"Do you have any objections?"
The way Fazil was looking at me, sitting by me on the narrow bunk, with the man giant Axel standing by the cabin door beyond him, I felt he wanted me to say I did have objections. And it did frighten me, but it also excited me. It represented just what attracted me to the older, Zeus-like Turk. He was danger.
I said nothing, but I leaned away from him where I had been sitting beside him, naked, on the edge of the bunk in the master's cabin of his yacht, while, embracing me close, Fazil had been fondling and "worrying" my body with little pinches and bites of sensitive and tender areas. He knew that aroused me; he could see that it did. And I could tell by his shallow, guttural breathing that it aroused him too.
I shuddered at the sight of the silent, hulking German standing just inside the doorway to the yacht's deck and dangling the pair of handcuffs from his beefy mitts. All business and Nordic massiveness—a natural for the bodyguard role.
Fazil laughed appreciatively at my indecision and hesitancy and grabbed my wrists and forced them over my head, while Axel stepped over and hooked the handcuffs through a handle on the wall at the side of the bunk and then snapped them onto my wrists, leaving me still sitting on the side of the bed, but my torso arching back and my wrists bound to the wall at the side of the bunk with my arms over my head.
Fazil stood up and took his trousers and briefs off and tossed them to the deck and unbuttoned his shirt. He then moved over to a table across the cabin, where he could sit behind it and watch me. Several handguns in various forms of disassemble were spread out on newspapers on top of the table.
Axel bent down and picked up Fazil's clothes, folded them, and laid them on the top of the bunk next to me. He had already done the same with mine, which now lay under Fazil's. The big German went back to the door to the deck, turned, leaned up against the door, crossed his arms, and stared at me like he hoped I would dare to move and that he'd like to do things to me that tested my limits.
I was trembling with lust and want. Either or both of them. Or both of them at once.
Tahir had tried his best the night before in the glass-enclosed flat of Fazil's floating over Kyrenia's harbor on the northern Turkish Cypriot coast, but, although he seemed to have been left satisfied, only the brief onslaughts by his uncle, Fazil, had been able to touch me deeply enough to scratch my own itch.
I felt I'd done well by Tahir, except in one regard. I'd been leading him on for over a year, signaling to him in no uncertain terms that he could have me in exchange for the secrets he was providing me from his position with the Turkish Cypriot prime minister. And last night I'd let him do whatever he wanted with me—for the first time, following months of furtive and brief kisses and hand and blow jobs on the fly and in secret. For the first time last night, I had spent the night with him—with his uncle, Fazil, observing the first fuck.
I had thought I'd have to wake him up in the night for more lovemaking, feeling I owed him, but Tahir had managed to waken on his own and embrace me and make passionate—for him at least—and gentle—which was my problem with it—love to me twice more.
And then we had parted ways, with Tahir thinking I was returning to the embassy in Nicosia and that this was just the start of him being provided full value for the secrets he was feeding to me, but me knowing all of the time I would be leaving with his dangerous, overpowering-fuck uncle on his yacht, bound for Istanbul. I might have gone with Fazil anyway, having discovered that he was a notorious international arms smuggler my government was pursuing. But the fact that his fucking took me to the edge and made me feel entirely alive determined that I would go with him if he commanded me to. Which he had done.
My one regret was that I neglected to tell Tahir that last night was my last call on him, that I was being reassigned and was turning him over to a new handler. I'd meant to tell him that, but I'd put it off several times, and when I started out to look for him at the Dome Hotel where we were to go for breakfast this morning, he having gone ahead while I showered, Fazil had met me on the staircase to his all-glass flat and put out his hand, reminding me that he'd said I'd be leaving with him for Istanbul on his yacht this morning. And I had just put my hand in his and let him lead me down to the quay in front of his building and onto his large motor yacht.
We were hardly beyond the breakwater, headed out to sea before Fazil had me naked and in his arms, sitting on the side of the bunk in his cabin.
I looked up from the bunk where I had been bound with my hands over my head and looked across the cabin at Fazil. I was panting for him. He had played my body with his hands and lips and teeth before I'd been bound, bringing me to full arousal with his beefy hand slow-pumping my cock while he worked my torso with his lips and teeth. I had watched his hairy knuckles as they gripped my cock and longed to have them plying my channel.
I loved the play of the curly, gray-specked black hair on his chest as it cascaded through the gap in his open shirt while he sat at the table across the room and hummed and worked at cleaning the handguns scattered in parts on the surface. I could see below the surface of the table, where he was sitting on the edge of a chair letting his heavy balls and plump cock hang down between his spread legs.
He had taken me with a fury the night before, in his glass cube, while Tahir was showering, and he'd been dominating, and cruel, and rough—just as I liked it. And it had been masterful, a prime example of why I liked going with older men. He knew what I liked, and he gave it to me, quickly and expertly. And he was determined to get what he liked in the process.
"Where did you say you knew my nephew, Tahir, from?" he asked. His tone was conversational, quiet, and seemingly innocent. But I knew there was nothing innocent about Fazil Fikret. There was nothing in Tahir's file at the station in the embassy that had linked him to Fazil Fikret, the elusive international guns smuggler. It was ironic. I had been running Tahir for more than a year while he was picking up whatever he could find on the inner workings of the Turkish Cypriot prime minister's office, and all this time he had been the nephew of an even larger, more-compelling case file.
