El Presidente

"Mr. Winterberry wants to see you in the back cabin, Paulo."

Paulo Pulido unbuckled his seatbelt and gave a sigh. He was pretty sure he knew what came next. At least, though, perhaps the head of the Agency's special unit, informally known as the candy store, might shed some light on where they were going and why. At the moment they were approaching altitude after a straight-up lift off from Miami in a Challenger 604 corporate jet. And all Paulo could see out of the windows as he worked his way back to the rear compartment with its four plush seats, two on each side of the aisle, currently facing each other, were clouds and ocean.

As he entered the cabin, he saw that Sam Winterberry was alone and occupying the seat with its back to him on the right side of the cabin. From Paulo's approach, Winterberry was only seen as a head of well-groomed dark hair with graying at the temples.

"Have a seat here facing me, Paulo. I want to take a look at you. We haven't seen each other for several months."

Paulo moved past the seat Winterberry fully occupied, his bulk being more in bone and muscle mass, and turned and sat in the seat opposite. He let out a puff of air that was more a confirmation than surprise when he saw that Winterberry had his cock out of the fly of his suit trousers and was pumping it up.

"Do you know that this corporate jet flies at an average altitude of 45,000 feet and that this is approximately the level at which we're now flying?" Winterberry asked in a pleasant voice. He made no comment or gesture that indicated Paulo should be surprised that he was masturbating. And, indeed, there was no reason to expect Paulo to be surprised. Paulo was one of Winterberry's special agents, an agent employed for his sexual charms and ability to use those charms to collect intelligence. And Winterberry was his handler—in more than one sense.

"No, no, Sam, I didn't know that. Now that we're up at that altitude are you going to brief me on the operation you've called me in on?"

"In a bit, Paulo. Do you know how many miles 45,000 feet equates to?"

"No, I don't, Sam. How many?"

"Something over eight miles. Have you ever heard of the Eight Mile High Club, Paulo?"

There was a pause, and Paulo gave a sardonic low laugh. Sam was going to play it like some sort of sophisticated joke, he thought.

"Yes. It's just a term for those who have had sex on an airplane, preferably at cruising altitude."

"Very good, you got it in one." Winterberry's breathing was a bit heavy. He nearly had his cock worked up to full hard. "And are you a member of that club?"

"No."

"A more accurate answer, Paulo, would have been 'Not until now.' Strip off, completely, please, and come sit on my cock. Believe me, this is relevant to your mission. Make convincing love to me, please. Your continued employment with the Agency may depend on it."

For the next twenty minutes, Paulo fucked himself on Sam Winterberry's cock while sitting astride him, both facing him and facing away from him. Paulo was as much a slave to sex as he was to a very-well-paying job in intelligence. And Sam Winterberry was a master of fucking techniques. So, as much as Paulo felt used, it didn't take him long to be lost in what the spy master was doing to him. Paulo was about to come, having shuddered at the angles and differing paces Winterberry was using to cock him, when Winterberry raised Paulo's channel off of his cock altogether and held him suspended there, above his lap. Paulo hated this part; the part where Winterberry usually made him beg for the fuck. And he always did beg for it.

"Sam, Sam, please," Paulo murmured.

"Tell me you want it," Winterberry muttered.

"Please, Sam. You know I want it."

With a guttural laugh, Winterberry slammed Paulo down on his cock again and finished him quickly. But Winterberry wasn't finished; he fucked on, and Paulo was vindicated in knowing, from Winterberry's groans and moans, that he wanted to be finished too. Paulo did a good enough job that, in his loss in the fuck, Winterberry had raised up and set Paulo back into the facing seat and was fucking hard down into his channel with Paulo's legs waving in the air at the fountaining of Winterberry's cum into the head of the condom buried deep in the younger, lithe man.

Twenty minutes after that, they were both cleaned and clothed and sitting opposite each other in the rear cabin of the Challenger 604 once more.

"I wanted to be sure you were the right choice, Paulo. That you still could deliver in positions like this. You did well, so we can precede. You must know that I wasn't sure. I have a backup on the plane. If I hadn't been sure of you, I might have gone with Manuel."

"The assignment?" Paulo asked. He wasn't about to salivate all over Sam Winterberry about having had to prove himself worthy.

"We'll be landing at the Simon Bolivar airport in a couple of hours, Paulo. El Presidente, Eduardo Labarca, has become a bit too big for his britches and critical of U.S. society and policies. We are to bring him down a few notches."

"And so he's the target?"

"Our real target is his wife, Suzanne. Labarca is only president because of the support of his wife's brother, Jorge Facendo, commander of the armed forces. Labarca is a figurehead, but his anti-U.S. rantings have brought attention and business away from the United States to his country, so Facendo and friends seem delighted. We want to use the emotions of Suzanne Labarca to drive enough of a wedge in this happy family for them to squabble between themselves and forget us—but we don't want to upset the apple cart completely. Labarca isn't the most unsatisfactory choice the forces of Facendo could be backing."

"I don't do women," Paulo answered.

"No, that's not the plan. We want you to do Labarca. He's spending much of his time with his mistress at the presidential retreat near the Macuto seaside resort. We have arranged for you to be his chauffeur for those trysts, and we have outfitted the limousine with pinpoint video cameras and bugs. We expect you to seduce him and give us good video and audio during the drives back and forth to his mistress."

"I don't understand. If he has a mistress, why do you need me? Just put the cameras in their love nest. And what miracle do you wish me to perform with a man who has both a wife and a mistress already?"

"Labarca has the mistress—and the wife, for that matter—because that's what's expected in society down there. We know from his earlier history that not only does he prefer men but also that, before it was inconvenient, he went wild over your type. Photographs and videos of Labarca with a mistress shown to the wife and her military power brother would get nothing more than a smile; the same photographs and videos of Labarca fucking you will be incendiary in his social circles and should set his wife to clawing—not enough to get him ousted, because she also wants the position, but enough to disrupt his yammering at the United States. That Suzanne Labarca is a real tiger."

"That's it?" Paulo asked.

"Yes, that's it. Not a nuclear bomb; just a little attitude adjustment south of the border. We can be in and out as soon as you have gotten Labarca to be in and out inside that limousine. And speaking of in and out, we are finished here and you may return to the main cabin. Oh, and will you ask for Manuel up there and send him back here, please."

Manuel was a younger version of Paulo, a Mestizo, with an engaging dusky complexion contrasted with blond-tipped hair and blue eyes and with a more hopeful, innocent look about him than Paulo could manage after his time on the job. Manuel also was a noise maker. Paulo sat in the main cabin, listening to the sounds of Manuel's reaction to the testing Sam Winterberry was giving him in the rear cabin and, like the other agents on the plane, pretending not to hear anything. The long, drawn-out moanings Manuel subsided into, though, grated on Paulo's nerves. As much of a bastard as he thought Winterberry was and as much as Paulo would like to be able to resist being taken by the spy master, he had to admit that the man gave a superior cocking, and Paulo's ass twitched in regret that the moans were coming from Manuel and not from he himself.

* * * *

The first things Paulo noticed about El Presidente, Eduardo Labarca, were his arrogance and his complete self-absorption. He was not a handsome man, but he spent a lot of time on the sculpting of his body in the gym, and he spent a considerable portion of the country's treasury on his clothing and musky scents and haircuts and manicures. He carried himself like a president of a tin horn country as well. He wore a military uniform he hadn't earned covered with gold braid and medals that he couldn't even identify.

But Paulo determined immediately that he could be manipulated if the circumstances were right.

Paulo thought the wife and brother-in-law, on the other hand were hard as steel and cold as icebergs. They were scary. The brother-in-law, in particular, was a towering, big-boned and –muscled hulk, who looked like he not only could, but would, with great pleasure, break a man in two on whim.

Paulo didn't envy El Presidente's position when those photographs and videos were presented to the scary duo, and he hoped that he himself would be well away before then. But he didn't think that getting the photographs would be difficult. He saw that Labarca was interested in him from the first time El Presidente descended the steps of the presidential palace and entered the Bentley.

Paulo was grateful, though, that Labarca always was driven to his mistress's place in Macuto incognito and without guards. Paulo was his chauffeur for this trip purpose only and the Bentley was not the presidential limousine.

Labarca's sexual attraction to Paulo was registered almost immediately—whenever Paulo looked in the rear-view mirror, he saw Labarca licking his lips and looking back with slitted eyes—but Paulo had to use dynamite to move to the bottom line.

Paulo had been expertly fitted out with a chauffeur's uniform that was form fitting and left little to the imagination, and Paulo always was suggestively posed on a fender when Labarca approached the car—legs spread and hands near the crotch—and spoke to him in a submissive, sultry voice. And he touched Labarca when he was handing him into the plush, commodious back seat of the car. But, beyond the looks and the slowdown while looking as he approached the Bentley, Labarca wasn't making a move.

So, Paulo created his own move. On a rural stretch of a scenic back road drive between the presidential palace and Macuto one day, one of the tires on the Bentley went. Paulo had fiddled with the tire to make sure enough air seeped out of it for it to blow at approximately the point he preferred, and the tire cooperated.

"Conveniently," neither of the men had cell phones that day. Paulo had purposely left his behind, and he'd gotten Winterberry to arrange for a planted agent in the presidential palace to let the battery run down on the cell phone kept in the president's briefcase.

"I can fix the tire, sir, or I could walk for help. That would leave you alone out here, though."

"You can fix the tire?" Labarca said.

"I can change it out, sir. But it would be dirty work. If you didn't mind, I could do it if I put my uniform to the side. Oh, and could you hold the car keys for me?"

This idea suited Labarca just fine, and when he looked down at the keys Paulo had handed him, he smiled. The tag of the chain they were on had two male symbols interlocked. Labarca knew what that meant.

Paulo stripped down to just his briefs and boots, and Labarca stood there, panting, as Paulo showed off his muscles and grace to the best advantage as he worked. He had the tire changed just as soon as he knew Labarca was hooked.

Paulo tossed the spent tire into the trunk and came around the side of the Bentley and stood there, while the two eyed each other.

"Do you really want me to put my uniform back on, sir?" Paulo asked with a smile. "Or would you prefer we do something about that bulge in your pants."

"I . . . I want to fuck you," Labarca said in a strangled voice.

"I am at your service, President," Paulo said with a sultry smile, as he slowly pulled his briefs down his legs.

They fucked in the backseat of the limousine, Paulo lapped and rising and falling on Labarca's throbbing cock—and Paulo trying not to laugh at the memory of his testing by Winterberry in the same positions. He understood now that his coupling with Winterberry in the plane really had been a test connected with the operation—the mechanics of fucking in the backseat of a car. The musky scent Labarca used signaled to Paulo correctly, and he lifted his arms, one at a time, over El Presidente's face as they fucked and Labarca went wild at sniffing and tonguing the sweat in Paulo's pits.

At Winterberry's instruction, Paulo repeated the photo-session fuckings in the Bentley three times more in the next month—and Labarca loosened up to the encounters progressively more each time. He now sat in the front seat when Paulo drove him away from the presidential palace and played with Paulo's cock and nipples while they drove. When they reached a rural spot, Labarca pulled Paulo over on his lap and fucked him there. The third time Paulo wore briefs that hadn't been washed in a couple of days and that he had masturbated into, and Labarca went ape over those, putting his face into Paulo's lap as he drove and sniffing and sucking on Paulo's cock. The president kept the briefs.

Even the mistress seemed to be pleased. When Paulo picked Labarca up in Macuto now, the mistress came to the door with El Presidente and was all over him. Obviously Labarca's escapades in the Bentley translated well to his performance with the mistress.

Paulo avoided consummation—at least Labarca's—on the return trips to the palace in the capital, and by the third trip home, the dragonslaying Suzanne was also meeting Labarca at the door with a smile.

For a brief time of less than a month, everyone seemed to be getting happier and happier. But the operational plan was to lower the boom.

* * * *

Even the best of intelligence operation plans have their flaws, and it sometime seems that the simpler the plan, the bigger the snafu.

In the case of this plan, when the boom was lowered, no one bothered to tell Paulo.

"You delivered the photos and videos this morning?" said Agent A.

"Yes, at 9:00 AM, just as you directed," Agent B answered, turning to Winterberry and addressing the answer to him.

"I said tomorrow, idiot, not today. Somebody get Paulo on his cell phone," Winterberry barked.

"He never took it back after that time he didn't want to have it," answered Agent A.

"Oh, fuck," Winterberry growled. "Somebody get our asset in the palace on the phone and have him tell Pulido to clear out of there pronto."

But before anyone could do that, Paulo had been dispatched from the garages with the Bentley to the side entrance to the palace.

When Paulo stood by the rear door and opened it at the first flurry of activity inside the side door to the palace, out stepped El Presidente's brother-in-law, Gen. Jorge Facendo. And he looked like he was about to kill something.

Paulo trembled as he held the door for the general, having no idea why there was a change in routine, fearing the worst—that the operation had been uncovered.

"Where to?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm, when he was behind the wheel.

"Toward the coast," growled the general. "I'll give you directions as we get closer."

The general directed Paulo off the main road when they got near the coast, over a rough track where no Bentley sedan should be expected to travel, and into a grove of trees at the top of a cliff from where the thundering surf could be heard even through the closed car windows with the air conditioning going.

Paulo had a premonition that this was probably one of the general's personal killing zones, and the jig most definitely was up for him.

"Get out of the car and strip and climb into the back," the general barked, and he had a gun to back up his demand.

The general totally and cruelly fucked Paulo for more than an hour in the back of the Bentley, rocking the heavy car back and forth on its springs, exercising the Bentley in ways it never had been exercised before.

The general also exercised Paulo well and made full use of the young man's flexibility. He took him with knees under Paulo's butt as Paulo laid across the backseat, with feet scrabbling for purchase on window frames and the roof of the car, and the general's hands on Paulo's throat. And he took Paulo bent over the short-backed center section of the front seat, with Facendo's back pressed to the ceiling and his cock pistoning hard and deep inside Paulo's channel and the general's chocking arm around Paulo's neck. And he took Paulo with Paulo's knees on the floor and his chest and cheek pressed into the back of the rear seat, the general's fists grabbing Paulo's hips and his cock pounding Paulo's canal from behind. And when Paulo was exhausted, the general sat back in the seat, with Paulo facing him and lapped and the general slowly pumping Paulo up and down on his miraculously fast-rejuvenating cock by wrapping his fists around the young spy's waist and lifting him up and down on his cock and Paulo flopping around like a rag doll. And then he made Paulo suck him off.

When they were finished, Paulo had come three times and the general four, and the floor of the backseat was littered with used condoms.

"Now you will drive me back to the palace," the general said, still waving his gun. "There you will be put under guard. But tomorrow I want you to pick me up at the same time and drive me back here. We bring guards. And today was just a taste. Tomorrow I fuck you so good; you won't be able to walk for a week—if we bring you back at all. And when I'm done, I'll give you to the guards. Then we'll find out who you work for and why."

* * * *

Three intersecting elements were on Paulo Pulido's side. Sam Winterberry saw that Paulo still had usefulness to the Agency's candy store program, the Americans had an asset embedded in the presidential palace, and when Paulo drove him back to the presidential palace, General Facendo was immediately embroiled in an ongoing slugfest between El Presidente and his wife and then he and his sister and his brother-in-law over what the general was doing out on the road with the chauffeur in the damaging photos and he forgot to place a guard on Paulo soon enough.

Paulo was whisked away from the presidential compound, the operation marked as a glowing success—not only accomplishing its original mission but collecting incriminating videos on General Facendo as well. And the Challenger 604 corporate jet, with Paulo in the forward cabin, was lifting off from Simon Bolivar airport before the radiator of the Bentley had cooled down, let alone the libidos of the president and general he'd left behind.

Once again, the jet zoomed right up to 45,000 feet and leveled off, and Paulo was only a third finished with the flute of champagne the cute little cabin steward had handed him before one of the other agents came out of the rear cabin and walked over to Paulo's seat.

"Mr. Winterberry would like you to join him in the rear cabin," he said. He could hardly keep the smirk off his face.

Paulo rose and sighed and started toward the rear cabin, knowing that another meeting of the Eight Mile High Club was about to convene. "He probably will even tell me it's my reward for an assignment well done," Paulo thought.