The Bootyguard

[The following story, characters, and events are a work of fiction. All characters portrayed in this work - both directly and indirectly in both sexual and non-sexual contexts - are of the ages eighteen and above.]

- S.A. -

" ¡ Alexander, nunca hagas nada a medias!"

Never half-ass anything.

Those were the words my father had instilled in me as a child; a strong work ethic, taking pride in what you've built and accomplished, and doing it right the first time. I took those words to heart--whether it was mowing and weed whacking the front yard as a teenager, to my time as a cav scout in the United States Army, and finally as a deputy for the Los Angeles Police Department.

After a ten-year career at the LAPD, one of my old buddies from the police academy reached out and introduced me to where the real money was: Private Security, a "Close Protective Operative". A bodyguard, in layman's terms.

Over the span of several months, I dedicated myself to the multiple facets of executive protection operations. Permits were needed in both open and concealed weaponry, first aid and CPR certifications, unarmed training and CQC honing, and getting in peak physical condition had me spend more time at the gym and shooting range than my own place. On the bright side, I could confidently say that I was the best shape of my life in my mid-thirties than I had ever been in before.

Despite the drastic change in careers, I continuously heard my father's words in my ear. I would interview clients as much as they interviewed me--processing probable threats, identifying suspicious hazards or behaviors, and what exact premises I was securing were all factors I took into heavy consideration before accepting a job. Through the years, I worked and continued to build my portfolio of clients: CEOs and executives, divorcees going through messy proceedings, and wealthy patrons all wanted my protection and would freely recommend me to other probable customers. When you enter the point when people begin contacting you, you can afford to start getting picky.

All that was thrown out the window the day I got a call from Thane Davenport.

I almost didn't believe it at first, the real estate baron owned properties on six continents. A billionaire several times over, his realty consisted of hotels, country clubs, casinos, magnificent mansions, and luxurious penthouses. Thane was a man who got what he wanted and, as much as my suspicions were aflame, the money he was offering was simply too good to pass up.

In lieu of my usual in-depth questioning and report-taking, Mr. Davenport was the one doing the majority of the talking. The assignment he was offering was rather simple--tag along with the client for a four-week course. In exchange: an obscene amount of money, housing and living expenses included, an open pipeline to opportunities of future work, and a complementary two-week stay at any of the resorts under his real estate umbrella as an added bonus to sweeten the pot.

The caveat was that my services were to be needed immediately, the flight to New Hampshire was already booked first thing in the morning. For whatever reason, he was especially insistent that three days from today--Thursday--was an upcoming important event.

"Mr. Davenport," I finally managed butt in, "What exact threats do you think you'll be facing?"

He was silent for a moment, "Oh no, you misunderstand. This assignment isn't for me, it's for my son. Mitchell Davenport."

Mitchell Bellamy Davenport--heir to the Davenport real estate empire.

"But Mr. Guerrero," Mr. Davenport cautiously approached, "This will not be a typical job, this assignment will require a certain amount of discretion."

Scrawling on my notepad, my interest was piqued, "In what way?"

Clearing his throat, "Mitchell is my only child. I have vested interest in seeing him graduate and claim my company as his own one day. But if these rumors I'm hearing are anything near reality--on the verge of flunking out, wild partying, sexual promiscuity--I fear that my company may not be in the best hands."

I nodded sympathetically, "He's young, Mr. Davenport. He still has time to grow up and fill those shoes."

"That may be so. After all, I was the same way at his age," he conceded, "But I feel it'd be for the best to have someone close to him at all times to monitor and report his progress."

The words hung in the air as I scanned my brain for an appropriate response, "Mr. Guerrero?" He asked after a bout of silence.

"That would be me?" I clarified, "You want me to

spy

on your son?"

Nervous laughter, "Not necessarily 'spy', Alexander." He clarified, though that's exactly what it sounded like to me, "I think Mitchell needs a guiding hand, and I would be most appreciative if I knew exactly where to direct my efforts."

I guess it was a more stomachable way of explaining it. Yet there was a nagging feeling in the bottom of my gut that persisted me, the words of actually accepting the offer were lodged in the back of my throat unable to vocalize, "And of course," Mr. Davenport continued, "You will be handsomely compensated for your efforts."

"But I'm afraid I'll need an answer now," He issued an ultimatum.

My brain was awash with conflicting feelings and an overload of information. My attempt to read the notes I had taken throughout the conversation left me even more scatterbrained as I couldn't even comprehend my writings. I didn't feel right about reporting on the activities of a client whom I was supposed to protect with my life. Yet the thought of the big bucks and the good word of a real estate tycoon tempted me...

Many celebrities and athletes rented those sprawling estates and downtown flats that Mr. Davenport was famous for. Using them for weekend getaways, high-profile weddings, and parties of all kinds. The thought of his powerful word giving me access to a large repertoire of high-paying gigs and future opportunities pushed me strongly in favor of, "Yes, I'll accept the job."

"Thank you, Alexander!" He enthusiastically replied, "I'll have my agent send you your ticket and relevant information! And as a sign of good faith, I'll forward a portion of your payment now."

Exchanging last-minute thank yous and pleasantries, the call ended as quickly as it had begun. Leaving me in standing in silence in my bedroom, prompting me to begin the first steps of packing my belongings and necessary equipment I would have to bring with me. In less than twenty-four hours, I would be on the other side of the country protecting a client I had never met before. An absolute first for me.

Beginning the process of folding clothes and underwear into my travel case, my phone vibrated in my back pocket as I fished it out and read the notifications. The reflection of the phone screen showed my reaction as clear as day--my dark eyes widening and thick eyebrows raising high above as my mouth parted.

Wow! I had never seen that many zeroes for a job I technically hadn't even started yet. If this was merely the sign-on bonus, then I could only imagine how big the check would be at the end of these next four weeks. The second notification was the two emails from Mr. Davenport's agent--the first being my ticket for the one-way trip from Los Angeles to New Hampshire at six in the morning. The second being the report on Mitchell Davenport.

The report on Mitchell Bellamy Davenport was thorough and intense. A twenty-year old male standing at 5'7 and weighing one-fifty with brown hair and hazel eyes. I raised an eyebrow at the curiously detailed notes about the boy, reading these many details about a client I had yet to meet made me feel uneasy. Yet, I reasoned that I owed it to the Davenports--both father and son--to be as well-read and knowledgeable about a client as possible before I assumed protection duty.

A juvenile rap sheet largely consisting of underaged drinking, possession of drug paraphernalia, public urination and intoxication, and indecent exposure all caught the eye. Every incident being swiftly met with posting bail and all charges eventually being dropped; all on account of Daddy Davenport's involvement, I was certain.

Following that was a lengthy expenses page consisting of credit card charges and money transfers. The common pattern being after Mitchell finished maxing out all his credit cards to their monthly allowances, Daddy Davenport would send him a large wallop of money to continue his frivolous spending habits. Louis Vuitton, Versace, and Tom Ford were some of the recognizable brands I could pick out of a long lineup of foreign and unrecognizable names.

I suppose a long day of shopping could leave one famished, which explains why his food budget totaled in the thousands of dollars. Just one single night at a fancy restaurant incurred a bill of several hundreds. Though that didn't stop Mitchell from making regular visits to McDonalds, Starbucks, and Chipotle. I guess even the spawns of billionaires love their fast food.

One aspect that definitely caught my attention was the so-called "entertainment budget". Sure, there were the regular streaming services that nearly everyone had a subscription to, but there were hundreds of dollars a month being spent on copious amounts of porn. I blushed scrolling through the too-familiar names of Sean Cody, CockyBoys, Raging Stallion, and the multitude of OnlyFans accounts he billed on his cards.

Mi padre

was old-fashioned, sure, but he had some right ideas--maybe a belt would've done this boy some good.

It was already late, past midnight and slowly creaking into the early hours of the morning. I had no time to waste. Quickly scrolling through pages of miscellaneous information, I reminded myself that I would have plenty of time to review and process all of this on the seven-hour flight. I placed the phone on the charger and returned to packing.

The rest of the night was uneventful besides the constant tossing and turning in my bed. I was able to fall asleep in twenty-minute increments before waking up again, constantly finding myself interrupted with the thoughts of the upcoming assignment and what to expect.

A lot was on the line here. And I felt like I was walking in totally blind.

Nothing but the spoiled brat of a billionaire

, I kept reminding myself. I had faced down enemy fire during my time in the Army, I patrolled streets of gangs and drugs in Los Angeles, and I protected important clients who feared for their lives in dangerous situations. Yet, an unending feeling of anxiety continually washed over me throughout the night as I begged with myself to try and get some sleep.

I could only come up with one last idea as I grabbed my charging phone off the nightstand. A quick jerk-off session was usually a surefire way to cure a bout of sleeplessness. Slowly peeling off my underwear beneath the sheets, I quickly selected one of the first videos that caught my interest. Watching the massive-dicked Malik Delgaty pound and pulverize tiny twinks was damn-near an artform, and I quickly found myself fully erect and enjoying every second of the scene.

In a little less than ten minutes, my abs and chest covered with thick rivers of sticky jizz and I found myself gasping for breath as I enjoyed the last remnants of my orgasm. Putting my phone to the side, I lazily used my underwear as a cumrag before tossing them in the general direction of the hamper. My muscles finally relaxed and my eyes heavy, I finally was able to doze off into sleep...

Mr. Davenport was gracious enough to put me in First Class. As soon as we were all seated, situated, and in the air, the drink cart came rolling down the aisle to ask passengers what they fancied. As tempting as it was to me to perhaps catch up on my sleep during the long flight, I decided I owed it to the Davenports to properly ruminate and reread the information I had viewed and glossed over last night--it would have to be a cup of coffee for me!

Using my laptop to meticulously read the report line-by-line proved to be useful--Mitchell Davenport was currently a sophomore at university, and that would have to factor into what kind of equipment I could bring on-campus. While I was assured that the school was aware of my presence and the proper authorities were alerted, I wanted to avoid any possible incidents and would avoid bringing my handgun onto school grounds.

Further reading informed me that, unlike the rest of the underclassmen, Mitchell had been granted a "special exemption" from living in the on-campus dorms and instead lived by himself in an apartment about fifteen minutes away from the school, nestled in the downtown district. The apartment building, unsurprisingly, was owned by his father. My personal quarters would be the room right next to his; we would have to literally share a wall.

Other than that, the details of my assignment were unexciting. If albeit a bit depressing--while Bellamy was by no means failing every class, he was definitely playing with fire as he was already on academic probation and showed no signs this semester of picking his grades up. I could see why Mr. Davenport was concerned for his child.

Alas, my job's parameters were limited merely to accompanying him wherever he went on and off school grounds and ensure he was safe from all probable threats. The threat level:

minimal.

The very end of the report included a message from Mr. Thane Davenport himself,

Alexander,

I know this isn't your usual assignment, I have no real legitimate fears for Mitchell's safety. Think of this as saving my son from himself.

Do what you must,

T.D.

...

Jet lag was a pain.

Combined with the meager amount sleep I got the night before; I shuffled through the airport like a zombie as I kept an eye out for Mr. Davenport's representative who met me outside the terminal. With a quick handshake and introduction, he handed me a manila envelope with the necessary items I would need for this assignment, as well as the keys to the Escalade that I would be escorting Mitchell around town in.

Address and apartment number in hand, I made my way across the bustling college town to the Davenport-owned apartment complex in the middle of downtown. The streets were packed with college-aged kids filtering in and out of sports bars, cafes, and art shops. All were hallmarks of an uppity college town.

The apartment building, while beautiful, stuck out like a sore thumb; it was the only new and modern building in an otherwise old town square. Surrounded with shining panes of glass and an immaculate courtyard, I parked the car in the underground lot and used the pass Mr. Davenport's representative handed me to gain elevator access.

Heading up to the very top floor, I walked down decorated hallways of framed art pieces and greenery as I eventually found the right apartment number. I knocked on the door.

No response.

I knocked again, harder this time.

No response.

Sighing, checking my phone to verify his schedule to see if he was in class at this time--he wasn't. I banged on the door once more, putting some real muscle behind it this time.

No response.

While this perhaps wasn't the best way to make a first introduction, I pulled out the ring of keys that sat on my belt and picked out the golden one that belonged to Mitchell's apartment. As I placed the key against the entrance of the slot, the sounds of playing with the lock stopped me in my tracks as the door swung open.

Standing in the doorway was the boy I already knew so much about--Mitchell Bellamy Davenport.

Dressed in only a pair of skimpy briefs, the outline of his bulge in full detail, Mitchell rubbed his eyes as though he had barely got out of bed. Skinny and slender, fair-skinned and freckled without a body hair in sight. I was a bit disappointed; I was expecting a cute brunette, but the report hadn't mentioned anything about him dying his hair to a light, almost blinding white, blonde--his dark roots still visible. Raising his arms to the ceiling in a mighty stretch, exposing his hairless pits as his vision seemingly cleared.

Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, he froze in place. One hand high in the air while the other rested against the doorframe as his hazel eyes traced up and down my body...up and down...up and down...once again, up and down, "Mr. Davenport?" I finally ended the awkward silence, now uncannily aware of how tight my shirt was over my muscular frame.

Finally dropping his arms and resting against the doorframe, he seductively bit his lower lip, "Well hi there..." He slowly traced his fingers across his hairless chest, brushing across his perky pink nipples, "How can I help you?".

As professionally as I could, I extended an open hand, "Mr. Davenport. Alex Guerrero, I'll be your new Close Protection Officer for the next four weeks, sir."

Covering his open mouth with one hand and shaking mine with the other, "Oh my God. Really!?" He exclaimed as if it were too good to be true, "My daddy does know how to pick 'em!"

He motioned for me to enter,

"Come in, Papi!"

"Uh, you can call me Alex." I suggested as I stepped in his apartment, "Thank you, sir."

"Oh no, no 'sir' here!" He corrected, "Call me Bellamy. It's a lot cuter than 'Mitchell', dontchathink? And certainly, much cuter than 'Mr. Davenport'."

I nodded, "Of course, sir-Err, Bellamy."

Stepping inside his suite was akin to stepping into another world. While the hallways were ones of bright lights and chic artistry, the inside of the apartment was dark, dirty, and dingy. Such an immaculate apartment, one that offered a gorgeous view of the downtown, was reduced to a walk-in closet with clothes carelessly strewn about, the kitchen garbage bin overflowing, and fast-food bags and wrappers littering the kitchen countertops.

I had to live here...

Bellamy's hand wrapped lightly around my tattooed bicep as he looked up at me, the top of his head barely reaching my shoulder, "Sorry about the mess!" He sheepishly acknowledged, "The maid is coming in tomorrow to clean up!"

I wondered if she was making as much as I was. It only seemed right...

"Your room is going to be down the hall, next to mine! The fridge is always stocked with goodies, so help yourself to anything you like. And if you want to direct your attention to this monster right here!"

He pointed at the enormous flatscreen TV situated on the wall; boasting surround sound speakers and comfy couches to rest in, "This bad boy gets all the channels!" He announced, grabbing the remote and turning it on.

The screen flashed to life in a second. There, in all high-def glory, was a scene of a hot hunk easily deepthroating the fattest dick I think I've ever seen in my life. Like magic, somehow able to fully wrap his lips and mouth around the beastly cock and shove every inch down his throat with seemingly no effort.

The TV instantly turned off as Bellamy blushingly smiled, "Uh, I have an Anatomy midterm this Thursday," he explained, "About the human reproductive system. So, I was trying to watch a documentary about...yeah..."

I nodded wordlessly, still somewhat in shock at the sight that had just flashed before me. Bellamy let out a nervous chuckle, the exact same as his father's, "Let me get dressed really fast and you can take me to class!"

Slowly walking in front of me, his hand trailing down my forearms to the tips of my fingers before he let go and walked towards his bedroom. Shaking his ass back and forth with every step, the bottom half of his cheeks hanging out in full uncensored view, I coughed awkwardly, "Uh, Mr. Davenport-I mean, Bellamy. It's seven in the evening."

His face dropped as he spun to face me like a deer caught in the headlights. Sprinting over to the kitchen to inspect the time on the oven, "Oh, son of a bitch!" He cried, slamming his palm on the countertop.