Raw Recruits

by Zack

  For Lucas and Tom, and their South American kids

  Inhalt

  CHAPTER ONE: Well Met in a Bar

  CHAPTER TWO: Tested and Hired

  CHAPTER THREE: Ride Me to Jamaica

  CHAPTER FOUR: Pick-up Point

  CHAPTER FIVE: Jamaica Jimmy’s

  CHAPTER SIX: Breaking in the Colt

  CHAPTER SEVEN: The Slick Flavor of Wrestling

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Just a Little Trick

  CHAPTER NINE: Ström’s War

  CHAPTER TEN: Training and Punishment

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Swamp Sandwich

  CHAPTER TWELVE: Island Rum Orgy

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Video Voodoo

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Briefing and Debriefing

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Bonus Island

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Imprint

  CHAPTER ONE

  Well Met in a Bar

  It was 10:30 in the morning—a quiet time for the hustler bars of Manhattan’s lower midtown. Luke and Harry, their long legs wrapped around tall bar stools, sat hunched over their beers. In spite of the early hour, they had deliberately chosen one of the less-frequented watering holes to give themselves a chance to wake up before hanging out on the street to wait for their first customers of the day. Nothing as ordinary as a Bud for Luke and Harry. They had done well and could afford an Indiana Pale Ale for Harry and, with his sweeter palate, a Cornhusker Lager for Luke.

  The previous day and night had been particularly grueling for the two friends, not least because New York City was going through one of its familiar heat waves, which raised the pollution level and brought out the worst in people on the sun-baked sidewalks. On the other hand, the heat was the perfect excuse for many of the city’s hustlers to strip down to the bare minimum required to avoid getting busted—and the opportunity to display as much of their gym-toned bodies as they could. And in Manhattan that meant a fair bit of skin.

  Luke wiped a hand over his brow. In spite of the air-conditioning, trickles of sweat kept running into his eye. Maybe because the units weren’t managing the outside temperature. Harry was obviously too enervated to talk, so Luke cataloged their colleagues—if you could call them that—a review of hustler fashions.

  Some guys favored low-waisted, cut-off denim pants to reveal an inch of pubic hair above bulges of cock and balls, with fat cock heads clearly outlined to within a hair of the waistband. Others went for jeans raggedly torn down the sides to expose tanned muscled thighs, or slashed open at the backside to reveal tantalizing glimpses of taut buttocks and an occasional flash of cleft. Some cut gaping holes under the crotch and then posed for the sauntering johns by propping themselves against a wall on one foot with the other pressed back on the bricks, allowing a big sweaty ball to hang out.

  Grease stains and sweat, cum, and piss stains, chains and cock rings prominently displayed the hustlers’ preference for “speciality” customers.

  The atmosphere in Midtown and lower Manhattan on days like this crackled with urgent sex and brought customers out in their hundreds: the dominant with their demands; doe-eyed first-timers, shy but desperate; the sophisticated with a taste for rough trade; simple voyeurs and the closeted, whose eyes raked the hunky or lissome bodies longingly while afraid to make an approach. The closet gays often stood a few yards away from the guy of their choice and surreptitiously jerked themselves inside their pants. Some hustlers got pissed at giving a free show and walked off; others waited until the wet patch of cum appeared on the front of the jerk-artist’s trousers then closed in to demand a few bucks for the privilege.

  There were hustlers who got off on the no-touch, non-renters, and massaged their dick and balls, and moved their hips provocatively until their glistening cock heads squeezed above the waist-band, like winking cherries on an untouchable sundae.

  Between them, Luke and Harry had gone through thirty customers the day and night before. Their asses and mouths had been filled several times over with jets of hot jizz, their faces and bodies covered in the dripping stuff. They in turn had pumped their loads into and over their customers, and on a couple of occasions the two had fucked and sucked each other for johns who preferred to jerk themselves while they watched the two sweaty, muscled bodies fight for entry into each others’ orifices. Both men were proud not only of their displays of hard male sex on these occasions, but also of their finely-honed bodies.

  Close buddies since they’d met as grunts in Helmand two years earlier, Luke and Harry chose the excitement of the streets on their return to civilian life rather than a dull office routine—had that luxury even been a hope for a returning soldier. Luke boasted a high level of sexual energy and he knew Harry did too. Their bodies were their lives, not to say livelihoods.

  Luke, at six foot in his socks, was the taller of the two. The care–fully developed thews of his well-defined shoulders and biceps complemented his powerful neck, with sinews that stood out like thick cords. His sculpted pectorals jutted a full inch above his upper abdomen and curved with a supple rhythm around to the powerful flare of his back muscles. His upper body tapered to a firm, flat abdomen that even when bent double showed not a fold of fat. The fine mat of black hair that covered his chest matched the down on forearms which extended to the backs of his strong broad hands. Through the tear down the side of his jeans hairy muscled thighs pushed their way out.

  His friend, at five-ten, was a leaner version of Luke and exuded the energy of a coiled spring. Every whipcord muscle of his body, while not so heavily polished as Luke’s, was clearly visible, any layer of fat long gone through years of yoga, swimming (his favorite sport), and tours of duty in Afghanistan’s inhospitable climate, where they had toiled over awful terrain in baking heat and ball-freezing cold.

  For some men, getting out of the military meant changing type dramatically, a reaction to years of discipline and being shoe-horned into a visual type—uniformed, clipped, head-shorn. For them, the Rambo look: long pony-tailed hair, bandanas, and wrecked clothing. But Luke and Harry preferred to keep their hair closely cropped as it had been when they were toting M-14s and popping Talibans while trying not to step on an IED, and Harry kept the image going by wearing tight fatigue trousers tucked into black lace-up boots, and a forage cap, knowing there were plenty of customers who wanted to be ordered about and bullied.

  Luke chewed reflectively on a toothpick, reluctant to leave the almost cool, dim interior of the bar for the hot, hungry streets. To his left a young bodybuilder took a stool two down. He’d come into the bar only a couple of minutes after Luke and Harry, but had hung around near the door, nursing a small beer. Luke recognized the kid from the gym he frequented. He’d never seen him go with anyone and guessed he was shy, but his shifty gaze licked Luke’s body when he thought he wasn’t observed. Now, out of the corner of his eye, Luke saw the young guy unzip his beach shorts and pull his meat out into the shadows between his legs and begin to pump himself gently, eyes fixed on Luke.

  Luke wasn’t in the mood for a freebie but he decided to keep the guy interested in case there was an opportunity to fuck him in future. Luke groped at the hole in the crotch of his own jeans and pulled out his dick. His thick, cut cock was eight inches long when soft, as it was now, and swelled close to ten when aroused. He lowered his left leg casually so that the bodybuilder could see what might one day ram itself up his tight little ass.

  Beads of sweat broke out on the boy’s face as he watched Luke’s tool grow. After a couple of minutes of this surreptitious communion his body jerked forward and Luke saw a stream of jism plaster itself on the side of the bar. He winked at the boy, who quickly zipped himself up and left in a hurry. Luke raised his leg so that his meat was hidden in case some poor unsuspecting straight customer came in. It
would be a while before he could tuck the semi-hard back into his jeans.

  “Hey buddy,” he said, turning back to Harry, who had watched the quiet exchange with amusement. “Why don’t we take a day off? We could go out to that neat beach on Long Island and get back in time to pick up a few numbers tonight.”

  “Mmm,” Harry replied distantly.

  Luke frowned at his friend, surprised at his unusual lack of enthusiasm for a day on the sand and a chance of a swim, and found him staring up into the long mirror, set at an angle, that ran above the rows of drink bottles on the other side of the bar. The tables and booths behind appeared as clear reflections in its surface and Harry regularly scrutinized potential customers without having to turn around and without them becoming aware of his interest, unless they made a point of peering across the bar.

  “Well, whadya say?”

  “Mmhmm, maybe. Listen, don’t turn around. Take a look-see in the mirror at that guy in the booth directly behind. What do you make of him?”

  Luke took another swig of his Cornhusker then glanced casually up into the mirror. In the semi-darkness of the booth behind he could make out the man, maybe in his early thirties, clean-cut face and dark hair that fell over his forehead in a curling lock. Despite the weather he was wearing a suit and tie. Expensive looking.

  “Just another numbers man. Which of us do you reckon he wants?” Luke said after watching the man for a few seconds.

  “I ain’t seen him before,” Harry murmured. “He don’t even look like the usual numbers that live in suits and ties. Looks a bit mean.”

  The man proved that he was something more than a casual john because he was perfectly aware of their interest in the mirror. He got up from the booth with an economy of movement and, cool as a button, crossed over in a confident, fluid stride and took the empty stool next to Harry.

  “Looks like it’s your ass he’s after,” Luke said from of the corner of his mouth.

  If he heard Luke above the low buzz of bar talk, the man took no notice. He turned slightly and addressed the friends. “Can I buy you men a drink?”

  The voice was quiet but carried more than a hint of authority. For a moment Luke got stuck on the “men” bit. Shades of the barrack room. Army?

  Harry said, “Sure, why not.”

  “Okay by me,” Luke agreed, nonchalantly.

  * * *

  They sat in silence until the barman placed three fresh ice-cold beers in front of them and left them to attend to a new customer. The stranger picked up his glass, tipped it slightly in their direction and took a long draft. Luke and Harry followed suit.

  “You men looking for business?”

  “Depends on what you want, how you want it, and how much you’re willing to pay for it,” Luke responded quietly, staring into the settling foamy head of his Cornhusker.

  The man’s face hardened and his eyes glinted. “Don’t play the fucking rent boy with me … boy. I’m asking do you want a real job? Something more lucrative and just a bit more dangerous than pumping ass and sucking worn out old men.”

  Luke glanced at Harry and saw that he too recognized the tone of voice from their army days. They locked eyes briefly and what Luke saw there said play him along a bit.

  “Why us?” Harry asked.

  “You’re ex-army, aren’t you.” A statement not a question. Luke deigned to look around at the man.

  “And how in hell are you so sure about that?”

  The man accompanied a resigned sigh with a fractional raising of an eyebrow. “Let’s just say that in my time I’ve seen plenty like you. You’ve kept yourselves well.” He looked appreciatively at their bodies. For the first time Luke detected just a hint of desire in the stranger’s eyes, which quickly faded. “Also I’m looking for men who like the company of other men as tough as themselves, who haven’t let themselves get soft spending too much time with women and who might like to do a little fighting again.”

  “Well, man,” Luke drawled, “we didn’t exactly see too much combat. We spent most of the time guarding the fuckin box at Bagram Air Base.”

  The other gave a tight-lipped smile. “You’re both wearing a small tattoo on the lower arm, which says you served at Marjah in Helmand … quite a long way from Kabul. But you want to live that story, it’s fine by me. It’s no problem. You look like you know how to fight and if you’re willing we can knock you back into shape on the discipline side.” He grinned nastily. “I’m offering five grand a week for a few weeks in the Caribbean and a bonus of ten grand at the end if you do your job well.”

  Luke played cool, took another swig of his beer, but he knew Harry well enough to know that the words excited him as much … tempered by obvious doubt. It must have showed in his expression.

  “There will be … other bonuses along the way.” The man took a sip as he slid his gaze down at the bulge of Luke’s meat. He licked his lips. “Yeah, bonuses for everyone.”

  He tore his eyes from the sight between Luke’s legs, reached into his suit pocket, and produced a calling card, which he handed to Harry. “If you’re interested come to that address at ten tonight and we’ll see just how tough you are and how much discipline you’ve forgotten. If you check out okay, you can join us.”

  He downed the last of his beer and with a last flick of his eyes toward Luke’s coiled package he stood and left the bar without another word or a backward glance.

  The friends sat in silence for a few moments.

  “Wow …” Harry breathed. “A heavy dude.”

  It was Luke’s turn to be distant. “Hmm.” He thought about the proposition a few moments. “What say we check it out tonight? That’s more bread than we’ll earn on the streets. Besides, I thought you were into a little discipline now and then.” He grinned into his beer.

  Harry gave him a quick punch. “Fucker,” he said, but with a smile. “I guess we’re giving the beach a miss?”

  “Caribbean, the man said. Y’know the place? Sea full of islands? Islands have beaches, plenty of them.”

  Harry grinned happily. “Sounds good to me.” He rubbed a hand suggestively over the bulge in his pants. “The earlier little bit of action of yours with that poor gym bunny, plus the hard man’s words have made me damned horny. But I don’t feel like renting out today. So why don’t we go back to that shitty little room of yours and make out for a couple of hours. I could do with a good fuck—tone me up for whatever’s in store later.”

  Luke gave a long-suffering sigh, then reached over and gave the shape of Harry’s cock a gentle squeeze. “Why not.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tested and Hired

  Just before ten that evening Luke and Harry stood outside the address the man had given them. It was on the Lower East Side. Harry had taken a bit of persuading; he’d had second thoughts about what they might be getting into, saying his sixth sense warned him about this one and maybe they should forget it. But when Luke pointed out that the guy seemed to be offering better than average sex as a bonus as well as maybe as much as thirty grand each, Harry gradually warmed to the idea.

  The address on the card was, as Harry remarked, an unusual choice for an interview. They looked up warily at the old warehouse near the waterfront off Clinton Street. They could smell the shit from the nearby East River.

  “Here goes,” Luke said, and hammered his fist on the metal door. After a few seconds it was swiftly opened. The bright light from the interior blinded them both for a few seconds, but when their eyes adjusted they found the stranger from the bar in the doorway. Only this time he was in full combat kit—boots, forage cap, and all. He also carried a swagger stick.

  “Well gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I’m glad to see that I didn’t misjudge you. Come on in.”

  He was bigger and heavier than Luke recalled suited in the bar, taller by at least an inch on his own six feet, and the man filled his combat kit with big muscle. But the eyes he remembered. Cold. Mean. Luke found himself half-attracted to this big animal, half-wary.
Harry gave nothing away.

  The entrance led into a small anteroom and from there into the main warehouse space. The expression of surprise in Harry’s face matched Luke’s. A fully equipped and well-laid out gym filled the interior. And it was occupied. A young man with the body of an Olympic gymnast worked out on the parallel bars. He wore only a jock strap. He was perhaps little more than a year or two their senior. Luke watched spellbound as the guy’s muscles rippled, strained, expanded, then contracted as he went through the exercises fluidly and with perfect control. Sweat streamed down his body and the bright lights reflected in the sheen emphasized the sinuous response of his muscles to the pounding he was giving them.

  Luke exchanged a glance with Harry and knew his friend experienced the same dick-itch at the thought of that heaving body under them, over them, in them, his sweat lubricating their own bodies, sliding, sucking.

  The spell was broken as the guy ceased his exercises, dropped nimbly from the bars, and strode over to them with an almost feline grace. Though inhaling and exhaling deeply he was fully in control of himself and not really out of breath. As he came close, they took in the perfect definition of the pumped-up muscles, and smelled the sweat and his animal sex. His jock strap barely contained the massive hard-on outlined under the stretched fabric of the pouch, stimulated by the workout. He clearly reveled in the abilities of his body.

  Luke wanted very much to be violently fucked by this potent guy who stood in front of him, legs spread wide.

  The sergeant—for that’s how Luke had come to think of him—spoke behind them. “This is Jan.”

  Jan didn’t offer to shake hands, just fixed them both in turn with a gaze that seemed to see right into them.

  “Strip,” he said.

  His order was so abrupt that Luke and Harry hesitated. Then Luke felt the swagger stick land on his back, not too hard but sharply enough. “What the fuck...” he began and wheeled around.

  “He ordered you to strip.”