"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.
