, chain smoking and repeatedly tossing back scotch shots.
It wasn't a one-way approach. The man had been looking intently at Carlos.
Carlos knew the man's name was Angus MacLoid. He was staying at the Amatique Bay Resort in Puerto Barrios on Guatemala's Mexican Gulf coast and had his sailboat tied up in the resort's marina just as Carlos Arana did. Carlos had first spied the man two days previously when they both were doing maintenance on their boats.
MacLoid was just the right type of big stud that Carlos liked and melted to—the reason why Carlos' father, Guatemala's agriculture minister, Francisco Arana, had Carlos tied up with two bodyguards. Despite being barely legal, Carlos had already proven to be a satyriasis—he couldn't get enough of bruiser cock. Francisco, who doted on his only son, hadn't seemed to mind this as much when Carlos was keeping it within Francisco's cartel, where the father could maintain control. But when Carlos had opened his legs for the competition, for Felipe Molina, who was trying to move in on Francisco's drugs, gambling, and prostitution empire, Francisco had drawn the line. Felipe was now a guest in the basement of Francisco's summer mansion in Puerto Barrio—which is what brought father and son to the east coast—and Carlos was hobbled with two bodyguards.
Angus MacLoid was built to American Marine standards. Big, heavily muscular, but narrow at the waist, with the flaring, muscular thighs of a soccer player. He was wearing a red Speedo when Carlos first saw him swabbing down his deck two boat slips over. The pouch of the Speedo barely held the man in. His biceps and triceps were massive and well-defined. Without an ounce of fat on him, his veins stood out on his arms, legs, and trunk. It was hard to tell what color his hair was, because he had a Marine-style buzz cut and was otherwise mostly hairless and deeply tanned. When he raised his arms, though, Carlos could see a patch of auburn-colored hair at his pits. His eyes were a watery blue. There was nothing handsome about the individual features of his face, although the eyes were mesmerizing. The features all came together in a chiseled, "don't mess with me," commanding whole.
Carlos knew he'd let a man like this do anything with him that he wanted. That was exactly what excited Carlos.
While trying to keep his handlers, who were helping him clean his own sailboat, oblivious, Carlos tried to show the big bruiser his interest. There was every reason to believe it had been noted too. The man did a pose every once in a while that sent the young, small-of stature man of mixed breed into heart palpitations. And more than once during those poses, the hulking man reached down to readjust the big bulge between his legs—looking directly at Carlos when he did it—and while both bodyguards were looking away.
Carlos' father was Guatemalan, but his mother—two wives ago—was a Scandinavian blonde show girl. Thus, Carlos' features were not pure Mayan, but were sculpted to the more angular features of his mother and there were natural blond highlights in his hair. He was perhaps more pretty than handsome, which went a long way to explain how the thugs of Francisco's world had been so anxious to get their dicks inside him—even while they feared the sensitivities of the father to anything like this.
But Francisco was so indulgent that he accepted his son's sexuality and his interests. He just wanted them to move in channels he could control. When Carlos wasn't running with any other big bruiser Francisco approved of, one of the bodyguards fucked the young man. Carlos had needs, so he fell in with this, although he preferred a higher-risk partner. And it satisfied Francisco, because it kept the bodyguard alert for anyone else nosing around the young man.
The American—Carlos had found out he was an American named Angus Macleod because he inquired at the resort desk and, being the son of the agriculture minister who also was the local underworld overlord, Carlos' requests were taken as demands to be accommodated—finished with his boat and was gone before Carlos and his bodyguards were finished with his. Carlos had every intention of hooking up with the big stud, though. It was a matter of doing so without the complication of a bodyguard alerting Francisco. Francisco was wary of all Americans.
Carlos hadn't just gotten a name and nationality. He'd also found out that MacLoid was a big-time music promoter. And Carlos, taking more pride in his abilities as a drummer than he probably could have beyond Guatemala and the support of his father, was taken with the idea of getting in good with a big-time music promoter—especially one who would manhandle him.
And now, tonight, there he was, in the nightclub room of the Toscana, the new casino Francisco had publicly come to the coast to open—permitting the only son he indulged in most ways to play the drums in the band opening the club. The covert reason for Francisco coming here was to rein his son in from being fucked by Francisco's opposition in this region, Felipe Molina—a man who was entirely too close to the Guatemalan president—and, if rumors were true, to the Americans—and who was making inroads into Francisco's drug-running operations from the Puerto Barrios port. Francisco had managed both to end the hookup with Carlos and to seize Molina and was holding Molina prisoner and squeezing him for every ounce of information he possessed before disposing of him in a way that wouldn't alienate the president—or, at least, that wouldn't be traced back to Francisco.
MacLoid rose from his table as Carlos approached. There was little in the way foreplay between the two when Carlos reached the table.
"You're a saucy little piece," MacLoid growled. "I want to fuck you."
"Where?" was Carlos' only reply. Both were looking toward the entrance into the gambling floor from the nightclub, where the two bodyguards were busy cajoling but also subduing a nasty drunk—a drunk, unknown to Carlos, who had been planted by MacLoid.
"Come with me," MacLoid answered, gripping one of Carlos' wrists in a fist.
The men's room was a remote one, but not so remote that men didn't come in periodically as Angus fucked Carlos in one of the toilet stalls. First, after pulling Carlos' trousers and briefs down to his knees, Angus pushed Carlos down into a seated position on the toilet; pulled Carlos' pants and briefs off his legs, laying them out behind Carlos on the toilet tank top; unzipped himself; pulled out a mammoth cock; and force-fed it into Carlos' mouth. Carlos had had enough sexual experience to give an expert blow job—and to do so quite willingly. Angus hooked Carlos' legs over the crook of his arms on either side to pull the young man's feet off the floor so they wouldn't be seen by men coming into the men's room. A couple of men did come while Carlos was working Angus' cock hard with his mouth, but they merely used the urinals and left none the wiser.
Angus was wearing a tuxedo, and he fucked Carlos by using his cummerbund as a sling, cradling Carlos' buttocks and pulling the young man's pelvis up to his groin. The younger, smaller man was flexible and was able to press his feet against the stall's door, reverse his palms against the opposite wall, and rest his neck on the edge of the tank top, his body suspended in air, while Angus crouched between his thighs and pistoned him hard, fast, and deep with a monster cock that would have had the young man yodeling if Angus hadn't stuffed the young man's bikini briefs in his mouth.
