Hunting the Dissident

Assurances had been given that this was where to pick up men in the small town of Mauren in the north of the equally small principality of Liechtenstein. Those in the know knew that Liechtenstein was a notable place for older men to come for young men--one of the princes here ran a university where a certain kind of young man's education could be covered by attending the prince's parties at his alpine castle on the mountain overlooking the principality's capital, Vaduz, and be covered there in orgies of the prince's privilege club. Dean Dunsford, young, blond, angelic-looking, wearing a smile, for one man in particular, and sitting on a bench in front of a public convenience by a Mauren park on Freiendorfstrasse, but going by the name of Gere Gimbel--Austrian rather than American--wasn't at all convinced this would work.

He was dressed to pick up in a cropped T-shirt, displaying his flat, tanned belly; intriguing inny belly button, silky athletic shorts, with side cuts up to the waistband; and tennis shoes, his duffel bag under the bench below him and a tennis racket leaning against the bench seat. He'd been led to believe this would do the trick--a double whammy of combining sexual and sports interest--for one man in particular.

And, in fact, it did do the trick.

The man who walked by him on Freiendofstrasse just about on the minute that he was expected was dressed for tennis. Gere, now in character, recognized him as the man he wanted, tall, thin, tightly muscled, Slavic looking, forty something, although they were hard years. He could be a workman or an academic. He was rather nondescript, not ugly, but not particularly good-looking either. His brown hair was thinning on the top but he had a close-cropped beard and mustache, and the curling of hair out of the neckline of his tennis T-shirt indicated he was at least thinly pelted. But he looked a bit furtive and wary, which Gere had to acknowledge he would look if he knew this bench was a place to pick up young men and that was what he was here for.

At first, it didn't seem that was what he was here for, because he had a bag with the handles of a couple of tennis rackets sticking out of it and, although he gave Gere a close look and they exchanged smiles, he initially walked by the young man, headed north, and Gere thought this hadn't worked. But then the man turned and came back.

"You're a tennis player," he said, as he stood in front of the bench. It was more a statement than a question, and he was nodding toward the covered tennis racket leaning against the bench. It was a top-of-the-line Babolat Pure Aero. Anyone who knew competitive tennis knew it was a racket for a serious player. The man spoke German, but with an accent. Gere knew that it was a Slavic accent.

"Yes, I play tennis," Gere answered in better German. "I am on a hiking vacation, but I like to play tennis along the way. I was told there was a Saturday morning meeting of the better local tennis players at courts somewhere around here, but I couldn't find it."

"You are German?"

"No, Austrian. I live in Vienna."

"Ah, just passing through on vacation then. This is perhaps not the best place in the town for a young, fit man like you to sit, I must tell you."

"I also was told about sitting here, by the men's room in the park. Tennis isn't the only sport I like to play when I am on hiking vacation." Gere gave the man a slight smile and looked directly into his eyes. If this wasn't going to work--if he'd been too forward or he'd been given bad information, the man would move away and continue his way. The man stood his ground, though.

"And you are willing to talk to me? I would not be surprised for you to be looking past me while I stand here, looking for a younger and more presentable man to be coming along."

"I like talking to you just fine. You look just fine to me."

The man smiled. He wasn't being dismissed as unsuitable. "I play tennis with the group you've been told about on Saturday mornings. I know where the courts are. Would you like to come with me? My name is Stefan. Stefan Schmidt."

Not even close to Baris Zaytsev, the young man who wasn't named Gere thought. But then it wouldn't be the man's real name or anything close to it. "My name is Gere Gimbel. Are you a native to Liechtenstein?" he asked.

"My family has been here for a couple of generations, yes," the answer came back.

"Yes, I would like to go with you to play some tennis with your friends this morning," Gere said. "I'm sure that will work up a big appetite, but I have just arrived and don't know of a good place to eat."

"Perhaps after tennis, I could take you to a restaurant with good food and reasonable prices."

"The prices would have to be very reasonable," Gere said.

"Oh, you would be my guest. And perhaps afterward, I could engage you for a bit of entertainment--since you know what purpose a handsome young man would have to be sitting on this bench."

Gere look at Stefan, who had taken a hundred-Swiss franc bill out of his pocket and held it, folded, in his hand.

"Perhaps yes, I would like that," the young man said, smiling up at the man standing before him at the bench. It wasn't lost on Gere that the man had his other hand lowered to be in front of his basket. The hand holding the money opened, and, with a smile, Gere reached over and took the hundred-Swiss franc note and tucked it in his pocket. He stood and said, "So, where is this tennis court you play on on Saturday mornings?"

He should have known that those putting him in place here had done their research. This approach--letting the man do the approaching--had worked a charm.

* * * *

The man was doing a good job of eating Gere out, the young man on his arched back on the man's bed in the Delehala Lane cottage, his arms thrown out at the side in a sacrificial position, clutching the edge of the mattress on either side. Stefan was gripping Gere's thighs behind the knees and spreading and raising them, holding Gere, naked, captive to the man's lust and need. Gere had had no idea the man would be this good in sex. Stefan rose up on his feet, hovering over the younger man. Gere instinctively raised his hands to palm the older man's pectorals, impressed by both the muscularity and the tightness of the man's body--that he had no fat on him, his veins bulging on the surface of his skin, having no flesh to hide in. Most impressive were the bullet marks on the man's torso--on his right side, moving down from below his tattooed right pectoral to his waist. Gere trailed the fingers of one hand down along the pockmarks, as Stefan moved Gere's left ankle to his right shoulder and used his freed hand put his cock head in position.

"Yes, yes. Now," Gere murmured, signaling for the man to take what he wanted from him.

Gere arched his back and head, his eyes going to the ceiling, wildly running across the dinginess from one water mark to the other, panted hard and moaned deeply, as Stefan's cock invaded, sank in, pulled back, thrusted further in, and started the rhythm of the fuck. Gere grasped the man's biceps and tightened and released his fingers to the rhythm of the man's thrusts. The young man moaned, feeling the cock go deep. The man had more length than Gere had imagined he would.

"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck," he moaned.

"

Orzites ustojczywo. Ozmite. Ozmite

--Hold steady. Take it. Take it." Without realizing it, the man was revealing that emotions led him to speak in Russian.

Gere took it, endlessly. He'd had no idea it would be this good--that he would melt to this man as he was doing. He didn't miss that the man had spoken in Russian.

The young man had gone with the man calling himself Stefan Schmidt the several blocks to the sports club with multiple tennis courts. When asked about who he worked for in Vienna, Gere was a bit evasive, at this point not going beyond saying it was for the government--or the military service but not as a soldier. Stefan was equally evasive on whether he had a job at all or why, speaking careful German with a Slavic accent, he was living alone in a cottage in a minor principality in the center of Europe. Gere didn't really need to know what his story was on that.

Stefan was a good tennis player. Gere was better, but he couldn't reveal that he'd played intercollegiate tennis for Stanford University in California. He was just a young Austrian who went on walking tours in Europe, played pick-up tennis with natural talent and practice. And he allowed older men to pick him up, take him to their cottages, and fuck the hell out of him.

After tennis, during which all of the men who showed up to play asked Gere to return again and vied with each other to enlist him as their doubles partner, Stefan guided him to a nearby café and paid for his lunch.

"I won't be able to order much at these prices," he said.

"Order whatever you want. We can arrange compensation other than money," Stefan said, touching Gere's forearm with the fingers of one hand and stroking the arm when Gere didn't pull back. They shared a knowing smile. They proceeded to jockey with each other on backgrounds and preferences, making the most inroads on sharing that each was actively and casually gay, that Stefan was a top and Gere a preferred bottom--and, most important--that each was in heat.

They walked back across the town, past the park on Freiendofstrasse to the southern edge of the village and down Delehala Lane, with its spaced small bungalow cottages that probably predated World War II. Stefan's nondescript cottage was set back from the road behind a white picket fence. The yard was scrub compared to its neighbors. It was clear that Stefan wasn't a gardener or, from the apparent condition of the house, the owner or intending to settle here forever. The house appeared to be exactly what it was--a temporary shelter from danger. As they walked, Stefan whispered in Gere's ear how excited that they were going to hook up.

"Maybe I should get a shower first after the tennis," Gere said.

"I like the smell of you. You turn me on. It's a man's scent," Stefan responded, and that was that. The younger man was to find later on that there were two bedrooms, one of them locked, and a bath behind the room that served as living and dining room and kitchen at the front of the small, wooden house. But initially, they made it no further than just inside the door.

Stefan pulled Gere to him and took the young man's lips in a kiss. His right hand pushed down the young man's exposed belly, under the waistband of his shorts, and the two men were rocking together, in the clutch, Gere moaning, as Stefan grasped his cock and stroked him. He was delighted to find Gere in erection, which had been developed by Gere's understanding where this was leading, his intent that it do so, and the dirty talk Stefan had whispered in his ear as they walked.

Gere had initially wondered if he'd have difficulty getting hard for his target, but that didn't arise as a problem with Stefan. That part of this assignment was no trouble whatsoever.

The first fuck was right there on the floor, Gere on all fours and Stefan mounted on his ass, giving it to the boy good, like dogs in heat. The young man was lost in the moment. He'd been sent here to coax Stefan to do this and to want to do it again and again, but Gere didn't give a fuck what he was supposed to be doing now. He wanted Stefan to do this--and to do it again and again.

After a bit of rest, Gere saw the rest of the house, except for the locked room, about which Stefan said nothing other than, "Just storage," and Gere knew better than to ask. And then they did it again on the bed, Stefan fucking Gere in a missionary, holding the young man's legs raised and spread while Gere ran a hand down what were evidently battle scars on the mysterious man's torso. His palm rested on the circular tattoo on the man's left breast. At first look, it might be a Yin/Yang symbol, but, looking closer, there was more to it, with raised fists and something written around the curve of it Cyrillic.

"You know the tattoo?" Stefan asked, guardedly.

"No. But it's unusual." He did know the symbol, though, he knew what the Cyrillic said and that it was Cyrillic, and he knew what the symbol was for.

"Just something from my youth," Stefan said.

A lot closer to today than you're letting on, Gere thought, but what he said was, "Fuck me. I'm in heat. Fuck me deep. I'm in heat for you."

With a low, guttural laugh, Stefan complied.

As they lay there, stretched out against each other, after the second fuck, Gere decided he had to chance the risk.

"Well, I guess it's time for me to move on and find someplace for the night. Could I take a shower here first?"

"You don't have a room in town already?" Stefan asked.

Gere paused. Here we go, he thought. "No, I was horny and found out about the park bench as soon as I got into the town. Can you recommend an inn or small youth hostel around here? Not too expensive, I hope."

"You can stay here as long as you want to be in Mauren."

"Really? You don't have much room here. That other room doesn't have a bed in it, does it?"

"We've already discovered that we fit in this bed. That would be your rent--being in this bed with me. I'd provide your meals, of course."

"You don't mind?"

"Have I made you think I'd mind? You're a firecracker in bed."

You are better than I thought you'd be--a lot better--Gere thought, but he didn't say it. "So, who first in the shower?" he asked.

He went first. When Stefan came out of his time in the shower, Gere was standing at one of the living room windows, swathed in a bath towel, leaning into the window frame, and looking out onto the lane.

"You see something interesting out there?" Stefan asked. He too wore only a towel around his waist.

"There were two men out there. It seemed they were watching this house. You don't have any enemies here, do you, Stefan?"

"Here, let me see," Stefan said, coming up behind Gere at the window.

"They're gone now."

"It's nothing. They couldn't have anything to do with me," Stefan said. He put his hands on Gere's hip from behind and nuzzled his face into Gere's throat. His eyes, though, were looking beyond Gere, out onto the street, looking up and down the lane.

"It's a pity," Stefan whispered.

"What is?"

"That we've just showered but are going to have sweating sex again right away." The hands at Gere's waist pulled the young man's towel away. It fluttered to the floor, to be covered by Stefan's towel. The older man ran his hands over the younger man's body, holding him close from behind, sexing the younger man up.

He sexed Gere up successfully, so that when Stefan's hand gripped Gere's cock, the young man's shaft was hard again. Gere went up on his toes. When he settled back down, Stefan had moved his cock into position and Gere descended on it, taking it in, and rocking on it as Stefan stroked him off. After just three fuckings, the men were so in synch that they managed to come together.

All of the time, however, Stefan's eyes were trained on the lane, looking up and down the road, looking for what he didn't want to see.

Later that night, Gere woke to find he was alone in the bed. He waited for a few minutes, assuming that Stefan had gotten up to take a piss. That wasn't the case, though. Gere saw some light coming from the hallway. He quietly got up and went to the door. He saw that the door to that second bedroom that had been locked was now cracked open and a light was on in the room. He couldn't see much inside the room, other than he saw Stefan sitting in front of an array of electronic equipment and was speaking in low tones into a microphone.

Under normal circumstances, the scene was so strange that anyone would have been perplexed. Gere, whose real name was Dean, wasn't in the least surprised. He pulled back from the door and returned to the bed, resting up for what he hoped would be another fucking by Stefan before the morning. So many fuckings weren't a necessary part of the assignment, but Gere would give the target as much sex as he wanted--and that Gere wished for too. When Stefan came back to bed, Gere got his wish.

* * * *

Dean was on all fours on the bed, his hands clutching the top rung of the brass headboard to hold himself steady, as the big man--substantial of body, muscular, a vigorous fifty, massive of cock, and quite evidently in cruel command--crouched over him, in deep, and riding the younger man in a hard gallop.

Dean Dunford, posing across the Austrian border in the principality of Liechtenstein as Gene Gimbel, was being debriefed by his CIA Candy Store unit boss and controller, Sam Winterberry. This was the function of the CIA unit Winterberry commanded--it used trained and willing men and women to serve the national security needs of the United States through a combination of the world's two oldest professions, spying and prostitution. Winterberry's stable included male agents who could work women, male agents who could work men, and male agents who could work both. The same with his women agents. Dean was an agent who worked men. Winterberry controlled Dean by mastering him in bed. Winterberry fucked them all.

Dean had been picked up on the eastern outskirts of Mauren, which also was the border between Liechtenstein and Austria, and had been transported to a rendezvous with his controller and a small Agency team in a rented farmhouse on the western border of Feldkirch, Austria.

"Did you have any trouble getting into Zaytsev's bed?" Winterberry asked after the attitude check session in which he had asserted command of Dean by covering him in the doggy position.

"No, everything Research said he would respond to was right and was smoothly accomplished." Dean didn't mention that he liked the man more than he thought he would--and especially his lovemaking. It helped that Zaytsev wasn't the usual bad guy Dean was used to targeting. As a dissident, Zaytsev was working the same side of the street on Russia that U.S. intelligence was. Dean didn't think of it as sex. The man had shown him more attention than that. Dean enjoyed playing tennis with him and even the conversations they'd had. And wasn't he someone the United States wanted to help? Really?

"Have you ascertained whether he is still active? That he has maintained his contacts back there?"

"I think so. He gets up at night when he thinks I'm asleep. He had a locked room he goes to. I've seen in there. There's all sorts electronic equipment. I think he's continuing his activities from here."

"Good. Have you started to condition him to think he's in danger from there?"

"The first day I told him I thought there were two men watching his house. He wanted to check that out and, yes, I think it made him very nervous. I told him the men had left before he came to the window. I think, though--"

"This afternoon, after you've gone back, and then again tomorrow, I'll have a couple of men do that," Winterberry said. "We'll soften him up quickly. We don't want to take much time in this."

"You want to help his cause, I thought you said. That's true, right?" Dean wanted that to sound like just checking out what the operation was. He didn't want Winterberry to become suspicious that he'd developed an affection for Zaytsev. But Winterberry was too sharp about such things.

"Yes, we want him to continue his operation. But we want to provide the planning and material for that operation." And then, turning Dean to face him. "You aren't developing feelings for this man, are you?" His eyes were piercing. Dean had to muster up all of his fortitude. It was like Winterberry could read men's minds. But of course he wouldn't be in charge of such operations for the CIA if he wasn't smart as a whip and highly professional.

"No, of course not. It's just an operation. But it would be pleasant to know that it's one that will be put to continuing use--not just a termination."