Last Call

I woke up in the middle of the night, aware that something had changed. We weren't moving, and there was no feeling of a motor grinding under us.

I was locked in one of the smaller cabins belowdecks—not bound and not particularly uncomfortable, but my channel was sore. I would recover fast, but never in my life had I had such a ride as Fazil Fikret and his hulky German bodyguard, Axel, had given me in the master's cabin while we were still in sight of the Turkish Cypriot coast.

My first thought was that I was still alive—and I was grateful for that. My second thought was to sigh at the incredible double ride the two had given me. They had brought me to heights of ecstasy I'd never experienced before.

I was naked and sore, but I was thankful that I wasn't handcuffed to the side of the bunk as I had been in Fazil's cabin. And I could sense that the cabin I was in was much smaller than Fazil's.

There was a porthole above the side of the bunk, and I gingerly rose and looked out, assuming I'd see the lights of the Bosporus. We'd probably been sailing long enough to have reached the Turkish coast. And if we were at anchor, logic would dictate we had reached Istanbul.

But I couldn't see anything out of the porthole except for the hint of waves gently lapping at the side of the ship. This was strange in itself, as the ship should be displaying running lights whether at sail or at anchor, and there should be some hint of light from these reflecting off the water.

But there wasn't. It was pitch black out there—almost as if the ship didn't want to be seen. And if Fazil was actively engaged in gun running with this yacht even now, this would explain not only why the ship wasn't running any lights but also why I was here rather than back in Cyprus. I realized now that it was more than my sensual allure that had prompted Fazil to bring me on this boat ride.

As early as our meeting at the Kyrenia quayside restaurant, Fazil must have wondered at my intent. It was crushing to think that he hadn't brought me along just for the hard ride—the ride of my ass—but reason told me he was nervous about what I was up to—and who I really represented. If he'd known the truth of that, I'd probably be lying in a Kyrenia alley now with a bullet in the back of my head. It was just my fortune, good or bad, that my running of his nephew as an intelligence-gathering asset backed into contact with much bigger game.

Then I felt the bump on the side of the ship opposite from me, and I knew that it wasn't the stopping of the ship that had awakened me from my post-fucking dreams, during however long it was since I fainted from the strain of the double fuck and the lack of oxygen in Fazil's rough sex. It was a bumping of the side of the ship and the sound of something weighty being lowered down into the yacht's hold. I heard and felt a series of bumps and jolts, and the yacht shuddered and wavered in taking on something heavy.

I rose from the bed and padded painfully, almost bowlegged, over to the cabin door and tried it. As I assumed it would be, it was locked.

Still exhausted from the earlier sex, I felt around in the cabin only briefly to locate what was there. Luckily there was a small head attached to the cabin, and I took a leak and showered under a drizzle of cold water and dried myself off with a threadbare towel. There seemed to be no drawers in the room—at least none that I could find—and the cabinets were empty. The only stitch of clothes I could find was a pair of tight-fitting cut-off jeans laid out on a straight chair. I left those for the morning and stumbled back to the bed naked.

I collapsed there and was fast asleep again almost instantaneously.

I awoke, still in the dark of the night to the familiar feel of a hard cock sliding into my channel.

I was on my belly on the bed, with a heavy body stretched the length of me. I was being held immobile not only by the weight of the body on me but also by strongly muscled arms laced under my arm pits and wrapped around my biceps, with fists joined at the back my neck in a full Nelson hold.

I swallowed hard and panted and involuntarily groaned at the depth the cock reached in me. Teeth were scraping at the crease between my shoulder blades.

"You said we'd always do it in the light, Fazil," I murmured and gave him a low, sighing laugh of welcome.

"Was? Was sagst du?" a breathy, hoarse voice answered in return.

"Oh, never mind, Axel," I whispered. "Ohh, yes, like that. Ohhhhh, yesss!" The German bodyguard was fucking me in long deep strokes. More gently than I really liked, but expertly, finding every sensitive nook and cranny inside me with the bulb of his long, hard cock.

I felt like he could ride me all night like this—and he pretty much did, not leaving until near dawn, with the cum of multiple ejaculations oozing out of my channel.

And as he left me and I heard the door click shut and the lock fall into place, I realized that the ship's motors had been grinding for some time. We were on the move again.

* * * *

"Tell me about where you were planning to be going after leaving Tahir in Kyrenia the other night."

Fazil was fishing. And I knew what he was fishing for. He wanted to know what the margin was on keeping me alive and keeping him safe.

We were standing in the bridge house of the fan tail yacht, beside the captain who was at the wheel. There was no land in sight, and from the short time I'd been observing the sun, it appeared to me that we were moving west in the Mediterranean rather than in the easterly direction that would have taken the ship from Kyrenia harbor in northern Cyprus to Istanbul on the Bosporus, the strait separating the Mediterranean from the Black Sea, where the exotic city of Istanbul rose haphazardly on both sides, straddling the division between the occident and the orient.

I had been let out of my cabin at daylight and had eaten with Fazil in a small, efficiently appointed dining room. I wasn't exactly given free reign of the yacht, though. Fazil had told me when and where I could go, and the ever-present Axel was attached to me by a leather leash at our wrists. It wasn't a short leash, but if I'd taken a notion of jumping overboard, I could not have even reached the water before they pulled me back on board—if they chose to do so. I wasn't really in the mood to test that out.

"I wasn't planning this trip," I answered. "I took a taxi to Kyrenia from the Greek checkpoint in Nicosia. I was going to beg a ride back there from Tahir and then take a taxi to the airport. My luggage went to the airport the day before and is in a locker there."

"You were leaving Cyprus?"

"Yes, my tour was up," I said. "I told you that yesterday. I have no more business in the Middle East. I'm going home." I had no idea whether or not this would assuage Fazil's concerns of any interest I might have in him or his nefarious business, but I saw no reason not to throw some more flak up in the air.

"You've left no embassy car in Kyrenia?" Fazil asked.

"No," I lied. I was trying to make Fazil feel that he had days rather than hours to toy with me. Truth be known, though, the station knew I was going to meet Tahir that night, and I did have an embassy car parked on a Kyrenia Street. I had to believe the station would get as far as zeroing in on Tahir in my absence and they might also discover, as I did, that an even bigger fish, Fazil, the international arms smuggler, was involved in my disappearance. But at that point, hope diminished. I was willing to believe that Tahir genuinely didn't know I'd sailed with Fazil—and probably also genuinely didn't know that Fazil's yacht was headed west in the Mediterranean rather than to Istanbul. It was possible he didn't even know Fazil was an arms smuggler.

"But you were being seen off at the airport in Larnaca, naturally and then met again in . . .?"

"In London. I was going on to London," I answered. As usual, the truth—or a big slice of it—was the best line to take. "Or rather my ongoing assignment is London. I was going home for two week's leave before showing up in London. And, no, no one was seeing me off at Larnaca or meeting me at my home leave point. Two weeks."

"Two weeks," Fazil repeated. His voice was low, guttural. He'd been standing close behind me at the bridge, both of us looking out at the choppy sea we were headed into. All I was wearing were the jeans cutoffs and he was in a Speedo. His arms were wrapped around me from behind and he had been slowly undulating his pelvis in the small of my back for some time. The captain and Axel were just standing there as if nothing untoward was happening.

I could sense the wheels spinning in Fazil's head. With luck, I was on the cusp of receiving two weeks of grace. He wanted to play with me, I knew. All of his professional instincts were telling him that I should be shot and dumped overboard. I didn't kid myself about that either. But Fazil was a virile, needy man. I was counting on him thinking with his dick. Most men thought with their dicks. I just didn't know if two weeks was going to be enough for me to devise and execute an escape plan.

But I knew I had to do what I could to keep him wanting me for as long as possible. It was a high-risk game we both were playing. And it heightened the arousal for both of us. Fazil and I were not that much different.

He was palming my pecs and worrying my nipples with the fingers and thumbs of both hands. I reached around and slid a hand down under the hem of his Speedo and pulled his hardening cock out. With the other hand, I unbuttoned my jeans shorts and pushed them down onto my thighs.

"Fuck me, Fazil. Fuck me. Here, Now. Show these men how a real man fucks."

In gaspy tones, Fazil told Axel to untie the leash that bound us together. Axel did so and stepped back. I had no idea what Fazil planned to do to me. He had me bent over the front counter of the bridge and the underside of his cock was in my crease, rubbing up and down over my puckered hole—a hole that was opening for him at the mere memory of the work Fazil did inside me.

Fazil had his arms running up under my pits, taking the weight of his body on those, as he lifted his feet up to the shelves running on the counter on either side of me. I was getting the impression that he was going to mount me and fuck me like a dog—with deep thrusts, leveraging off the shelving edges with his feet.

But then all hell broke loose. We heard shouts and shots and a hard bump at the side of the yacht, and all three men, Fazil, Axel, and the captain, were reaching for weapons and heading out on deck where the rest of the yacht's crew members were assembly and facing toward the source of the unexpected noise.

* * * *

I had never seen so many submachine guns appear out of thin air before in my life.

Taking advantage of the absence of observation and control for the first time I'd been aboard, I darted over to the chart table by the helm and tried to take in as much as I could as quickly as I could. I wasn't an expert in reading navigational charts by any means, but someone had done me the favor of penciling in our movements and marking our progression with a series of position Xes. Just as I thought, we had sailed west from Cyprus, not east, and there was a big X marked farther along a route progression to a position off the coast of the island of Corfu, in the Ionian Sea, off of Albania.

Albania, I thought. And my mind raced over the pile of cables I'd been reading back in the station at the embassy. I recalled reports on the fear of the Muslim-Christian internecine wars reviving in the Balkans. And weaving through the reports were queries on where the Muslims were getting their arms from. I thought I might just have an idea about that.

I moved over to the side of the bridge house facing the noise and looked down. Two smaller craft were gunwale to gunwale with the motor yacht, and by the time I got into position to observe what was going on, the motley group of pirates that had boarded us were desperately trying to get back onto their crafts and push off from Fazil's yacht.

They obviously had not expected this sort of defense of a large pleasure yacht.

Axel was in the thick of a fight, and if I'd ever had thoughts that he was a gentle giant, I gave them up now. He mowed down two attackers in one direction with a burst from the AK-47 he had loosely and expertly slung at his waist. And as they went down, Axel rotated gracefully, almost like a dancer, karate chopping another one of the pirates, sending him overboard and producing a sickening crunching sound as he got caught between the grinding ship hulls. Axel was as cool as a cucumber and totally ruthless. A chill of both fear and pleasure ran up my spine.

If this unsuccessful assault told me anything about Axel, it was that I didn't want to be in his bad graces, if I could help it.

Within minutes, the pirates who were able to get away were moving their craft off our starboard at a fast clip, and Fazil, Axel, and the captain were back in the bridge house, acting as if nothing had happened, like they did this a couple of times a day—and for all I knew it wasn't a rare occurrence in these waters and with certain ships.

As we watched, I heard the boom of a canon and one of the pirate crafts disintegrated in the water in a rather colorful fireball.

"My, that was impressive," I said as Fazil slipped in behind me again and wrapped an arm around me and palmed my belly. "You handled that like this was a routine event. Do they attack random pleasure yachts on the run between Cyprus and Turkey fairly frequently?" I asked.

Fazil's grip on my belly tightened. I regretted that I couldn't see his face.

"You want to know what we're carrying down in the hold, don't you?" he whispered in my ear. His voice was menacing. I found it arousing, and as he had lowered his hand to cup my basket, I knew he could tell that he was exciting me.

"No, not especially," I lied.

"You are afraid to know, aren't you?" he asked.

"No, should I be?" I responded, with false innocence.

"We are beyond caring about that, you and I, aren't we?" Fazil was almost mocking me now, playing our little game to the hilt.

I didn't respond. The silence was deafening, as if we were at some significant watershed—and perhaps we were. Perhaps we were getting to the point of no return in plausible denial. We both knew we were playing a game here; it was just part of the game not to reveal all of our cards until the end of the game was inevitable. I wasn't going to be the one to go over that edge. My silence told Fazil that.

He laughed. "Come, I'll show you what we are transporting. I am an importer, you know. When I travel, of course I travel with something I can profitably trade. Come, come down into the hold, and I'll show you what we are transporting."

The air was electric with danger. This was what I lived for. I was in my element now, in full heat. As I followed Fazil down into the bowels of the ship, with Axel nudging me from behind, I was hardening, panting for it. Wanting them to stop in the dark corridor en route and push me to the decking and take me together roughly as they had on the previous afternoon.

Down in the dark hold, having to lower our heads to keep from hitting them on the beams overhead, all I could see were stacks of wooden boxes, crates really, the size and shape of oversized coffins.

Fazil picked up a crowbar from the deck and turned and gave me a menacing look. His eyes glittered with danger in the dim light. Axel was standing close behind me, holding me tightly below my biceps.

"Fazil . . ." I muttered. He smiled, probably thinking that I was starting to beg for my life. But what I was really begging for was the fuck. I was at the height of arousal.

Fazil jabbed the end of the crow bar under the lid of the nearest crate and flipped the top off with a swift movement backed up with massive muscle.

"Look for yourself," he said, stepping back as Axel pushed me forward to the edge of the crate and I looked down into it. "What do you see?"

"Grapes," I said. And that, indeed, was what I saw. A massive pile of bunches of green grapes loosely packed inside the crate, with insulation around the inside walls to protect the fruit from bruising.

"Yes, grapes," Fazil said, giving me that evil grin of his. "Cyprus has grapes, Turkey loves wine. Each time I sail from Kyrenia to Istanbul, I come bearing grapes for the trade—when they are in season."

I said nothing. I just stood there and looked at the grapes. Fazil had one hand wedged in the waistband of my shorts in front. He was unzipping my shorts with the other hand.

"Do you like grapes?" He asked.

"Yes, of course," I answered, "doesn't everyone?" The zipper of my cut-off jeans was down and Fazil was pushing them down over my hips.

"Ever made wine?" He asked.

"No."

"But you've seen it made, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"And what's the first thing they do?"

"They crush the grapes."

"Let's make some wine, shall we?" Fazil asked. I was naked, my shorts at my ankles, and Fazil was quickly getting naked too.

He lifted me up and tipped me into the crate of grapes onto my back, and I barely had time to spread my legs and hook my heels on the side of the crate until he was on top of me among the grapes. His hard cock was poking on my lower belly, and I reached down and took him in both hands and rolled my pelvis up to him and guided him to my hole.

He was grunting with muffled laughter. He was holding a bunch of grapes in his teeth and crushed them into my face, pushing grapes into my mouth, followed by his searching tongue.

I gasped and grunted and groaned as he pulled his cock back through my palming hands and then thrust cruelly forward, pulling grapes into me with his thrusts, filling my channel with cool juice as his thick rod invaded and spread me asunder.

We rolled around in the disintegrating grapes inside the crate as Fazil thrust and thrust and thrust inside me, fucking me furiously. His gray-black body hair was matted and slicked with the juice of the grapes. He was sweating in the close, dead air of the hold, and he smelled like a wild animal in high rut. I gripped his down-covered buttocks, luxuriating in the contracting and expansion of his glutes in rhythm with the thrusts of his hungry cock inside me. His teeth were scraping at my neck, not doing damage but making me feel like I was being taken by a great gray wolf.

He moaned of how much he wanted me, how bad I was for him, how he couldn't get enough of me, and I moaned at the exotic setting and at the danger and at the intensity of the fuck and at the glorious feel of his churning cock inside me.

After we had both come, we laid there in the muck of the crushed grapes, panting, waiting for what was going to happen next. I made to struggle up from underneath him, and Fazil took that as a challenge and turned me on my hands and knees in the muck and dog fucked me, hard and fast. And I howled for him, which made him harder and more determined to conquer and exhaust me.

When he left me, on my back in the box, no grape left uncrushed, panting my fully satisfied surrender, it dawned on me where he had the arms he was smuggling stored. The depth of the crate was much more shallow inside than outside. I had been fucked on top of illegal arms. I wondered if Fazil gave me credit for knowing that—and it chilled and excited me that perhaps he knew and just didn't care—or that part of his game was making sure I knew.

Fazil was gone, but Axel was still there, staring down at me, hardly able to conceal his own want for me.

"Axel," I whispered. I gave him a look that I knew he'd understand. "Nacht. Diese Nacht. Kom, bitte." Broken German, I knew, but I could see in the twitch of his jaw and the gleam in his eye that he understood. "Tonight, come to me, please," I had begged.