Prince's Choice

Sam Winterberry, who had been sitting beyond the fence at the side of the court with the entourages from the palace and embassy, plucked at my arm as we passed each other and hissed, "Get to the showers ahead of him, Jack. Give him a show. I've been watching; he's interested." I didn't look around to the man who'd spoken. I'd been told not to acknowledge his presence. But, at his instruction, I pushed on ahead to get into the locker room.

We were at the courts of the military school in the Asian capital and had just played a complex set—complex because the chief of station at the embassy, Ted Shackleford, and I were faced off against Ambassador Zimmerman and the prince. Although the COS and I were much the better players, it, of course, was a foregone conclusion that we were to lose the match. We won the first set, but it was all downhill from there, as it was programmed to be—at least by the embassy. The kicker is that we had to make it look like they weren't just the better team but that we all, especially the prince, were near pro. Well, I was near pro. That was one reason I'd been brought over from the States on temporary assignment at the embassy. Who would have known that a CIA officer would be sent on an expensive TDY overseas just to play a tennis match and be dangled in front of a potentate the United States wanted to manipulate?

It wasn't that hard to beat the prince to the showers. He was posing with the ambassador for a photo op. The country's press was all there. The prince wasn't in the country very much of the time, even though it was his country and everyone assumed he'd be inheriting it soon. He was a military nut, and a coalition of the Americans, the British, and the French had done what they could to move him around the various elite military schools. They didn't want him here much of the time. The king doted on him, but the prince's idea of a good time was going to war with the country's neighbors, and he was reputed to be as crazy as a loon. As the United States, Britain, and France were all entangled in mutual assistance treaties with his country, it was in our interests that his country not go to war with its neighbors.

Shackleford had gone off to call in the ambassador's limo. They wouldn't be showering and dressing at the military school. That decision wasn't by accident. Not that the ambassador had any idea what was going on.

During the game I had made sure of getting the prince's attention whenever possible. That wasn't hard to do. He had zeroed in on me the minute he'd entered the court. Winterberry had been confident that the prince would be interested, and Winterberry had been right.

In the communal shower, I stood under the water at one side of the tiled room, got wet, and was soaping myself up when the prince, a towel around his hips, arrived at the entrance. He was accompanied by a beefy young soldier, who moved to enter the chamber, no doubt to tell me to vacate while the prince showered. I could see out of the corner of my eye, though, that the prince grabbed the soldier's arm and hissed at him. The soldier took a step back, although not without sticking his head in the room to assure himself that I was the only one there and not so far back that he couldn't see the two far corners of the shower room at all times. The prince slipped the towel off his hips, handed it to the soldier, and came into the shower to stand under a head at the other end of the room from me—any indication that the fuck would be rough and raw.

I decided this might not be so bad. From a glimpse of him, I thought he was in magnificent shape. I'd been briefed that he would be—that he spent considerable time working out and that his love of everything military extended to being very hands on, including with personal training. From the first indication, I wouldn't have much trouble going hard for him. With me, being a Marine type was enough for that.

In rinsing myself off, I managed a slow, full turn, holding at a full frontal pose, facing him. He was rinsing himself off under his showerhead, but he wasn't making any effort to hide that he was watching me. He did the same turn for me, and I made a point of going full frontal toward him again and soaping my body up while watching him turn and soap his. My first impression of his body had been correct. His obsession with everything military had paid off. He was solidly built, taller than most men in his country and Marine muscular and hard. There were a few scars on his torso and thighs that indicated he wasn't afraid of hand-to-hand combat. He wasn't the most handsome man I'd ever seen, but he had the rugged, almost thuggish strong, chisel-chinned face of a young army general, which he was along with several other titles.

At first his equipment was a bit of a disappointment. He was stubby, albeit thick as the proverbial beer can, but as we posed for each other, he filled out toward a respectable length. He wasn't the least bit embarrassed about fisting and working his cock. Taking his lead, neither was I. His balls were big and hung low in the sac between rock-hard muscular thighs. His pubes were shaved, and he was tattooed in a spider web pattern across his groin, complete with a long-legged black spider, poised to attack his balls. I'd been told he was the commander of the country's Spider Special Forces regiment, which engaged in nefarious activities, all of which protected the palace from plots, and I wondered if all in his unit were tattooed this way. I let my eyes stray to the soldier at the entrance of the shower, who was as hunky as the prince and better looking in the face, and speculated if he might have such a tattoo too and, not incidentally, how he'd look naked. But he just stood at half rest, but full observance—an observance that didn't reveal that he was looking at two men posing for each other in the nude, though, and who were observing each other playing with their cocks.

The prince and I were both soaped up. We also both were hard. As he rinsed off under his showerhead, the prince grasped his erection in his hand—now having enough to get a good grip on, showed me a three-quarters profile, started stroking his cock, and gave me a half-amused, half-aroused look of expectation. I did as he was doing, and we both stood under the cascading water of our individual showerheads, turned three-quarters to each other, crouched slightly with bent knees, and beat ourselves off.

There was nothing coy here. I'd been briefed that the prince was simple, primitive, and straightforward in his pleasures and, being a prince, did just as he damn well pleased. He clearly wanted for both of us to pose and for me to beat off while he watched me and beat his own meat, so that's what we did. During the introductions, he had been told that I was here to serve his needs, and he'd obviously taken that literally. Yes, I'd been told, the power of the monarchy in this country was such that those in service gave whatever service was demanded, without question or hesitation.

He came first, splashing an admirable arc of cum against the tiled wall. He took two steps toward me and reached down and brushed my hand off my shaft. He fisted my cock—his grip was strong—and slowly finished beating me off, teasing me by bringing me to the brink and then backing off until I'd recovered some control—edging me. I remained in position, not touching him, our eyes locked together. I'd been told to give him whatever he wanted—occupying his time and attention was the point. He wasn't shy about taking what he wanted.

He placed his other hand on my right bicep and ran it up over my shoulder. He grasped my throat with it in a strong grip, and I saw a flare in his eyes of cruelty and lust. I fought not to show fear, to hold his eyes with mine in a level stare. I maybe could have taken him in a fair fight, but a fight with the prince would not have been fair. Even if I weren't under instruction to let him win—to let him have whatever he wanted—there was the other man, the bodyguard, nearby to assist him. There was no question that the bodyguard would assist in whatever the prince wanted.

I briefly panicked, wondering if there had been encounters like this before in which the prince wanted it all, including his prey's life. I knew of the scandals, of the rumors of orgies and missing young men. Had I enflamed him too much by playing this game with him in the shower? I'd had the Agency courses on hand-to-hand combat. So had he. Where he had his thumb and fingers positioned on my throat, he could easily either black me out or snap my neck. He clearly wanted me to know that too.

Releasing me, he slid his hand slowly down my chest and belly and then down onto my right flank. All the time he continued stroking me off with the other hand. He came in close, touching his forehead to mine, and his hand went around to my buttocks. There was pleasure in his eyes. I had been told that he admired commando-hard bodies, and I knew mine would meet muster. I flinched as a finger penetrated my ass, but still I held steady. He hadn't been quite able to reach my hole as he squeezed one of my butt cheeks, but it was evident where he was headed, and I submissively jutted my pelvis forward to give his finger access. He was looking for my reaction to penetration—testing how far I would go with him. My signal was of complete surrender to his desire and need. Causing my sphincter muscle to grasp the finger and pull it in clearly told him I was willing and able.

Beyond a slight smile, he went no further, though, pulling away from me, touching me only with the hand stroking my cock and with his eyes locked on mine. He was going to the edge again, and I sensed he'd go over the edge now. He was watching for the moment of climax, and I gave him a grimace and a look of lust, awe, and total surrender I knew he'd like as I shot my load.

When I had ejaculated, he gave me a little smile and a nod of his head, and exited the shower. He took the towel from the soldier, and they padded off. Trembling a bit, I placed my cheek to the cool tiles of the shower's back wall and let the water continue to flow over me. I spread my arms and pressed my palms to the tiles in a cruciform sacrificial form of total submission. Jutting my buttocks out from the wall, I half expected the prince to return, mount my ass, and fuck me. I more than half wanted him to. The exotic nature of this encounter had brought me more arousal and been more pleasurable than I had thought the first intimate meeting with him would be—I hadn't even been sure that he would find me desirable, that there would be an intimate encounter. I had been focused on seducing him—not considering that he might seduce me. God help me, I wanted him to return and complete the coupling.

But he didn't, and when I finally turned the shower off, toweled myself dry, and walked out into the locker room, he was gone. Two soldiers were standing on either side of the door to the corridor, but they were impassive. If they watched me dress, they gave no hint of doing so.

I hoped that wouldn't be it. I would have failed if that was all there was to it. Winterberry certainly wouldn't be pleased if that was the full extent of the prince's interest in me that I could generate.

An army car was waiting for me outside the military academy administration building. Winterberry and the COS had driven me over, but they'd told me to make my own way back to the embassy to report to them—the embassy was just down the street from the military academy compound.

Two soldiers were in the front seat of the car and a Spider Regiment major was in the backseat. I recognized the insignia on his shoulder. When he asked me where I wanted to go, I told him my hotel. It might be suspicious if I went directly back to the embassy from here.

He said nothing else to me and sat ramrod straight beside me in the car. If he knew what the prince and I had been doing in the shower—which he undoubtedly did—he said nothing to indicate it, nor did he signal to me in any way that I was the submissive male whore that I just had been. When we got to the hotel and the doorman had opened my door, the major leaned over and handed me an envelope with the seal of the palace on it.

"I'll be here at 9:00 tonight to escort you," he said as I exited the vehicle. I turned to ask him what he meant, but the doorman had already shut the car door and the vehicle was moving off.

I opened the envelope and pulled out a thick card. The writing was fancy and in ink. I marveled that it had been prepared in such a short time. I was being summoned by the prince for a late supper at the palace that night.

So, Winterberry had been right. That this was the right approach to the prince. Now it was up to me to reel him in.

* * * *

A week earlier I was in the last days of the Agency's Deep Cover Commando course at Camp Perry in Williamsburg, Virginia. I was on my back on my bed in my Spartan cinderblock walled room, my arms over my head, my hands gripping the brass headboard rail, my knuckles bruised by the banging of the headboard against the wall, my pelvis elevated, with my knees bent and my feet pressed to the mattress, giving me leverage to counterpiston Denzel's wicked thrusts.

A black bull, Denzel Jackson, my commando course instructor, was crouched over my body, between my spread thighs. His fists gripped my wrists, his forehead was plastered to mine, he was grunting deeply in harmony with my tortured moans, his toes digging into the mattress as he did pushups on my body. The bull's horn was throbbing, stretching, punishing my channel brutally. He was close to either giving me his load or killing me with his monster dick. I was beyond caring which.

I had gone completely docile and submissive to him. The belt he'd used to beat me with when I was still struggling with him—wanting him but knowing that being caught with a man here was a career killer—was curled on the floor beside the bed. The slashing strikes of the leather on my back, thighs, buttocks, and chest had only aroused me and made me want him inside me more. It was a fetish I wasn't proud of but that had helped pull me into the rough military life.

The door to the corridor banged open and a man in a suit, tall and gangly, pushing middle age, hard but wiry, came in, pulled a chair up to the bed, and sat down.

Surprised and shocked, I tried to twist to the other side of the bed and roll out from underneath Jackson, but the black brute held me in place. His dick was still inside me, deep, throbbing and stretching, but he was in a holding pattern.

"No, don't let me bother you," the man said, in a mocking baritone. "Finish him sergeant."

Three more thrusts and Jackson's body jerked and I knew he'd filled the bulb of the rubber. Once again, I made to move out from underneath him, totally nonplused with embarrassment—and fear too. Men got drummed out of the Agency for behavior like this, and I'd fought like hell—and covered up so much—to get in the Agency.

"No, stay like that, please," the man said. "It obviates any denying and excusing you might try to do before our little talk is over. I don't have much time." Jackson remained hovering over me, his dick going flaccid but still inside me, his fists still gripping my wrists at the headboard.

"We have need in the short term for a young man with the looks and skills and the proclivities you obviously have, Jack," the man continued. "Taking the belt was a nice—and useful—touch. Jackson wasn't sure you would. My name is Winterberry, and I run a special unit that works in special ways. Are you with me so far? No, don't bother to look embarrassed. We're beyond that point. Are you with me so far?"

"Yes," I squeaked. "Get him off me, though."

"I like to talk to my recruits in this position, Jack. It makes it so much easier for them to say yes. We don't have to have any pretense about what they will do—what they want to do. Tell me, have you ever heard of Prince ___, and he reeled off a name that seemed to go on and on—from the country of ___, and he named a country."

"I've heard of the country, of course." I answered. I didn't have to admit I'd never heard of Prince Whathisname.

"The prince is a military man, Jack. He likes all things military and he likes military men. He likes to fuck hard-bodied military men. He also is partial to the lash, which I think you will appreciate."

He gave me an amused look and I shuddered for him.

"He's rather a nuisance to us and to other Western countries as well, however," Winterberry continued. "He's more than a little bit crazy and he likes to go to war. We'd prefer not having any active wars in his region of the world, Jack. Therefore we—the Americans and the British and the French—do what we can to keep him distracted so that we can keep him entertained and out of his country. Do you follow me so far?"

"Yes, but where do I come in?"

"Well, you've done very well in our course here. You are presentable and hard bodied. And, of course"—and here he paused to smile wanly at me—"you obviously have no trouble letting men fuck you—and to give you a bit of the taste of the whip. Have you enjoyed this course, Jack?"

"Yes, but what—?"

"Would you recommend it to another rugged Ranger type?"

"Certainly."

"Good. We want you to sell this course to the prince. I understand you are a semipro tennis player too."

"I do well enough, yes, but—"

"A week from Saturday, you, as a TDYer at our embassy in ___," and here he named an Asian capital city, "have a celebrity tennis game date with our errant prince. We will set up a close encounter with him, and we want you to sell him on a long-form of this course here at Camp Perry. Now, that's the broad-brush operation plan here. I don't think you need to know more. But I suppose you should know the risk. The prince sometimes becomes overenthusiastic. There have been loses, but, as he's the prince, he suffers no consequences for his excesses. He has no concept of limitations. You'll have to do enough to win him over but not too much."

"So, my life will be in danger."

"Your life will always be in danger in this work, Jack. You knew this before you sought to join the Agency—and you did apply. We didn't coerce you."

"At least not to this point," I said.

He didn't respond directly; he pointed to the corner of the room, where the wall met the ceiling. "Perhaps what you'd want to know is what those little devices are in the upper corners of your room here. Didn't notice that they just appeared, did you?"

I looked more closely to where he was pointing. Two video cameras, not too well camouflaged. I'd been is such high heat when Jackson pulled me into the room that I hadn't seen them before.

"Now, you have two choices, Jack. We can use the film footage of your little exercise session with the sergeant here or you can start boning up on the Asian assignment. Which is it?"

"If you do this assignment well, you not only won't be kicked out, but you will come to work for me in a special Agency unit that uses the skills and proclivities you've already exhibited. Otherwise, yes, you'll be outed and ousted."

"If you put it that way . . ." I didn't have to complete the sentence.

"OK, you can go now, Sergeant. Thank you for your help. No, Jack, stay where you are, please." He had stood up and he was stripping off his clothes. He was hard bodied for his age, lean but hard. He had a dong that wasn't thick but it might have drooped to his knees if it wasn't hard and sticking out in a slight, cruel upcurve.

"I control my agents the old fashioned way, Jack. Your boning up on this assignment is going to start with me boning you, taking you for a test drive. We've established that you have agreed to the assignment. I need to know that you have what it takes to do the assignment."