Sugar-Coated Hot Pepper

He was young; cute; Hispanic; had a very nice smile; had a small, perfectly formed body; and moved like a dancer. Any three of those were good enough to make me hard. I immediately went hard for him. His name was Manuel. I guessed Brazilian from his bronze skin color. But then we were only ninety miles from Cuba.

I was on a punishment assignment from the Agency. We had a listening post in Key West, at the very tip of the key, on the small naval base, and I'd been sent to head up the operation—and maybe to close it. The ice around U.S.-Cuban relations was thawing and Fidel was dead. The unit was on Key West to monitor every breath a Communist country just off our shore took and, historically, to cover Fidel's three-hour diatribes on the radio. Times were changing. We could squeeze more juice out of Cuba off the Internet than we could off the radio, and a shitload of Cuban refugees were sitting in Miami who were more than happy to squeeze data on Cuba off the Net every day and to make sure the U.S. government knew what was happening there.

The Key West bureau was a dying office, and that's how my boss, Sam Winterberry, had pitched a hand-slap assignment for me to the guys and girls—increasingly girls these days—on the seventh floor. I'd been caught fucking the college-age son of the Agency's comptroller, Jerry Ortez, and Ortez wanted me sent to Hades. What could I do? The lad—who was well of age, mind you—was young; cute; Hispanic; had a very nice smile; had a small, perfectly formed body; and moved like a dancer. Just looking at him made me go hard. He also was quite willing and made very nice compliments about the size of my cock and about what I could do with it. He had that "take me like a virgin" act that got to me every time—and I'd taken him like he was a virgin every time.

They couldn't spear me for spiking a man, even though that still was a separation offence in the Agency, because that was my job—I worked for Sam Winterberry's Candy Store unit, which put into play the truism that the world's two oldest professions—spying and prostitution—worked well together as an intelligence-gathering activity. So, I fucked women and men and, on occasion, got fucked, all in obtaining valuable intelligence for the Agency. Being a switch hitter, as I was—Sam Winterberry was fucking me—I was actually quite an asset for the Candy Store unit operations.

So, what officially was a crime in the Agency was, unofficially, premium good business, and the worst Ortez could subject me to was a dead-end assignment until my Candy Store services were vitally needed by Uncle Sam again. So, Sam had emphasized the "business is dead, it's at the end of the world, and it probably is closing" aspects of the Key West bureau to the brass and the seventh floor and failed to mention that Key West is the gay male mecca of the United States. And the seventh floor bought it. That there was male pussy romping from shore to shore down in Key West was a plus for Sam. He wanted to get my mind off Ortez's cute son. It took thinking of the honey pots down there to do it. As it was, I was still banging young Ortez, taking him like he was a virgin, on the night before I pointed the headlights of my Camaro toward Florida. And Sam banged me the morning I left. Both Sam and I well knew I wasn't a virgin.

So, I was sitting at a crowded outdoor café on DuVal Street two weeks after taking up residence in Key West, and he appeared before me on the other side of the café table I was at—one with two chairs at it and I only occupied one. He was holding a coffee mug and a croissant. I was folding up my

New York Times

and had an empty cup and a small plate with croissant crumbs in front of me. It was quite natural to get the idea that I was about ready to vacate the table.

"Excuse me. Were you about to leave? There don't appear to be any other open chairs."

I looked up at the young man. He was young, cute, Hispanic, and had a great smile and a small body to die for. His hair was black and curly, with a curl dipping down to an eyebrow. He was minimally dressed, with tight shorts, sandals—without socks, naturally—and a mesh shirt showing a nicely muscled, bronzed torso. There wasn't anything unusual about that; all men dressed gay in Key West, and most

were

gay. What was really nice about Key West was that you could assume a guy was gay unless you found otherwise; you didn't have to wonder if he might be gay. The interesting thing here, though, which caught my attention immediately—other than that he wore the uniform very well—was that the tight mesh T-shirt revealed to me that he had a ring in his left nipple. The signal wasn't universal, by any means, but years ago a ring in the left nipple had replaced an earring in the right ear as a declaration of a seeking submissive bottom—my favorite brand of young gay men.

I did a fast look around the café. He hadn't been shitting me. The only available chair was the one at my table, the one he was standing behind while looking oh so fuckable.

"Sure, no problem," I answered breezily, "as long as you don't mind sharing the table long enough for me to have a second cup." I lifted my mug and looked for a waiter, there fortuitously being one almost at my elbow, and signaled that I wanted another hit of caffeine. It would be my third, not my second, cup of java, but who was counting?

With a smile and a, "Hi, my name is Manuel," he sat down across from me.

"Chaz here," I said. "It should be Charles, but this is Key West. We like to go very casual down here."

"Yes, we do," he answered with a repeat glorious smile.

That led into a discussion of where we each came from, how old we were. I was relieved to hear him claim he was nineteen. He smiled when I said I was thirty-one and told me I looked a lot younger—and in great shape—but that he liked older men. I, of course, didn't mention that I didn't think thirty-one was an old man. We weren't yet at the point where I could indignantly say that I could keep it up for hours, reload fast, and achieve three ejaculations in an hour—with pretty impressive wads of cum too. He gave me an "I didn't mean to get into comparative ages" look and then we moved to what we were doing in Key West. I told him I worked for a news agency, which, in loose terms, was true. He told me he was a college student.

"Well, not what you would call a real college, I guess," Manuel said. "I go to the Key West Yoga College of India, over on Southard Street. But I also do some part-time work with a caterer—serving at parties and such."

"An Indian yoga college?" I asked, making my voice sound like I was intrigued. And of course I was.

"Yes. It's a school of yoga. It helps with flexibility. I do some dancing, but I wanted to qualify as a yoga instructor, so—"

"Dancing?" I asked, fascinated.

"Yes. I dance a pole on weekend nights at the Bourbon Street Pub. Right up the street here, on . . ." He was blushing, as if he'd said too much. He hadn't said too much for me.

"Yes, on DuVal," I supplied.

"You know it?" he asked. It was a key question. It was one of the premier gay cruising and strip clubs on a premier gay island.

"Yes. I go there," I said. "I haven't been there on a weekend, though. Too crowded for an old man like me. But I'll have to make a point now of taking it in on the weekend."

"You're not an old man," he said. "You're in great shape. And you're a real hunk, if it's OK for me to say." He had a forearm resting on the table and I reached over and stroked it with the tips of my fingers while giving him "that" look with my eyes. He gave me a submissive's look back—a slight dipping of the head and looking up into my eyes under fluttering eyelashes. I could feel the tremble in his forearm as I took up a stronger grip of that with my hand.

"And, yes, Manuel, I'm gay. I'm a power top. And you? You're a submissive bottom, aren't you?" I didn't mention that, for the right man, I could be a submissive bottom too—and that, on occasion, I wore a ring in my left nipple too. That revelation wasn't needed in this transaction.

He managed a deeper shade of blush. "How do you know that?"

"The nipple ring. Unless, of course, you aren't following the convention, such as it is. Is it not true that you are a seeking submissive?"

"No, yes. Shit, I'm not good with sentences like that with the screwy negative words. Yes, I'm a bottom. But I didn't mean . . . I didn't sit here to . . ."

"Were you shitting me, Manuel, about not thinking I was too old? You said you liked older men. I heard that. Maybe you didn't think I'd heard you say that, but I did."

"Yes, I like older men. I had an older guy who took care of me, but . . ."

"But no one owns you at the moment? You don't have a master right now? Someone to control you and take care of you and use you right?"

I could see that my calculated use of the word "master" had not gone unnoticed—and, I think, unappreciated. "No . . . no I don't," he murmured.

"Someone to contain you and give you direction? Someone to use you hard—to take advantage of that flexibility that's important for you to maintain?"

"No. I don't have anyone like that at the moment." His eyes were downcast, his trembling had increased a bit. The café was still busy—busy enough that no one was paying attention to us. The world was swirling around us, but we were isolated in a bubble, an island in the ocean of people pursuing their own interests, not ours. I had his full attention. I already was seducing him, fucking his mind. It was something we learned to do in my business. I was an expert in it, assessing each mark and doing it a tailored way for each. With some, like this honey, the direct "I want to fuck you" approach worked best. I could talk to him as dirty as I wanted to here at the table, and he would be focused on it, seduced by it. If I wove a web of dirty talk and images around him here well enough, he'd let me do all of that to him when we were alone. I'd been taught how to do this.

What I didn't take into account, and probably should have, is that this was entirely too easy. He obviously wanted me to fuck him. I didn't go over all of the "whys?" in my mind. I had been trained to do that too.

There would be a barrier between us and everyone else at the café. I pulled my right foot out of my sandal and rubbed my toes against his lower calf. He widened the stance of his legs. He maybe didn't even notice he was doing it. It happened involuntarily. He was opening to me. I could, if I wanted, fuck him right here at the table—on the table, under the table, in his chair. He'd take me here and now if I told him he would.

"This man of yours—your sugar daddy, Manuel, was he a big man?"

"Yes."

"I mean where it counted."

"Yes."

"At least ten thick inches?"

"Almost that." At least he took that seriously enough to draw in his breath when I defined the inches.

"I mean all of that. No stopping half way."

"Yes . . . almost."

"So, you like men who are big—hunky—you can take it thick and long."

"Yes, that's the way I like it."

"Good. That will be good then. You know what I'm saying?"

"Yes."

"Long, thick, vigorous. And you want your man to be a little cruel, don't you?"

I felt his shudder through my grip on his forearm. "Yes," he whispered.

"Here, Manuel. Here's a card with my home address on it. An apartment house over by the Truman Annex, near the gate into the naval station. In case you are free this afternoon . . . now, and in case you lose sight of me as I walk home from here. You're going to follow me back to my apartment. Now. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he said meekly.

"Good. I'm leaving money here, enough for both of us. I'm finished my coffee. I see you have a bit more to drink—and a few more bites of your croissant. That should take long enough that you can walk behind me but not lose sight of me, right? The master always walks ahead of the submissive, right?"

"Yes . . . sir," he said, still looking down at his unfinished croissant, as I stood, left money on the table, and slowly sauntered out of the café and toward the Truman Annex. I didn't look back as I strolled back to my apartment house. I was that sure that he was back there somewhere, following me.

I lived on the fourth floor. There was an elevator, but I was a fitness nut. I had to keep my body toned when I was in Sam Winterberry's unit. But I had time to make it upstairs and get packets of condoms and a bottle of lube out and placed on the nightstand in the bedroom before I heard the buzzer sound down at the street door. I buzzed him in without looking to see whether it was Manuel or not. I was sure it was. And I went out into the hallway and looked down into the well, following glimpses of him as he wound around and around stairs and landings, rising up to me.

I pushed him down to his knees in front of me inside the foyer after I'd closed the door, unzipped myself, and made him service me for a few minutes. This was the mark on whether he was going to be coy or not—or even back out—whether he'd deep-throat me, on his knees, just inside the apartment door. No preliminaries; right to business. After exclaiming how big it was—"Well, I did tell you," I said—and gagging at his initial efforts to deep throat it, he handled it like a pro.

When I knew that we were going to have smooth sailing this afternoon, I lifted him up on his feet. He was a good foot shorter than I was, and his body was small, but it was perfectly formed—just the way I liked it.

"I want you cleaned out, and I want to be clean," I said. "The bathroom is through the bedroom over there. You first in the shower. Then me."

When I came out of the shower into the bedroom, he was leaning in a provocative pose, naked, in the frame of the floor-to-ceiling window of my bedroom, with the golden light of the sun glistening on his beautiful, small bronze body. He hadn't bothered to dry himself off, and I was excited enough to take a fast shower, so beads of water were still taking their long, slow journey down the curves of his glorious body. The pose was studied, but I could tell that he was nervous and a bit scared at what was to come. That was the way I wanted him to be.

I fucked him there, at the window, from behind, as he leaned his chest into the frame of the window, rose on his toes and grabbed the brace for the curtain rod above his head, rested his cheek against the frame when we weren't kissing, and jutted his bulbous little buttock out to me to take the thrusts of my cock up into him. I'll give it to him. He could take ten full inches like a trooper.

And I fucked him a second time standing on the floor half way to the bed, with his little body plastered on my front, his legs hooked on my hips, his fists locked behind my neck, me clutching and spreading his buttocks with the palms of my hands, while he bucked vigorously against me, riding my cock hard, fucking himself. He was a firecracker, a regular hot pepper below the surface of his cute sugar coating.

And I fucked him a third time on the bed in inventive positions that emphasized his flexibility and aided my ability to ram him hard again and again and to mine his ass deep. He exhausted me, but after that afternoon, I had to rephrase my pitch of being able to shoot three times in an hour. I made it four with him before the first hour was up.

He was so sweet that, despite obviously being a professional at whoring, he also could take me in a way that made me feel I was taking a luscious young man for the first time. It was by no means the first position on the bed, but when we went into a missionary position, him on his back, legs spread and raised, back arched, and his hands clutching my shoulder blades, he cried out as I entered him and tightened up his channel to make me force my way in. He writhed and cried out a passionate, "Yes, yes, god, you're a monster. You're splitting me. Yes, take me hard, daddy!" And I did, giving it to him hard and deep, both of us crying out as he allowed his channel walls to open for me and his muscles to ripple over my cock and to draw me deep inside.

He was docile then for several minutes, lying still, his head turned to the side, sobbing quietly, the undone virgin. I gave it all to him, holding steady, ramrod straight stretched out over him, buried to the hilt, listening to him sighing and murmuring, "Yes, yes, yes," until slowly coming to life, he started moving under me, setting his pelvis in motion, moving to slow writhing and then, crying out, "Finish me. Give it to me! Cum me!" he bucked against me, with me deep inside him, where I tensed, jerked, and gave him my seed, with him moaning and clutching my buttocks in his hands to hold me inside until he'd gotten every drop out of me. God, he knew out to milk me dry. He had to be a seasoned pro.

I zonked off on my back on the bed, with Manuel doing a writhing cowboy on my still-hard dick. When I woke, he was gone. He hadn't left me a contact number, but I had a line on him. I should be able to catch him at the Bourbon Street Pub on the weekends, where I could watch him shake the cute little butt that I had split with my throbbing cock again and again.

I dozed off again, trying not to smile at the hardship tour to this backwater that Jerry Ortez had demanded and Sam Winterberry had slyly acceded to with a sigh of sympathy for me.

The sugar-coated hot pepper that was Manuel had gotten it good. And he knew he had. He was a mouthy little thing and boy did he know some dirty ways of telling me he had been fucked so hard his eyeballs were swimming in cum. He hadn't wanted to use the condoms and I hadn't been in the mood to insist. He'd declared his was checked weekly, and I knew I had a standing appointment to get checked after every fuck and, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, the Agency had its own miracle pills for such problems—both before anticipated sex and after unanticipated sex. One thing we didn't want to do to marks we were trying to compromise and blackmail was to give them something that would kill them before we'd squeezed all of the value out of them.

"When you got it, you got it," I murmured to myself as I drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

I fretted through the rest of the week, counting the hours before I could make a weekend appearance at the Bourbon Street Pub. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I was smitten with the sweet sugar-coated hot pepper Manuel—enough that I was questioning who was master and who was slave. My mind kept going to that moment in the missionary fuck when he went docile, completely open and vulnerable, laying there, sobbing quietly, his passage walls pulsating over my cock as I held it ramrod hard, deep inside him, sinking in an inch deeper than I'd managed ever before, the master subduing the virgin, waiting for him to come alive on the cock, which he did. He knew how to do undone virgin magnificently.

When I finally arrived at the pub that Friday night—and then returned on Saturday—he didn't appear. For solace, I settled on another small, cute, young, Hispanic honey named Emilio, who perched on my lap as I sat on a stool at one of the bars, with my arms wrapped around his bare chest, while we watched the dancers on the poles and then the male strippers, and who gave no objection when, after stuffing a wad of compensating five-dollar bills in his waistband, I slit the tight nylon bikini briefs he was wearing along the line of his crack while he moved to the music on my lap and then unzipped and exposed my erection. After I rolled on a rubber handed to me by the bartender, who kept returning to watch us, Emilio slid down my pole a good seven inches and fucked himself on me as we sat on the stool and watched the world dance around us. No one seemed to mind that we were fucking. The bartender certainly didn't seem to mind.