"Man, how did you score five days of shore leave?" Navy E-2 Tex Collins muttered, faking a hurt.
"Aced the last three inspections and built up my days," E-1 Randy Harrison answered. He was standing at the mirror just a couple of steps from their upper-lower bunk on the destroyer, the USS
Deringer
, parked just outside of the inner harbor at Manama, Bahrain.
"You're gonna' miss me," Collins said, making his voice into a pout.
"Yeah, I know," Harrison answered. He came over and sat on the bottom bunk next to the legs of his bunkmate. Harrison was in the midst of decking himself out in his sparkling enlisted dress whites, having put on the tight trousers. The white undershirt and the pullover tunic and blue tie still were draped on the hanger hanging from the corner post of the bunk.
Harrison was young—not yet nineteen—and on his first naval cruise. He was straight off the farm, strong of arm and chest and narrow of waist. He worked himself hard and looked good. His sandy-colored hair and pretty-boy face had attracted plenty of attention on their other berthings on the
Deringer
's Mideast cruise, and Randy was pretty sure he could score well here.
Collins, older and wiser, had only managed to pull down two evenings of shore leave, and he didn't want to waste them yet. The
Deringer
would be in port at Bahrain's capital city in the Persian Gulf for a week.
The day was hot, and Collins was stripped down to athletic shorts, but still his dark, hair-matted chest was beaded in sweat.
"I know what you're gonna miss most," Harrison said, and then he gave a low laugh and worked a hand up Collins's thigh under the hem of the athletic shorts and brought it to rest on Collins's cock, which answered the call.
"You bet," Collins muttered. "How are you gonna keep out of trouble in Manama for four nights?"
"I'm not, I hope," Harrison said. He was encasing Collins's cock with his hand and had his thumb on Collins's piss slit. Collins shuddered and gave him a dreamy look. "Some of the guys have been here before and gave me some spots to hit in Bahrain. They say it's the playground of Arabia, and I mean to see just how playful it is."
"You've come a long way, Randy." Collins said it in a low growl of a voice, his hips starting to roll, his well-muscled body tightening up. He raised a hand and ran it along the well-sculpted, smooth-skinned pecs of his young protégé.
"Thanks to you," Harrison whispered. He withdrew his hand from the leg hole of Collins's shorts, but only long enough to move it to the older man's waistband and to pull that down to below Collins's balls. The senior enlisted man's cock was at full staff, and Harrison began stroking it with his fist.
What Randy Harrison acknowledged was correct. He'd gotten and given head before he joined the Navy, but it had been Tex Collins who, on dark, lonely nights tossing on the high seas, had taught Randy that he wanted cock and how to take cock.
"You gonna come back here for the nights?" Collins whispered.
"Not if I get lucky," Harrison answered. Then he leaned over and took Collins's cock in his mouth and started to give him slow, languid head.
"Gonna miss you those four nights, son," Collins whispered. "Oh, yes, Goddd . . . just like that. Softest mouth on the ship."
* * * *
Even with the address and the directions, Randy had a hard time finding the club. It was tucked away in a walk-down staircase from a parking deck under one of the new skyscrapers that had been thrown up almost overnight, mostly by Sudanese construction workers, in the cash-rich Gulf island state. Although there were cars in the garage, many of them stretch limousines with smoked windows, there didn't seem to be too many, and there wasn't anyone around—or there didn't seem to be anyone around.
Randy did sense that he was being watched as he moved across the concrete-encased cavern, but he didn't mind. He was here to be seen. He was decked out in his sparkling navy whites, and he knew he looked good in them. He moved into a strut, heading for the back corner of the garage, where he saw the innocuous sign with the words "Club Emile" on it, above a staircase leading down into the darkness.
On the half level below the staircase, Randy found a guy lounging against the rail who straightened up as he approached and gave him the once over. Liking what he saw, he smiled and beckoned Randy to continue down the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairway was a red door with another bouncer standing in front of it. He smiled as well and opened the door for Randy.
Beyond the door, Randy was standing on a landing yet another level above the floor of a whole other world than the one he had left. The smoke-filled room below was teeming with men. There was a lighted center area with a four-sided bar as its axis. Four silver poles ran up at the corners of the bar to the ceiling two stories up, and nearly naked young men were dancing the poles. Randy could hardly see the floor itself for the number of men swirling around, dancing to the music here—and engaged in close conversations there.
Some of the men were in jeans and T-shirts, but probably more than half wore the traditional
galabiya
, the long, white tunic of the Arabic Peninsula. The staircase Randy stood on was flat against one wall. The other three sides of the room each supported a two-story gallery supported on Moorish arches. These galleries were deep and in the shadows. There were banquette booths with tables along the back walls of these galleries on both levels, and Randy saw that many of them were occupied by men as well.
The liquor and tobacco—and recreational drugs as well—were openly in evidence, which, in itself would be enough to elicit a raid by the authorities—if Bahrain wasn't the region's wink-wink playground, and if the Bahrain authorities weren't very much cognizant and heavily invested in tucked-away clubs like this. The decibel level, when the conversation babble and the music the pole dancers were swaying to were taken into account, probably could be heard across the gulf in Iran.
The
Deringer
had just reached port today, and most of the sailors were husbanding the little shore leave they had, so Randy was the first spiffy U.S. naval sailor to reach this club during this port call. Many of the heads snapped around to take his striking figure in as he stood at the top of the stairs getting his bearings, and there was little doubt that Randy would not have to be buying his own drinks this evening.
Randy descended the stairs and walked over to the bar. A path opened for him as other men turned to give him an assessing stare—many wondering what his preferences were and what their chances were of being able to fulfill them.
Randy found an empty stool, perched on it, and signaled to the barman. But the time the barman had reached him, there was a middle-aged Arab in a galabiya at his side offering to pay for his first drink in salute to the U.S. Navy, and Randy thanked him without enthusiasm or encouragement, but nonetheless took the free beer offered.
He watched the young men on the poles—two Arabs, an African, and what was probably a Russian, for a few minutes while he got his bearings. Then he turned and surveyed the crowd. He was looking for something in particular, although he didn't want it this early in the evening. This was the first few hours of the first night of his liberty. He wanted to just feel free of the confining ship for a few hours—and to revel in the looks he was getting. He was probably the youngest man in the club, and he knew he looked good. He knew that two-thirds of these men wanted to fuck him—and he knew that two-thirds of them would also be happy to have him fuck them.
Most of them were Arabs, though. Randy hadn't come here to hook up with an Arab. He knew that's mostly what he'd find here in Bahrain, but he hadn't picked the port call. He would have been happier to be cruising in Scandinavian waters. He wanted a big man. A big muscled man with a big dick—like Tex was. But he also wanted a rich guy. He didn't really want to go back to the ship on the nights. And he didn't want to sleep in a flea-bag hotel, either, although from his walk in from the docks, he wondered if there were any hotel rooms in this town that went for less than $500 a night. He wanted a good-looking, preferably older guy—in his thirties, maybe—who oozed of money. And a European or an American.
He realized that most of these guys were Arabs—but he set himself to look right through them in search of the face and figure and style of the guy he was looking forward to sharing a free bed with tonight. But later. Not right away.
It wasn't long before Randy saw him. An elegantly dressed, distinguished-looking European who was perhaps in his early forties—graying at the temples, but filling out his suit like his body was pampered and well worked. He was sitting at a table inside the center area by the north gallery. He was with two other men, both Arabs, one in a Western-cut suit and the other in a galabiya. But all of them looked rich. Obviously a business meeting set to end with young men in their beds.
Randy had noticed the man, because he had already noticed Randy first. He was carrying on a conversation with his colleagues, but his eyes were on Randy. And Randy could see from the way the man's eyes were slitted and the flare of his patrician nostrils that he was interested.
It was too soon, but if, in an hour or so, the man had made an overture, Randy thought he was possibly the one to take him home.
Randy turned back to the bar to find a thuggish muscle man in black suit and black skin standing beside his stool.
"The shaykh would like to invite you to his table," the man said in heavily accented English. Randy couldn't determine the origin of his accent. Randy was from the Midwest; he had no interest in, or understanding of, foreign accents.
"Oh, he would, would he? I'm sort of still just looking around thank . . ." Randy stopped, because the thug had moved the lapel of his black suit to show the handle of what was causing the bulge at his left armpit. Randy got the subtle message.
"The shaykh would like to invite you to his table," the man repeated in a monotone.
As Randy was led toward the gallery at the western wall, he saw that only one of the banquettes in the section they were approaching was occupied. The surrounding tables were empty, which was rather a surprise in a room this crowded. Randy got the message that not only did this shaykh guy have muscle, but he also had clout.
Unfortunately, the guy sitting at the banquette who appeared to be the shaykh not only was Arab, but he was wearing a white galabiya. He wasn't alone. There was a young guy in jeans, his T-shirt off, the Arab's hands on his chest and belly, sitting with him as Randy and the black-suited black man approached, but the guy in the galabiya waved to one of his goons from the group gathered at otherwise empty tables nearby, and the guy took the young man by the arm and pulled him out of the scene.
Randy stood in front of the table, giving the guy in the galabiya a look see. He was maybe in his early thirties. On the thin side, but he had dark good looks, and he was groomed well. He also had an air of assurance that indicated he always got what he wanted.
"Are you from the U.S. naval ship that came into port today?" The man spoke good English—probably English English. Randy didn't know his accents, but he'd watched a few episodes of Masterpiece Theater. He thought he could tell real English when he heard it.
"Yes," Randy answered. "The USS
