Stallion Station

Heinz Trebel and his Algerian bodyguard, Jordo, went straight to the Terra Nova All Suites Hotel in Kingston upon landing in Jamaica. Jordo left Heinz there to recover at the pool from the long private jet flight from Frankfurt while Jordo contacted the local "finder" to make sure the snatch was on for the next day.

Everything had been carefully orchestrated. Heinz had specialized needs and interests and everything for this "double first" had been planned to a T. Those specialized needs included a nasty appetizer followed by a longer, slowly enjoyed meal. And Heinz, a young, spoiled German industrialist in his late thirties, who had inherited his empire but who had enough smarts not to let what he had inherited deteriorate, could well afford his fetish. He could indulge in it a couple of times a week, doing much of his selection in the various gyms he went to to tone up his muscular body or at college student gatherings where he could shop the fresh, hopefully unused young men—young men who were inclined emotionally to say yes and who valued the money they could earn over their present condition. But there were times when he wanted to go on vacation to indulge in his fetish and fantasy. This trip was one of those times, and he was sparing no expense to pursue his pleasure.

After Heinz' leisurely dinner of steak at the Red Bones Blues Café, Jordo was waiting for him back at the hotel to report that all was a go for the next day. The target had only an early-morning class at the University College of the Caribbean, and the jet was fueled and preapproved for a noon takeoff. It the primary target didn't show for some reason, there was a backup target. But Heinz had poured over several files that had been provided by the Jamaican finder, and he really wanted the primary target.

The fantasy that was evoked in Heinz—that gave him a high—went beyond the surface understanding of what the expensive, complex operation entailed. The young man was, in fact, bought, paid for, and signed off, whether he had intended to carry through with his end of the deal or not. He had advertised the sale of his virginity on the Internet—on Craig's list. He'd received his payment. No one had yet called in the contract to the point that the young man, working through cutouts in addresses and names, probably thought he had worked a scam. Trebel's people had the paperwork tracing back to him in hand. He just had no idea he wasn't as clever as he thought he was.

The beauty of the plan was that not only was the young Jamaican man selected a perfectly formed beauty, but kidnappings among the rich and upper-middle class on Jamaica were routine. That was a big reason that Heinz had included Jamaica in his plan. They would have come and snatched and been well away, with time for Heinz to have his leisurely pleasure at the next stop, before anyone would know to look for the young man anywhere but among the shanty towns of the island's underbelly.

And, in the end, the young man would be returned in far better condition than if he had been snatched in Jamaica for the traditional reasons.

The snatch worked a charm. The Jamaican college student was grabbed and pushed into the van provided by the finder, with Jordo's assistance, right after he'd parted with his friends at the gate into the grounds of UCC. There was no indication that anyone had seen them. Jordo, a hulking six-foot-eight tower of muscle was definitely noticed on the streets of Frankfurt. But here, beyond his height and bulk—although many Jamaicans, including the finder, offered both—Jordo's black skin didn't make him the standout he was in Germany.

Between the finder and Jordo, the young Jamaican was trussed up like a pig ready for the barbeque and driven to the jet, where Heinz Trebel was waiting for them, not being willing, naturally, to be involved in the initial kidnapping himself.

When Jordo had muscled the struggling young man into the aft cabin and he'd returned to take his seat and buckle up for takeoff, he spoke across the aisle to Heinz. "When we are at altitude, do you want me to prepare him for you, Herr Trebel?"

"No, thank you, Jordo. I want to save him until the other one is in hand too. You know I get a little rough with the first one. I want to get past that before doing the American. You've seen the files, I think. The American deserves special attention."

"Yes, sir. You picked wisely this time, I think," Jordo answered.

"Quite expensive, but worth it to have the first crack. I think you'll like where we're going next, Jordo. And, don't worry, you will get to have your pleasure while I'm taking mine. I will take care of you."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," Jordo answered with a big smile. "You always do take care of me."

As well, I must, Heinz thought, even though you leave them in worse condition than I do. There weren't too many men who would give him the service and loyalty that the Algerian giant gave him.

* * * *

"Are you sure?" Bill Cain asked. He was sitting across the breakfast bar from his nephew, Andy, at the old farmhouse he owned near the Hampton Sydney college, near Farmville, where he taught mathematics. This was to be Andy's big day. Andy, a student at Hampton Sydney, was celebrating his nineteenth birthday. He and his uncle had been discussing this for a year, and Andy hadn't lost his resolve.

"Yes, this is what I want," Andy answered. "I don't want to pretend. You are doing fine with it, and I get so frustrated that I haven't done it all yet. I get up to the brink and then . . . I just need to be pushed over the edge."

"That's not what I was asking," Cain said. "I mean are you sure you haven't gone over that edge already. Because if we do it this way, if we take money for it, and they find out you're not a virgin to it, there will be hell to pay."

"No, as soon as I found you had a way for us to get something out of it, I made sure I didn't go any further with anyone. I always was too nervous to do it all anyway. But I've cuddled and made out a bit . . . and there have been a few hand jobs, but . . ."

"No blow jobs?" Cain asked sharply.

"Not much of any. I've never given any and the couple I've gotten didn't last long or amount to much."

"But no ass play?"

"Nothing except what you've suggested for the past couple of weeks. Just to make it easier, like you said."

"How often, though?"

"I've got a butt plug in now," Andy answered. "Bet you didn't even notice. Have used it enough not to be walkin' funny or anything anymore."

"It's going to be much more taxing than that if you go through with this," Cain said. "You've given this thought, I hope."

"Shit, let's just do it. All of it. Let's just get past as rough as it gets. I've waited too long."

Bill Cain gave his nephew a pointed look. What could he say when Andy had declared he was gay and wanted to be? Cain had declared that himself years before, and Andy had accepted it. He'd known he was gay when he had been Andy's age, and he'd acted on it—the whole way—when he was younger than Andy was now. Of course, his form of gay was to take and Andy insisted that he wanted to be the one taken. And no, he'd never had the urge to hook up with his nephew.

Cain hadn't come out before Andy had come to live with him. If he had, California child services probably wouldn't have given him custody after Bill's sister, Andy's mother, and her husband had died in a car wreck, leaving Andy with no living relatives other than Bill. But Bill had taken the child in and raised him as his own. Andy had been a beautiful child—and was a gorgeous hunk of a young man—all California surfer blond, even if they'd left California some time ago. But in all that time Bill hadn't given a thought to touching him himself. It wasn't just that his tastes in men were different; it also was because Bill couldn't stomach having sex within his own family.

When the rumors had started in California that Bill was gay, he'd left his job in Stanford and moved as far away from California as he could find another job, bringing Andy with him. He'd done that for Andy. Because he didn't want to lose custody. Family was family, and he was the only family Andy had.

It had become complicated later when Andy started to show that he had interest in men too. By this time Bill was out in the open and there was nothing he could say about the lifestyle to turn Andy away from it without being two-faced. All he could do was be honest about the pitfalls. None of that had mattered to Andy.

Bill had nervously negotiated his way through Andy's late teens, doing what he could to steer some of his gay community friends away from Andy, who was like a magnet for them, and suffering with Andy through several inappropriate adolescent crushes, carefully guiding Andy on the dangers of underage sex. Andy had navigated all of that, and, if anything, had been overly indoctrinated. Now, at nineteen, he had had some hookups with men but had never been able to go all of the way, possibly because of how closely Bill had tried to steer him.

When Bill had asked Andy what he wanted for his nineteenth birthday, Andy had been straightforward. "I want to be fucked. Butt fucked. Taken the whole way. Repeatedly. I want to be taken across the barrier, forcefully, if necessary. I know it's what I'll want once I'm on the other side. I don't want any more of this 'just petting' stuff. I hear you in the bedroom with your men—with Tom and Brady and Stu. I want to feel what they feel, to scream my passion of being fully taken. That's what I want, Bill, if you have to ask."

It wasn't the first time that Bill got the feeling that Andy resented him for not taking care of it himself, but there was no way the uncle was going to go there. But he did feel the obligation to help make it happen. Andy was old enough to decide for himself it was what he wanted. And if, having done it, Andy found he didn't really want it, that would be fine with Bill too.

Andy had flounced away then, leaving Bill a little sad. But the sadness was that, because he himself had had joy in being with other men, perhaps he had overcontrolled his nephew. Perhaps if Andy was so sure of what he wanted, it wasn't just because of the environment he'd been raised in. Andy had shown no interest in girls—ever—and he was one beautiful specimen of a young man. Perhaps Bill had gone on too long after Andy's eighteenth birthday gatekeeping the men showing interest in Andy.

He went over in his mind the men he knew—the men he knew who would love to fuck Andy and give Andy what he wanted for his birthday.

There was a men's gym he went to, out on the Richmond road, in a complex that had evolved into a male brothel. The owner of Stallion Station, Jess Gordon, would be perfect if Andy really wanted it all at one time, wanted to be completely taken and initiated—and if Jess could be convinced to go easy on it. And there were a few other men going to the gym because they also used the young men in the former motel rooms attached to it. Bill himself went there, having first hooked up with a young rent-boy he liked named Matt, when Matt had worked at an adult video store.

He had asked Jess about it, and of course Jess was interested. But a few weeks later, Jess suggested that there was some way they all could make money off of it if Andy truly was a virgin to the ass fuck.

"I have a buyer."

"A buyer? What do you mean a buyer?" Cain asked.

"The Internet has some real opportunities floating around on it. If the kid really wants to lose his virginity—and you can guarantee he's a virgin—I have a buyer who's interested in popping his cherry. Two buyers, actually, and the second one is willing to pay a thousand to get in there second."

"If the second is willing to pay a thousand . . ."

"The first one in is willing to pay ten thousand."

"Ten thousand!"

"Yeah. He's a German industrialist. Not that old. Late thirties. In top shape, and popping man cherries is a fetish of his."

"Good god, willing to pay that much?"

"We'd have to split it. I, as the finder, would get half. But he's already seen photos of your Andy—I have plenty of good ones from when Andy works out in the gym here—and the German says he's randy for it. He said it wouldn't be rough fuck, but it would have to be a long fuck. He'd want to come twice. But he guaranteed Andy would like it. Insists on bareback, though, with certificates."

"And he'd pay for the trip to Germany?"

"He'll come here. All at his own expense."

"I don't know. Andy would have to be good with it."

"Here's the German's photo—a couple of them. He's hung, of course. But he promises not to ruin Andy. You can show the photos to Andy to see if he's interested."

"OK, I'll do that," Cain said, liking what he saw in the photos. "I don't know anything about a certificate, though."

"I can arrange that," Gordon answered. "I have a doctor on retainer for checking the guys here over regularly."

"You said there's a second guy."

"Yeah. But he knows of Andy firsthand. Says he's had his eye on Andy for some time. He doesn't mind going second, but there'd be some kinky stuff. Bondage, maybe a bit of flogging. No permanent damage."

"Can that one be put on a contingency? Can Andy make the call after his first experience?"

"You said Andy insists on seeing rough and kinky too, didn't you? There's nothing in this that he wouldn't get from me. And we were close to a deal of me doing it with you payin' something. This is a much better deal."

"I understand. But I can't be sure Andy is really ready for it all. Can the second one be on contingency?"

"Yes, but it would have to be right after the first. The second wants him before Andy gets cleaned up from having been barebacked. That's the deal. And I said fifty-fifty, but I'd be providing the rooms for it—right here. So the profit's heavy on your side. I'll cover the cost of the certificate."

"I'd have to be doing something while I wait for Andy," Cain said. "Throw in free access for me to Matt while this is going on and I'll see what Andy thinks about it."

"Done. There's one other thing, though."

"What?" Cain asked. He knew it must be a corker if Gordon hadn't brought it up earlier.

"The German wants a movie taken. Not for distribution. We'd have a contract on that. But a movie for him, for his personal use."

"I don't know," Cain said. "You know how easy it is for these things to get on the Internet."

"The guy's paying ten thousand for it and signing a contract. And he says Andy can wear a mask, so no one could be real sure unless he decides to go pro porn—which you can ask him about too. He's a real cute trick—men'll go crazy over him. I got an eleven-thousand-dollar offer for his first two goes without hardly lifting my finger. I could use him. The German wouldn't be wearing nothin', and he's well known in Germany. It's doubtful he wants to be seen on the Internet fucking a young man."

"I don't know," Cain said. "All I can do is ask Andy. He's an adult now. If he wants to do this, he can do this and I don't have any say in it."

"One thing, though, Bill," Gordon said. "You aren't dealing used goods, are you? You haven't been spiking him for years, have you? 'Cause if I found out . . ."

Cain gave Gordon a withering look. "He's my nephew. I wouldn't be doing any of this except that he's been begging for it for a year. I haven't laid a finger on him. Ever. And he tells me he's been too nervous to do it yet. That's the reason he wants something definite set up that he can't wriggle out of."

"I had to ask. This much money on the line. And who knows how nasty the German could get for that much money."

* * * *

Griff climbed off his client's exhausted, panting body and padded over to the bureau to retrieve the hundred-dollar bill for declaration to the house, plus the two twenties as a tip. He took it with him when he went into the bathroom and closed the door with a click. This was his client's signal that the session was over.

The small blond dancer was the most professional rent-boy that Jess Gordon had installed in the rooms on the reverse side of the former motel wing of Stallion Station. Griff had left Farmville for the more lucrative pickings in North Carolina, but had been lured back to head up Gordon's stable of rent-boys.

The client, one of Griff's regulars—Griff's time already almost exclusively being devoted to a small list of regulars—just lay on the bed on his back, moaning. Steeped in pleasure with what the flexible and inventive little blond had done with his ass as he rode the client's cock in several different positions, pulling two ejaculations out of the client before he stopped.

Clients didn't ride Griff. Mostly they just lay there, marveling at the different positions he could take in riding their cocks. Mostly Griff rode the client. And hard, pulling every bit of cum out of them until their balls ached.

Before Griff had locked himself in the bathroom, he, by custom, put a basin of warm water and a washcloth out on the bureau. That was all the client was going to get. He had to clean himself up and hobble out of the room on his own. If Griff came out of the bathroom before the client was gone, that was an automatic write up of another hundred-dollar session. Griff could go the extra mile, but few clients could after what he'd drawn out of them the first time.

The client groaned, rolled over to the side of the bed, and sat up. His feet hit the floor on top of the three spent condoms he'd used. Those went to the house along with its seventy-five-dollar cut of the basic fee, to give Gordon an indication that everything had gone on as it should. The rent-boys thus made their best money off the tips. Both management and the clients were cool with this. If you got the service that Griff gave, you had to expect to tip well. If Griff lost interest, you'd have to move down the line of Gordon's rent-boys until you reached your balance of what you got being worth what you spent.

If you picked a guy up in the gym who wasn't one of Gordon's boys, you could have a room for fifty dollars for every two hours, no one-hour splits. But then whatever the fuck cost was up to you.

This particular client never settled for anything less than Griff.

He cleaned himself up as best he could; hobbled to the door; and, looking around in all directions before stepping out of the shadows of the covered walkway stretching across the motel wing front. He climbed into his rented Buick—he always rented a car to come here; never came in his own car or one from the office—and slowly drove around the side of the motel to the front of the complex, which connected to the Richmond road east of Farmville.

* * * *

Gordon had been called ahead and was standing by the door of the movie studio when the black Mercedes limousine with smoked windows drove up close to the studio door. He opened the passenger door but stood back as the doorway was overfilled with a black African body. Gordon didn't know who this was. It wasn't the German industrialist, Heinz Trebel, that much was clear.

But even though Gordon was no slouch, he got the "hands off" message and pulled back, going to the door into the studio and holding it open. Jordo, Trebel's bodyguard and Mr. Fixit, turned and literally pulled the sluggish body of a young, very handsome and well-formed milk-chocolate black man out of the back of the limousine. The young man couldn't stand on his own, but had to be supported by the bodyguard.

The young man clearly had been drugged, Gordon could tell. But he asked no questions. He was being paid well for this—over and above the fee he had told Bill Cain about. This first part of the agreement was the dangerous part for him. Andy Roberts had agreed to everything Gordon had proposed—and had signed an agreement to that effect. And Trebel had signed an agreement to stick to limits on the taking of the young American.