“Dad was the only member of the family Tio Gil was ever really close to,” he reminded his mother, cautiously.
Sebastien’s father had been Gilberto’s kid brother. But he had died in a car accident when Sebastien was still an adolescent, and Tio Gil, despite having taken a certain protective interest in his nephew, had never made a secret of the fact that he had little use for his surviving siblings, or for his in-laws.
“It’s just something I feel I ought to do,” Sebastien said, by way of explanation.
His mother dropped the argument, at least for the time being—but not altogether graciously. “Do what you want to do,” she said. “God knows the men in this family always have! Your precious Tio Gil was no exception. Living down there in that hole like some sort of a hermit—he could have cared less whether any of us lived or died.”
And so Sebastien went about making the preparations for his trip. Tomorrow morning, the family would assemble in their lawyers’ office, in downtown Manhattan, for the reading of the will. A few days later, Sebastien was scheduled to fly to Mobile, Alabama, to board his freighter for the voyage to Brazil.
While he ate his dinner, he reviewed his checklist of things to do. But everything was already checked off. Even most of his packing was already done. For an experienced world traveler such as Sebastien, this task presented no novelties or difficulties.
He decided, rather impulsively, that he deserved a treat this evening. Something in the way of diversion and recreation. And so he did what he did an average of two or three times each month—he called one of the city of Manhattan’s more upscale escort services.
Sebastien was pleased when a guy named Ivan—at least, that was the name he used at the service—answered the phone. Ivan was often on duty at this time of the evening. He had the faintest lingering trace of an Eastern European accent, and a most soothing, seductive phone voice. Sebastien had no idea of what Ivan might look like in person—and Sebastien didn’t care to know, because it might destroy the illusion—but the guy could make the most innocuous-seeming comments vibrate with homoerotic undertones.
“Hello, Ivan. It’s Sebastien Leon,” Sebastien said, unnecessarily, because he knew perfectly well that the high-tech service had caller ID, and that its computer system had already retrieved all the information it had on file about him. Including, in all probability, his credit rating!
“Good evening, Mr. Leon. How nice to hear from you again. We must be doing something right.”
“You’re doing something not too shabbily, so far,” Sebastien joked.
“What can I do for you this evening? Are you interested in trying something different, or would you like the usual?”
Sebastien had hired several different escorts, but for the past year his favorite had been a guy named Neil, who was—not so coincidentally—one of the service’s most popular employees.
“The usual, if Neil is available. I know it’s short notice.”
“Technically, it’s his night off, but he always says he’s willing to make an exception for you, Mr. Leon. If you’d like to hold on, I’ll give him a ring and see if he’s available.”
“Thank you, Ivan. Please do.”
This was flattering. The travel agency was not the only business that rated its customers and gave some of them preferential treatment. Of course, Sebastien had no way of knowing how many of Neil’s other regular customers he was willing to adjust his schedule to accommodate. Sebastien had to admit, though, that Ivan, like Neil, always went out of his way to provide customer satisfaction. If Neil wasn’t available this evening, Ivan was sure to come up with a satisfactory alternative.
Still, Neil was Sebastien’s favorite, for good reason. Neil was, undeniably, the most beautiful man in the agency’s stable—he was an Alain Delon look-alike, in fact. His facial features had a chiseled, symmetrical delicacy that was almost pretty. His long, thin, brown eyebrows arched high above his eyes then drooped down almost to the bridge of his small, aquiline nose. He possessed male-model cheekbones. What saved Neil from mere pretty-boy status were two things. First, his habitually alert, fully engaged facial expression. And, secondly, the fact that his refined features were set on top of a large, powerful frame that had been rigorously gym-developed. The result of all this obsessive physical conditioning was a body more bulky and muscular than smooth and pliant. His pecs bulged, and the veins in his arms pushed out almost grotesquely against his artificially darkly tanned flesh, which was the product of a tanning bed. With all this going for him, in addition to an ingratiating personality and a high sex drive, Neil was a great favorite of the agency’s customers, who, like Sebastien, often asked for him by name.
Sebastien was on hold for little more than a minute. Then Ivan came back on the line.
“Mr. Leon? Neil says he’s available, if you can give him an hour and a half to get there.”
“Oh, that will work out just fine.”
Neil was always punctual. If he said he could be at Sebastien’s apartment building in an hour and half, he would be there in ninety minutes—or less.
“Would you like your usual, Mr. Leon?”
“Yes, please.”
At this stage in the transaction, the “usual” meant a three-hour session with Neil, which would be billed to one of Sebastien’s credit cards. Ivan already had that information on file. Sebastien never invited Neil, or, for that matter, any of the service’s other call boys, over for less than three hours. He didn’t like to be rushed.
Apologetically, Ivan put him on hold again for a moment. Then, “Neil says he’s going to jump in the shower and change clothes, and then he’ll be on his way.”
“Thank you, Ivan.”
“It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Leon.”
Eighty minutes later, the security guard who was manning the front desk, downstairs in Sebastien’s building, called to inform him that his guest had arrived.
“Oh, send him right up, please.” Sebastien had also taken advantage of the delay to scrub and soak himself under a long, hot shower, and, changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, to open a bottle of wine. He’d turned down his bed and made sure that condoms, a tube of his favored lube, and a freshly laundered trick towel were all ready to hand, beside the bed.
He opened the front door of his apartment just as the elevator doors at the end of the hallway opened, and a smiling Neil stepped out.
“Hi, Sebastien,” the male escort greeted him brightly.
“Hello, Neil. Aren’t you punctual.”
“I try to be.” Neil pulled off his wet shoes and left them in the hallway.
“Come on inside, take your coat off, and get warm. Is it still cold outside?”
“Freezing,” Neil admitted.
“I’ve got the fire lit.”
“Oh, good. I can’t wait to get in front of it.”
* * * *
The two men were comfortable with each other, in the way that frequent, casual fuck buddies had. The fact that money had already changed hands, electronically speaking, didn’t diminish the genuine pleasure Neil always took in Sebastien’s company. He entered the apartment and shed his bulky down-filled parka. Sebastien took it from him to hang up, and as he did so, Neil pretended not to notice when Sebastien tucked a white business envelope into one of the pockets. This was part of their usual routine.
“How about a drink?” Sebastien asked.
“Perfect.” Neil was a whore, but he was a smart whore. Even though the agency had its customers’ names and addresses—and credit card numbers—on file, and researched them, he usually didn’t accept any offers of food or drink from a client, the first time. Even the most harmless-looking or -acting guy might turn out to be a freak, who’d try to slip a hustler a date-rape drug, or worse. But Neil knew he was safe with Sebastien. He let his guard down with Sebastien, in a way he never did with most other johns.
Still, Neil couldn’t quite figure Sebastien out. He knew, as a result of his own Internet searches, an
d asking around, that Sebastien’s family had money—big money. Sebastien was an archetypal trust-fund baby, whose unearned income made it unnecessary for him to work for a living. Unlike some of the other members of his family, he stayed out of the public eye, and there were no scandals or gossip attached to his name.
The building housing Sebastien’s condominium was a very upscale address. Neil had also found out that all of the units there sold for seven figures, minimum. The large apartment was comfortable, without being in the least ostentatious. The angular modern furniture, with its prevalence of chrome, glass, and blond woods, all matched, and in fact looked as though it had all been ordered at once from the same catalogue or showroom. There were few individual touches about the place, little to reveal anything about the personality of the occupant. A cleaning service came in twice a week and kept the interior immaculate, but Sebastien cooked his own meals and did his own laundry—bringing a typical bachelor’s casual negligence to both of these activities.
In this strangely impersonal environment, Sebastien lived almost like a recluse. Neil knew, from their many past conversations, that Sebastien had few close friends, and certainly no lover. He rarely went out to the bars or clubs. He occasionally traveled—usually to unpopular, out-of-the way places, well off the beaten tourist track, where he tended to linger for weeks at a time, immersing himself in the local culture. Reading between the lines and picking up on the hints that Sebastien occasionally, inadvertently, dropped, Neil suspected that he avoided contact with his family as much as possible. There must be some dysfunction or bad blood there.
Neil made himself comfortable, padding about in his stocking feet and sitting down in one of the armchairs in front of the living room fireplace.
“Help yourself to the wine,” Sebastien said. The open bottle of a modestly priced zinfandel was on the coffee table, next to two glasses. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Why don’t I order Chinese? From that same place we had deliver before?”
“Sure.”
“I’m going to have the jumbo shrimp with garlic sauce, with a couple of pork egg rolls, and fried rice, of course.”
“Sounds good. I’ll have the same.”
Sebastien made the phone call then rejoined his guest, pouring himself a glass of wine and seating himself in the other armchair in front of the fire. “This is nice,” he declared, relaxing in his chair, pushing his bare feet toward the hearth. He smiled at Neil. “Now tell me all your news.”
As Neil sipped his wine and made small talk, Sebastien studied him—making no secret of the fact, which was certainly a john’s prerogative. Unlike many customers, Sebastien didn’t start pawing Neil the instant they were alone together. He limited himself, at first, to mere visual admiration.
Neil knew from past experience that he didn’t need to dress up for Sebastien, and so, after showering, he’d thrown on the first clean clothes he found near to hand—jeans and a cable-knit sweater.
Sebastien, as usual, encouraged Neil to talk. Neil was too discreet to gossip about his other customers, except in the most general terms, but Sebastien always liked to hear about what went on down at Neil’s day job, at an architectural firm.
Neil shared with Sebastien a few innocuous anecdotes about his boss and his co-workers.
“But what about you?” Neil asked. “What have you been up to?”
He didn’t expect anything in the way of startling revelations. The last time they’d had such a discussion, Sebastien had talked about the books he had currently checked out of the public library, which shows about history and travel he had recently seen on cable TV, and which porno actor he had a crush on at the moment, as a result of having acquired his latest performance on DVD—and jerked off while watching it, as Sebastien had admitted, without embarrassment.
“You remember my uncle I told you about, the one who died recently down in Brazil.”
“Oh, yes.” Sebastien had actually shown Neil the obituary, complete with a photograph, printed in the New York Times. Sebastien was mentioned among the survivors, at the end. This was the first time Sebastien had given Neil any real glimpse into his personal life.
Sebastien now told Neil about his imminent travel plans. “Which means I’ll want to book you for the night before I leave, so you can give me a proper send-off. I’ll take you out to dinner, first. Some place nice.”
“Let me write down the date, so I can mark it on my calendar. I won’t make any other commitments for that evening.”
“I wish I could take you along to Brazil,” Sebastien said, wistfully. “I could, you know. I’d pay all your expenses. You might enjoy it. And it would be so nice to have some company on the trip.”
“I’d like to,” Neil said, which, in this case, was for once not a diplomatic evasion. He occasionally went on “over-nighters” and weekend trips with some of his regulars, and Sebastien was one of the few men he’d have been willing to accompany on a more extensive excursion—for the right price, of course. “If only it wasn’t for my day job—”
“I understand.”
They were interrupted by the buzz of the house phone. It was the security guard, informing Sebastien that the delivery guy had arrived.
While Sebastien went to pay for the food and set it up on the coffee table, Neil wondered—not for the first time—whether he ought to try making a play for Sebastien, in the hope of developing something more permanent than their commercial trysts. Neil wouldn’t be the first male escort who turned a steady customer into a lover. Sebastien was attractive, and easy to get along with. He made no kinky demands in bed. He was neither arrogant and superior, like some johns, nor desperately needy, like some others. And he was rich—rich enough to give a boyfriend anything he could want, within reason.
But one thing Sebastien and Neil had in common was a certain streak of stubborn self-reliance. Neil didn’t really want to be kept, which was why he had a day job in the first place, and why he thought of the prostitution as only a temporary sideline, to supplement his income. Some instinct told him that Sebastien Leon, for all the decency with which he treated Neil, wasn’t the type who’d let himself fall in love with a whore.
They ate and drank, with unashamed greed. Sebastien was one of those annoying people who had actually learned how to manipulate chop sticks, with a nonchalant deftness. Neil had to use one of the plastic forks that had also come with the food.
“Oh, this is good,” Sebastien mumbled, around a mouthful of shrimp. “Should I open another bottle of wine? You don’t have another engagement this evening, do you, Neil? That you need to stay reasonably sober for, I mean?”
“No. After this, I’m going right home to bed. I can afford to get a little buzz on. And this is really good wine.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I’m enjoying myself, too,” Sebastien admitted. “I always do, when I’m with you.” This time, when Sebastien went to the kitchen to get the new bottle of wine, he made an unnecessary detour around Neil’s armchair and gave Neil’s shoulder and upper arm a little caress. Neil smiled at him and gave Sebastien’s hand a quick pat—a promissory note, in effect, a preview of further intimacies soon to come.
They were halfway through the second bottle of wine when their conversation began to flag a little.
“More wine?” Sebastien offered after he’d drained his own glass.
“No, thanks. I’m feeling nice and mellow. And kind of horny. How about you?” Neil asked.
“I was already horny when I picked up the phone and called Ivan tonight,” Sebastien admitted, with a laugh. “I’m surprised I’ve held out this long, without attacking you.”
Echoing Sebastien’s laugh, Neil leaned back in his armchair and spread his legs. “Feel free to attack away,” he invited. “I’m all yours.”
Sebastien rose, set his glass down on the coffee table, and went over to Neil, who handed him his own glass after taking a final sip. Sebastien deposited that glass, too, on the table, th
en put his hands on Neil’s shoulders, squeezing just hard enough to feel the firm muscle lurking beneath the deceptively soft folds of that bulky sweater.
Neil closed his eyes and curled the ends of his lips up into a knowing smile. He could feel Sebastien’s utterly masculine physical presence moving closer to him as the other man leaned down to kiss him—a soft, lingering kiss, tender but hardly devoid of passion, especially when Neil instinctively took the initiative, increasing the pressure of their mouths against each other and pushing his tongue inside Sebastien’s mouth. Neil’s heart was beating faster now, almost threatening to pound against his ribcage while his face flushed red with rising excitement. Neil pushed his legs farther apart, shifting his position to give more room to his expanding nine-inch cock. His money-maker, as he unashamedly thought of it. Guys usually went a little crazy when they got their first sight of it, erect, and subsequently got their hands and their mouths around its turgid bulk. When he felt Sebastien’s fingers press gently against his crotch, he opened his eyes and found himself looking directly into his john’s eyes. They had just enough of an alcohol-glazed sheen in them to suggest that this was going to be a quite uninhibited sex session.
“Let’s go to bed,” Sebastien said, decisively. “I like you so much…and I want you, so badly.”
Neil couldn’t think of a witty retort now, nor did he want to. Joining Sebastien on his bed, doing whatever the other guy wanted him to do, was what he was there for, after all. His throat tightened and burned while he felt his hands actually trembling a little and growing moist with sweat. This was ridiculous, he told himself. He was a pro. He’d been with Sebastien before, often, and he knew what to expect. There was nothing to get genuinely excited about, let alone nervous about. For a second his lips twitched, although he immediately regained control of himself and treated Sebastien to his most engaging and seductive smile. After all, whenever Neil could really get into it with a customer, so much the better. Such occasions could be play, as well as work.
Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove) Page 3
