The Ambassador's Son

My head was still swimming a bit, but it was done now and couldn't be taken back. I pulled my knees in together with a groan and slipped the plump pillow from under the small of my back. I lowered my feet to the marble floor below the edge of the large lounge bed in the pool house facing the open wall to the terrace-surrounded swimming pool, light reflecting brightly off the slightly waving water under the blazing sun. He hadn't told me I could adjust my position, but he'd been so long at it in this position that I was cramping.

I turned my face toward one side and watched the slim-waisted, berry-brown body of Amir saunter off to the bathroom. His buttocks were plump orbs, but the hollows at the sides below the hips—which I had just had the heels of my hands buried in as my fingers were flared over his butt cheeks, helping to guide his thrustings—were deep. Turning my head in the other side, I looked at the used condom, plump from his prodigious cum, laying there like a bloated slug, proof that I'd let him fuck me. Beside that were the bottle of lube and another couple of condom packets. He had said nothing about how I'd done with him, but he apparently was prepared for a marathon.

When he'd left me he'd just said he needed to piss—and that I wasn't to go anywhere. He acted like I was there just to serve him. He obviously was spoiled that way, which was a given considering who he was and where we were. But then nothing I was doing could be taken to contradict that he could have anything he fancied from me.

This was all just a bit surreal. I hadn't let a man fuck me since college. I doubt if Amir would have cared even if I had told him that I hadn't, though. And, on his turf and given the bodyguards, it was rather a moot point. As he was fucking me, my eyes had gone to the ceiling over the lounge bed and I saw the frame that could be lowered on the bed and the four corner posts with the restraint attachments. If I hadn't given into to him willingly, chances were good that he would have taken me anyway.

I'd wanted the job with intelligence, using my natural skills at the technical aspects of audio surveillance. I'd restrained myself, behaving myself, so that I could pass the stringent background checks and scrutiny of my life—and I'd managed to get through all that and to my first posting, here, in this small Gulf peninsula enclave emirate, strategically important for its size not only because of the oil field it sat on but also because of where it was positioned in relationship to its neighbors and to the Strait of Hormuz passageway into the Persian Gulf.

Amir el-Basir, the pampered and spoiled son of Prince Sayeed el-Bakir, wasn't thick, but he was long, his cock curved up so that the bulb could punish the prostate as he pumped. And he had stamina. He was thin and wiry, but he was well-muscled and strong. I had resisted a bit, but I'd been tired from our tennis match on the palace courts and confused and sluggish from whatever was in the drinks he was plying me with as we sat in the pool room after the match to cool down. I had stopped putting up any kind of a struggle at all after he'd gotten his dick inside me and just went with the fuck. He was cruel, taking long, deep, rapid strokes. Fisting my knees and working my legs back and forth, thrusting as he pushed the legs out and withdrawing as he pulled them into my body.

He never asked me if I liked or wanted what he was doing to me—but I didn't use my hands to try to push him away, I grabbed his buttocks and helped guide the stroking—and when I felt him ready to blow, I held him to me, wrapped my legs around his waist and took over the stroking with my channel. So, I guess he knew I wanted it.

I had let him have his way. There wasn't much else I could do. The embassy had told me to cultivate the royals and had virtually thrust the two of us together when they learned I'd played intercollegiate tennis. Amir was a tennis nut. He'd seen me play and had expressed interest in playing me. I'll bet the embassy didn't know what he really wanted, how he wanted to play me, though—what it meant to cultivate his goodwill, to let him have his way.

Between sets he had told me that his fetish was young blonds. He said it as if he already knew I—a young blond—would take cock. Not taking him all that seriously at that point and playing like I misunderstood him—that he was speaking of blonde women—I asked him how hard such women were to come by in this Arab emirate, and he just laughed and said there was a market for young blond men, like me, here. I didn't necessarily believe him, but his eyes weren't laughing when he said it, so I didn't call him on the statement. Neither did I press the point on which gender we were talking about.

Once here, I couldn't very well refuse him with those armed guards standing at the corners of the pool house, ever vigilant, but seeing nothing. Just standing there, as we sat by the pool after—at his suggestion—skinny dipping and him plying me with liquor, speaking flatteringly of my physical attributes, and pulling similar voicing of admiration from me on his own naked body. It was his idea that we move into the shade, on the lounge bed in the pool house. He had already kissed me and held and squeezed my cock by the pool, so I knew what was coming in the pool house. I suppose I could have at least tried to withdraw then, signaling that I wasn't available. But I didn't, and he didn't act as if I had a choice or might choose other than what he wanted.

He pushed me onto my back there on the lounge bed in the pool house, where I could see the frame above me and contemplate it with some trepidation, as he knelt between my spread thighs and gave me nominal suck. We were both hard already, though, so there was little preliminary preparation, before, telling me he couldn't wait longer, he rose over me between my thighs, forced a pillow under the small of my back, and thrust inside me.

I had murmured that I wasn't sure, knowing from my slurred words that the liquor had impaired my reactions, and, after it became evident that he was going to carry through, that I had been some time and could he go slowly. But, no he couldn't—and didn't—go slowly. The initial thrust caused me to scream and try to jerk away from him, but he just laughed and held on tight, reared back, and thrust again, deeper. And then again, and again, and again, faster and harder.

After his dick was inside me, I was lost. I gave in completely.

"I knew you were just teasing," he muttered.

But I hadn't been teasing. It had been long enough for me to forget how much I wanted it.

It was like old times in college, if ever so brief. But so arousing. I encircled his slim waist with my legs and held onto his sides under his armpits, the heel of my hands rubbing his nipples, as the head of his dick found my prostate and worked me there. I ejaculated and collapsed as he worked my channel, and he grabbed my legs, bent them, with my heels dug into the edge of the lounge bed, and pumped my legs back and forth to the rhythm of the pumping with fists on my knees, while I arched my back, reached for holds on the brass rungs of the headboard behind me, and moaned my acceptance of the cocking.

I came again, and he noted, with pride, how easily he could coax the cum out of me.

Once again I told him, "It's been years," to which he retorted that I was a liar—that he thought I was a pro. He had fucked harder, mercilessly, to his own ejaculation then.

I watched him return from the bathroom, dark-skinned, thin, wiry, his cock in upcurved erection again, his hands busy rolling a condom onto the long, thin staff.

I wasn't drunk anymore. There were no excuses anymore. But there was nothing to fight anymore either. It's not like I hadn't done this before.

Neither of us said anything. He was so cocky, so sure of himself. As if this was his kingdom and he could have anything—anyone—he fancied. And, in fact, it was and, as far as I was concerned now, he could. The time for diplomatically pulling away and leaving had been as we were leaving the tennis court when he put his arm around my shoulder and gave me that hungry look. I had known that look in college, but I had thought myself beyond those youthful follies. I wonder if I knew at that moment on the tennis court that he was going to fuck me. I suppose it's a waste of time to think about it, though, as he did fuck me. And having done it once . . .

I watched him roll another condom on and lather it with lube. Then I raised and separated my legs. He moved between them, pushing the pillow back underneath the small of my back, grasping my ankles and hanging them on his shoulders. He leaned over me, bringing his face down to mine.

"Be good to me this time," I begged in a whisper. "Last time you—"

"I know what you want," he growled as his lips possessed mine and his hands grasped my wrists.

I lurched and tried to open my mouth in a scream as he thrust up deep inside me, but his tongue was occupying my mouth cavity. He immediately began pumping hard and deep, and I groaned and grunted. Taking him. Taking all of him deep and hard.

Within moments knowing it was what I wanted. That didn't matter anyway. He was the son of the prince of the kingdom. This was what he wanted.

The worry kept pounding in my brain. How did he know? How did he know I'd take the cock? What gave away the desires I had that I thought I'd successfully hidden? Or maybe he didn't know. Maybe, here, in this primeval enclave of power and selfishness, it wouldn't have mattered at all what I wanted or didn't want.

I rose up against him, struggling with him, he wrestling with me—but laughing when he realized what I was trying to do. I pushed him to the side and rolled with him until I was on top and he was on his back on the lounge. It was me now lowering my face to his, taking his lips in mine, putting my pelvis in motion rising and falling on his cock. My sexual surrender to him total, although he would demand more than sex from me—and I was so lost to him now that I would give him anything he wanted, do anything for him that he demanded of me.

* * * *

When I drove back into the embassy compound and turned the keys of the embassy car over to the garage supervisor, he told me, "The ambassador has requested that you go see him when you've returned."

I was afraid of this. In fact this was much of the reason that I had let my defenses down to Amir el-Basir and then, after he'd first gotten his dick inside him, had just given way, letting all of my defenses shatter on the marble floor of his pool house. I been walking gingerly around like on broken glass since I'd arrived in the emirate, knowing that at some point I'd meet up with the ambassador.

"In his office?" I asked, hoping.

"No, in the residence."

Shit.

Hunter Sean Caldwell II. He hadn't been the ambassador when I'd first received my assignment to this country. The assignment had come as a surprise, while I was still training in tech craft, mostly audio surveillance, at Warrenton, after finishing my masters in Muslim studies. I wasn't exactly at the head of my class at Warrenton, and some of my fellow students weren't that pleased that I'd gotten an assignment so early. But then most of them were still struggling with languages. My Arabic was fluent already.

I had already sublet my apartment in Rosslyn, near the Pentagon, and sold my Mustang convertible when I'd read that Caldwell would be the new ambassador. Hunter Sean Caldwell II, the last man, before today, who had fucked me. The first man who had fucked me. Before Amir just now, the only man who had fucked me. The man who I thought was a master at cocking until I encountered Amir.

Caldwell had been both the direct ancestor of the founder of Caldwell College, a university prep junior college for jocks—my sport being tennis—and its president at the time I came to his attention. I was on a work-study scholarship to augment my sports scholarship and I served drinks and hors d'oeuvre at his cocktail parties.

He was having a rough time in his marriage. I didn't know it then, but his penchant for young blond men was the crux of the problem. One night after a cocktail party, when his wife wasn't in evidence because she had flounced off to Europe, I was still cleaning up when all of the rest of the servers had left. Caldwell came into his living room, his tux tie undone and his shirt open to show a well-muscled chest covered in salt-and-pepper, curly hair, and sat in a wing chair, watching me under drooping eyelids and drinking scotch from a bottle. I could tell that he was keyed up.

He told me I could stop and that he wanted me to sit with him and talk with him. We passed the bottle back and forth while he told me of all his problems with his wife and the school and life in general. He also told me what a fine-looking young man I was and how well I could do in the university on the bases of a good recommendation from his school. He told me, in guarded references, of his weakness for young blond men, not spelling out the manifestation of the weakness but saying enough that I could hardly claim I didn't know what he was saying.

As earlier today, after tennis with Amir, I could have left at that point and we both could have maintained at least surface denial of what was being offered, requested. But the offer had been couched in references to my future and my good standing in the college. And I can't say that I hadn't been curious or tempted before. I can't say that Caldwell hadn't been able to read my vulnerability and natural inclination.

He could hold his liquor better than I could. I have no idea at what point he was kneeling between my thighs and giving me the first blow job I ever had from a man.

He fucked me in the backseat of his Mercedes in the garage, saying he didn't feel right about doing it in the house. But that was a one-time taboo. He had no trouble fucking me in the house for the months afterward. The backseat of a Mercedes in a closed garage is a hell of a place to lose your male-male virginity, but I was drunk, he was the college president, and I was barely making it through on combined scholarships—scholarships that he controlled.

He was gentle with me under the circumstances, my first ejaculation occurring while he was still sucking me and working my body with his hands as I was on my knees between his thighs, facing him in, the center of the backseat of his Mercedes. My ineffectual murmur of objection as he pulled me down into his lap and I felt the hard insistence of him. I can still hear the unzipping of his trousers in my then liquor-clouded mind as he had my torso bent back toward the front seat and was sucking on my nipples.

I remember murmuring that I'd never done it before and then the feel of the bulb of his cock at my entrance. The long, slow, painful journey of my channel down that pole, which wasn't unusually long but, I didn't know it at the time, was unusually thick, seemed like a telephone pole to me. And then, once I felt the curly hair of his pubes on my ass cheeks, the rocking back and forth on his cock, one of his arms around my waist and the hand of the other between our bellies, stroking my cock hard again. The pleasure rising up to overlay, and then overpower, the pain. My second ejaculation, and his bathing of my channel. He hadn't worn a condom. The kisses and his, voiced, but surely not seriously meant, apologies afterward as I continued to rock on the cock and it withered inside me were almost anticlimactic.

I remember having been slightly irritated at his insistence that I had just been teasing him about not having done it before and, worse, having maneuvered him into the tryst—all voiced to justify his own actions and weakness, I'm sure. But what was done had been done and I needed his goodwill, so I didn't argue. I have no idea what he would have done, how he would have reacted, if I had cried or railed against him. Since I didn't, obviously, in his mind, I had wanted it.

The apologies didn't prevent him from fucking me again that night and over the next few months again and again and again. And until Amir el-Basir fucked me, I thought that Caldwell was an expert at it and that I was lucky to have him servicing me once I had been accustomed and drawn to it.

After I'd moved on to Stanford to major in Muslim studies, with a full tennis scholarship, I left that behind and managed to forget what I'd had to do to get through junior college.

But that wasn't really fair. Much like having given in to Amir el-Basir once he'd gotten his dick inside me that first time, once the awkwardness of the backseat of the car and the first breaching of my ass ring by a cock was over, I had nothing left to protect, and I had enjoyed Caldwell's cocking. He must have enjoyed cocking me, because, though we parted amicably enough when I went off to Stanford and he presumably moved on to other young blonds, he'd obviously kept track of me and had requested my assignment to his embassy when he was tapped to be an ambassador.

A Filipino manservant opened the door of the residence, which was a wing of the recently constructed American embassy complex, built like a fortress in a compound that could withstand a siege or a rocket attack. No one looking at the building from the courtyard would even know what was office space and what was the ambassador's residence as well as the residences of other senior embassy officials.

I obviously was expected, as I only had to give my name to be ushered to a central, two-story foyer with a huge skylight overhead and a staircase sweeping up to a second-floor landing. The manservant gestured toward the stairs and looked at me expectantly.

"I'm to go upstairs?" I asked. "And then where?" I had never been in the residence. I'd only been in the country for two weeks and most of that was on leave in a hotel, busy trying to set up new living circumstances. The embassy admin officer was the one who actually arranged for housing. Mine hadn't been set up yet, and he seemed to be dragging his feet on getting me settled. I was still in the hotel.

"Excuse me, sir," the manservant said. "Yes, up the stairs, down the corridor, and the last door on the right." He gave me a look that seemed peculiar, but what did I know about the looks that Filipinos gave? And what did it matter anyway? Filipinos, like the Thai, were favorites as house servants for the wealthy for their ability to fade into the wallpaper and to take anything going on in the house in their stride—not judging, at least overtly, just serving, and serving well. After giving me directions, the Filipino houseboy withdrew—into the wallpaper for all I knew.

I knocked on the door and heard Caldwell's voice, bidding me to enter. The room I entered obviously was his bedroom—large, elegantly decorated, and with a commanding four-poster bed. I can't say I was surprised.

I also couldn't say I was surprised that he was standing at a full-length French door out onto a narrow balcony that looked down on an interior garden courtyard. Even though the courtyard was enclosed, mostly by the blank walls of other areas of the embassy, the view was distorted enough for me to know that the glass was thick and bulletproof. Nor was I surprised that he was in a robe of a gauzy material thin enough for me to tell, with the backdrop of the sunlight streaming into the window, that he was naked underneath. He was still in superb condition, these six years later, for a man in his late fifties—solidly built and somewhat stocky, but not fat. And he was half hard, with a thickness that I well remembered.

I stood inside the door, which swung shut on its own behind me. We said nothing for half a minute, during which he gave me a sardonic look and took a couple of swigs of whatever he was drinking out of a brandy snifter. Liquor. My softening-up vulnerability. He had made me drunk before fucking me at college. Amir had made me drunk before fucking me in his pool house earlier in the day.