by James Lear
“What’s your favorite position when you fuck Radek?”
“Doggy position. Him on all fours.”
“Then that’s what I want.”
“If you’re sure. Get off, then.”
I dismounted, and knelt on the floor, ass in the air, arms braced. Reeve wasted no time in getting back inside me.
“This won’t take long.”
“Just as well, probably,” I said between gritted teeth. The sensation of his dick pile-driving into me was fantastic, but I couldn’t endure it for long. I rested my forehead on my forearms and pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts. Drops of sweat fell from his head to my back. I dared not touch my cock in case I came; it was hard enough taking him when I was insane with lust, but it would be impossible once I’d shot. Reeve picked up the pace, holding on to my hips and slamming into me, both of us panting like athletes.
Finally, he came. Jesus, did he come. Some men like to stay still while they’re shooting, the sensations too intense to allow for much movement. Not Reeve. He fucked me even harder, trying to punch his way through to my intestines. Resistance was futile, not to mention painful. I had to let go of everything and become a passive recipient. At last he bellowed, rammed his dick as far as it could go, and emptied himself inside me. He collapsed on my back, pressing me on to the floor; it was like trying to do push-ups with a 180 lb. weight on your spine.
We lay there until I was having difficulty breathing. Reeve rolled off and pulled out. The condom was bulging with spunk.
“You’re a good fuck, Dan.”
“Now you know.”
“Did you come?”
My cock was soft. “No.”
“Do you want to?”
“Of course I fucking want to.”
Reeve lay down on his stomach and got to work on me, taking my cock in his mouth until it started to grow. He was good; no teeth, not too sloppy. Soon I was fully hard again. The obliging Radek squatted over my face and let me eat his ass. It didn’t take long before he was shooting a second load over my chest.
I pulled out of Reeve’s mouth and blew my load over his handsome face.
We lay in a sweaty, sticky heap for a while.
“Run another bath, Radek,” said Reeve. “We have the room until tomorrow morning. Colonel Stagg—or should I say Mr. Cooper—does not have to be anywhere in a hurry.”
I tried to get up and reach for the tissues.
“Oh, before I forget—the sample.”
Radek picked up a clear plastic bottle from the bedside table, unscrewed the top, and handed it to Reeve. There was a small spoon attached to the lid, which he ran over the jizz on his face.
“For our records, Mr. Cooper,” he said. “A DNA sample. Always useful.”
“Was that what all this was about?”
“Officially, yes. And now work is over.”
04
Greg Cooper boarded the fast train to Manchester at Euston Station the following afternoon. All that was left of Dan Stagg was in a small plastic specimen bottle, destined for a government laboratory somewhere. My new life was contained in a buff envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL, which had been my constant study since Reeve finished fucking Radek and me in the small hours of the morning.
Cooper’s CV had enough parallels to my own to make it easy enough to master. Personality-wise, he was Dan Stagg without any redeeming features—and God knows there aren’t many of them—and with a Neanderthal attitude towards women, people of color, immigrants, Muslims, the disabled, you name it. In other words, much like the guys I grew up with. All I had to do was think like them and there I was, Greg Cooper.
I had the carriage to myself. First class, early afternoon, nobody to disturb me except the train crew making their way up and down, checking tickets, offering drinks. None of them interested me.
I read and reread Cooper’s file: my instructions were to destroy it as soon as I arrived in Manchester. I’m used to operational briefings, I can assimilate information quickly, and forget it just as quickly when the objective is achieved. I went over my schedule: I was to go straight to the rented accommodation that had been secured for me—” don’t expect anything too fancy,” Reeve had warned—and get my face known in the local community. I had permission to entertain to my heart’s content; I was, in effect, licensed to fuck. After a couple of days I would attend a big boxing match in the city center, promoted by Alan Vaughan. That was to be my entrée to his circle. I felt excited, as I always do at the start of a mission—and this time there was the added attraction of a new start, a new identity, no one to know how badly I fucked my life up. Start again. Fail again, no doubt, but fail in a different way.
There was something else I had to get to grips with: new tech. I’d been issued with a set of miniaturized tracking devices, so small they would be undetectable within the human body, little silicon-encased beads about the size of a pinhead, smooth and practically invisible. Taken orally, they would stay in the system for up to seventy-two hours before being excreted. Inserted anally, they would be good until the subject’s next dump. Each device had a unique code, which would enable my controls at MI6 to log the whereabouts of specific subjects, provided I supplied them with relevant digits. All I had to do was get the tracking devices into the subject, at either end. They picked their man well. If there was anyone who could stick things in young men’s mouths or asses, it was Dan . . . I mean, Greg Cooper.
That was all I had, apart from a phone and an encrypted email address. No firearms. Dan Stagg felt naked without a firearm. Greg Cooper would have to get used to it.
The train arrived in Manchester on time. Posters advertising the fight were plastered all over town.
Alan Vaughan presents
UNDEFEATED CHAMPION CRAIG LUKAS
vs.
UNDEFEATED CHALLENGER KIERAN MCAVOY
for the
Regional Light Heavyweight Title
But it wasn’t the words that caught the eye so much as the photograph of two oiled, muscular bodies that could have been straight off a porn website. One, larger, in the foreground, was dark, Mediterranean-looking, perhaps in his late twenties, with the perfect sculpted body that so many young men aspire to. The other was a puggy-looking redhead with a furrowed brow and close-set eyes, milky-white skin over his muscles. Individually they were hot; as a team, they were irresistible. Craig Lukas, I knew, was Vaughan’s star fighter, a charismatic mix of an Albanian father and a Welsh mother, known for his fiery temper and nightlife antics as much as for his boxing. He was a regular fixture in the sports pages, but under Vaughan’s management he appeared almost as often in the showbiz sections, out and about with a string of beautiful women, always ready with a quip and a brag, the perfect cocky alpha-male showman. Obviously I wanted to take him down a peg or two, pin him to a mat in some grungy gym and teach him to love cock, but that’s my standard response to any handsome face.
It was with the Lukas-McAvoy fight that I was to begin my infiltration of Vaughan’s operation. If MI6’s suppositions were correct, high-profile title fights like this were the tip of a large, lucrative iceberg. Hidden from sight was a network of prostitution, pornography, blackmail, and God knows what else, the profits of which were finding their way to some very nasty people in the US, the type of assholes who believe every conspiracy theory they’re fed and who will back up their delusions with bombs. Operational details were vague: Reeve simply gave me the time and place of the fight. How I ingratiated myself with Vaughan, how I investigated the business, was up to me. It had to look spontaneous, accidental. Reeve was convinced the Vaughan and his inner circle were secretly gay; my sexual prowess, confirmed by Reeve’s “tests,” was my entrée. A complete lack of morality should do the rest. There was no depth to which Greg Cooper wouldn’t sink, even at the cost of his life.
I’m no fan of professional boxing—the guys are attractive, but the razzmatazz and hype make it too much like entertainment for my tastes. I take martial arts and other legitimized for
ms of violence seriously, as a means to an end, something that might save your life and end your opponent’s. All this bouncing around in silk robes and fancy shorts is a foolish distraction. In a way I prefer wrestling, which everyone knows is just two guys pretending to have sex. But there are millions of people out there for whom boxing is a big deal, and by the look of it a good percentage of them had descended on the arena on the outskirts of Manchester when I turned up for the Lukas-McAvoy fight. All human life was here: pimply kids in hoodies and baseball caps, probably with an ounce of weed in their pockets, women old enough to be their grandmothers, in head scarves and overcoats, wealthy-looking men in flashy suits with beautiful women on their arms. And around these, there was a sea of men—just regular men, in their twenties upwards, dressed in the same drab, ill-fitting clothes, clutching messenger bags and backpacks and programs, all of them living out some fantasy in which they too became champions of the world.
Somewhere in this 20,000-seat venue was my first point of entry to Vaughan’s heavily protected world. I surveyed the crowd exactly as I would survey occupied territory, looking for the weaknesses, the vantage points, recognizing the rhythms and customs of the people, learning to fit in, to pass without notice, to gain trust, and to betray it. There was plenty to look at. Boxing has always attracted the kind of guys I like—fit and full of bravado, in need of discipline, easy to break. And for once, I had professional reasons to look, as well as personal ones. As Reeve had pointed out, I was licensed to fuck, if that was how I was going to effect entry to Vaughan’s inner circle. I needed to find a suitable subject and then pump him—for information, of course.
I hung around the outer fringes of the crowd. There was the usual nonsense going on in the ring, a lot of crowd-pleasing announcements from the referee, an overweight bald man in a tight shirt and bow tie, and a lot of women in bathing costumes parading around for the slavering dogs in the front rows. I was more interested in the comings and goings from the dressing rooms and offices, hoping to catch a glimpse of Alan Vaughan and his entourage, to identify anyone with access to all areas. I couldn’t see Vaughan; presumably he was backstage with his Craig Lukas, psyching him up for the fight. I don’t know much about the ethics of boxing—if there are any—but I’ve always found it strange that managers and promoters are often one and the same person. Presumably Kieran McAvoy had been handpicked to lose, and would no doubt go home with a nice wad of cash in his pocket for allowing Lukas to knock him out in the fifth round.
There was a guy with a clipboard running in and out of a door marked STAFF ONLY at the side of the bar. All I could see inside was a brightly lighted corridor leading to a flight of stairs, perhaps to the hospitality suite. He was talking into a cell phone and looked every inch the harassed minion. He was about nineteen or twenty, dark hair and brown skin, Indian or Pakistani origin, I guessed. There were a lot of Asian men in Manchester, and a good number of them under this roof. This one was short, wiry, possibly a fighter himself from the look of him, a good frame for martial arts, light and quick and strong. At the moment he was in a menial job, running errands. A junior figure in the Vaughan operation, an intern even, paying his dues for a chance to get into the ring. In other words, exactly the person I needed.
I let him come and go a few more times. The first fight was due to start in about fifteen minutes. I positioned myself in his path, caught his eye a couple of times. He noticed me. The third time, I nodded and said “All right.” He smiled, I smiled. This carried on a little longer, until at last I said, “Any idea what time the main fight begins?”
“Nine o’clock,” he fired back. “There are two warm-ups.”
“You going to watch it?”
“Of course. We’re all here to support Lukas.”
“Hometown hero?”
“Not quite, but I work for Alan Vaughan. His manager.”
“Ah, Alan Vaughan. The big man.”
“Yeah.” The boy smiled. “He’s great.” He had a curious accent, the local Manchester drawl with a few odd vowel sounds and cadences I recognized as southeast Asian.
“I’ve heard a lot about him.”
“He’s the big man.”
“Good employer?”
“The best.”
“Does he pay well?”
He looked down at his shoes. “Yeah, I mean I’m like a volunteer at the moment.” As I suspected. “But if I do well he’s going to give me a chance to fight.”
“Boxing?”
“Kickboxing. Bit of karate too.”
“Where do you train?”
“Gym in Moss Side.”
This meant nothing to me, but I nodded anyway. “Good instructors?”
“Yeah, pretty good.”
“But you could do better, right?”
He shrugged. “I can’t afford it.”
“I could help you out, maybe. I’m looking for work.”
“I told you, I can’t afford a trainer.”
“I’ll give you some sessions for free if you can introduce me to people who might be able to give me some paid work. I’ve only just arrived here.”
“American, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What you doing in a shithole like Manchester then?”
I couldn’t really say “I was sent here by the CIA,” so I said, “Looking for a fresh start. Things got a bit too hot for me at home.”
“I might be able to introduce you to Mr. Vaughan.”
“Does he employ trainers?”
“Yeah, course. They’re the best in the business.” He looked despondent, gazing over at the ring, the bright lights reflecting in his big brown eyes. “Not that I ever get a chance to work with them.”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve won all my bouts. I’m good, but I’m not good enough.”
“Then you need to get better.”
“How?”
“Here.” I scribbled a phone number on his clipboard. “I’ll give you an honest opinion. If you’re any good, I’ll train you.”
“Really?” He looked like a puppy that’s just been promised a walk in the park. “Why would you do that for me?”
“Everyone needs a helping hand.”
“You’re cool.” He looked at his watch. “I’d better get on. Mr. Vaughan needs me to check up on all his guests, make sure they’ve got their access passes and drinks tokens and stuff.” He had a bunch of lanyards and laminates hanging off one wrist.
“Okay. What’s your name?”
“Oz. Short for Osman.”
I grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Hi Oz. I’m Greg. Greg Cooper.”
“Okay, Greg, nice to meet you. Oz Rafiq.” I didn’t let go of his hand; he started to look nervous. “So, I really should be. . .”
“Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”
“What?”
“The toilet. I need to piss before the fight.”
“Oh, it’s over there somewhere.” He waved towards the bar.
“Yeah, but they’re really disgusting and crowded. Can’t you let me into the private ones?”
“No, mate, I’m not allowed.”
“Just give me a pass. I’ll give it back.”
“Okay. But I’ll have to come with you.”
“Make sure I don’t cause any trouble?”
“It’s just the rules, Greg. I’m not saying you’d do anything.”
“Come on then, Oz. Show me the way.”
The arena was getting busy, people pushing past us as they made their way to their seats, hands full of plastic glasses of beer. On the other side of the private door, everything was quiet.
“Just come through here.” He held open another door, and suddenly we were in a warm, carpeted area, low lights, the distant hum of voices. “The press room is just round the corner. I think they’re doing photos or something. Toilets are down here.”
I followed him through the door with the male symbol on it. Two tiny urinals, a hand basin, a
nd a cubicle that was barely big enough for an adult to turn around in. “Thanks, Oz. I won’t be long.” I stood at the pisser, undid my pants, and flopped my cock out. I was going to have to produce something to give myself credibility. I closed my eyes, thought about waterfalls, and managed a short, steady stream.
“Suppose I might as well go too, while I’m here. Don’t know when I’ll get another chance.” He was beside me, just as I had hoped, pulling the elasticated waist of his track pants down, hauling out a decent-sized dick. With all the crap he was carrying—clipboards, laminates, and so on—he had to manage it with just one hand. He pushed his hips forward and pissed a little against the porcelain. I’d finished, but was making very certain I’d shaken off all the drops. Oz glanced down at me; I was on the way to being half hard, and it looked big. Distracted, he let the clipboard slip from where it was held under his arm; in trying to catch it, he splashed piss over his pants.
“Oh, shit. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t get me.” I didn’t put my cock away, even though there was now no reason for me to have it out. Oz stepped back from the urinal and started brushing himself down. “Here, let me help.” I took the stuff he was carrying, and held it for him, making sure I didn’t block his view.
“Thanks Greg. Fucking hell. What a mess.”
There was an electric hand dryer on the wall, the sort with a directional spout. “Come here. Stand under that.”
I hit the button, and Oz tried to angle the damp patch on his pants towards the hot air. He was too far away, and in trying to wriggle around into the right position he exposed his furry brown ass. My dick was getting hard in earnest now.
“You need to get closer.”
He stood on tiptoe, even jumped up. “I can’t.” The wet patch was a very visible dark gray.
“Here.” I put my arms around his waist from behind and lifted him so the hot air was blasting straight on to the affected area, flattening the black hair on his thighs like wind blowing through corn. Coincidentally, this position also brought my cock into contact with his ass. I braced my legs and held him, making sure he could feel my growing hardness.
