"Bah, it's too acidic this morning." Cosmo pushed the plate of lasagna away from him and looked out over the rocks leading down to the Mediterranean at his Limassol, Cyprus, home. He rubbed his sternum, trying to rub out the dull pain there as he admired his yacht, the
Apyko
, at anchor in the cove. There were many memories connected with that boat. Through the years it had been his anchor. He thought back on the man who had given it to him, the Greek shipping magnate, Alexander Petropopolous. How much had happened in Cosmo's life since then? It had been quite a ride.
"Perhaps you should go in and take some antacids and lay down," his young lover, Emile, said. "I've just about got the matches set up for the day."
The two men, the late-fifties Greek pimp and his early twenties French protégé, were sitting on the terrace of Cosmo Eracules' home base in Limassol, finishing up a lunch after their night of fucking and morning of exhausted sleep entwined in each other's arms. The housekeeper had finished cleaning the house and had left the lunch warming in the oven for them before leaving. They were alone in the house. The new Internet-based business model Emile had gotten set up had obviated the need for the muscle provided by bodyguards, and the expense of that had been dispensed with.
Over the year since Emile had attached himself to Cosmo in Las Vegas, the older man had become increasingly dependent on—and controlled by—the younger man. Not only was Emile completely redoing the business of procuring the sexual services from young studs to match up with the needs of rich men willing to pay well, but he was completely controlling Cosmo Eracules' life now. His own sexual needs were insatiable, and he did everything he could to keep the Greek pimp's unusually thick and long cock hard and pleasing him.
The Greek had aged considerably in the past year and had lost much of his commanding presence. He had sensed that the control of his business had slowly slipped out of his hands. He didn't even half understand what Emile was doing with all of this Internet manipulation. If Emile left him now, he wouldn't know the first thing about what to do to run the business. He would have to start from the ground up doing it the way he had done it for over thirty years before Emile came along—going to sea in the
Apyko
along with some strong-arm helpers and plucking young male whores down on their luck out of this casino or that and selling them to white slave brokers in the Arab world. There was still a market for this. He knew he could reconstruct the business. He just, most of the time, felt too tired to do so.
And the tiredness, he was sure, was from the insatiable demands from his young lover. There was little he could do about that, because he was a prisoner to the young man—a willing prisoner. He was besotted with the French acrobat, Emile. The former aerialist had a beautiful body, and a long, thin cock that could snake up into Cosmo's channel almost to his stomach, it seemed, and caress his channel walls in a way that made Cosmo explode again and again in glorious ejaculations—still strong and voluminous despite his age. And such a sweet hole that was able to caress and undulate over Cosmo's own cock, again in a profusion of ejaculations. And the positions—the small acrobat had no end to inventive positions that peaked Cosmo's arousals.
He was a gift for a man at this age. Cosmo couldn't live without him. He had never had a lover to equal him—and he had experienced a legion of men in his life.
But Cosmo was tired, oh so tired.
"I think I will go in and lie down for a bit," Cosmo said.
"Good idea," Emile said, not even looking up from the laptop, where his fingers were dancing over the keys. He was naked, his body berry brown from being naked most of the time under the strong Cypriot sun. Cosmo ached for him even though he had been repeatedly drained dry in the night by the young man's virility and demanding body.
