Sebastien’s mouth and throat felt dry. He tightened the grip of his aching thighs and calves around Luis’s legs and pressed his hands against his partner’s slick back, raising himself up slightly and staring down at the point where his cock plunged in and out of the tight-stretched asshole tucked away deep between the man’s buns. He bit his lip and concentrated on that hot, tight asshole which was giving his prick such a thorough workout!
And then, finally, he came, his cum gushing out of him in a thick, wet torrent, filling the rubber inside Luis’s spasming asshole. Luis writhed even more wildly under him, screaming his head off with lustful excitement as he, too, shot his load and his muscular ass ground up against the root of the prickshaft that was still jammed all the way into him—that was still pumping ferociously in and out of his manhole—that was still evacuating its jism into the snug receptacle of the condom. Moaning, Sebastien fell on top of Luis and crushed his sweaty body against his own quaking flesh in an orgasmic embrace that had something like desperation in it. Then the two horny men lay still, their mad passion for each other quenched, at least for the moment, at long last. The hotel room was silent except for the heavy, exhausted-sounding breathing of the two men, and it was dark except for the soft glow of the dim lamp on the far side of the room that lit up their naked, sweat-soaked flesh on the bed.
Sebastien let Luis sleep with him, taking full advantage of the other man’s presence in the bed when they woke up in the morning. He fucked the young hustler’s incredibly responsive ass again, trying out a few different positions—and, of course, making good use of that exotically flavored lubricant to increase the intensity of their lovemaking. He was really quite sorry when they finally had to say good-bye and go their separate ways, after Sebastien had treated Luis to breakfast in the hotel’s dining room, and paid him the five hundred reals he’d promised him. For Luis, the night had been a profitable one. For Sebastien, it had been a pleasurable one.
And yet…as satiated as he was, some instinct deep inside him told him that there had to be more to gay life, and even to gay lust, than these transitory encounters. The thought invested him with a certain post-coital melancholy. Whatever this “something more” might be for him, he doubted he was likely to find it here in Brazil.
Chapter Six:
The Cattle Barons Confer
With his business in Belém concluded, Sebastien was ready to move on—to Marajó. He consulted a detailed map of Pará, which he’d bought in a bookstore near the hotel.
The Ilha do Marajó, as it was known in Brazil, was essentially a huge delta at the mouth of the Amazon. Reference books were fond of stating that its land area was equivalent to that of Switzerland, or Denmark. More to the point was the fact that it was the largest island surrounded entirely by fresh water in the world. The flow of the Amazon into the Atlantic was so forceful that the fresh water pushed the salt water out to sea for a distance of approximately two hundred kilometers.
Marajó might be the same size as Switzerland, but any resemblance between the two places ended there. The island had no snow-capped mountains ranges, with deep valleys tucked away between them, to entice tourists. Marajó was flat, barely above sea level, and when the rainy season arrived, vast areas of the land were subject to flooding. Aside from a few small coastal cities, and many smaller inland towns, the only markings on Sebastien’s map were the names of the rivers and lakes scattered across the island.
This was one of the largest cattle-raising areas in the world, rivaled by its neighbors, the Pantanal in the south of Brazil, and the great grasslands of Argentina. The population of Marajó consisted mostly of boiadeiros, the herders who cared for the cattle on the large fazendas of the wealthy Brazilian and foreign landowners. They led lives that had in essence changed little during the past century, although modernization had made its inevitable inroads. The island even had a tourist industry, although it was a modest one compared to what existed in other parts of Brazil.
This island, then, had been Gilberto Leon’s home, and was now his nephew’s destination.
Ever since he’d left New York, Sebastien had remained in contact with Joaquin Medeiros, first by cablegram, then by e-mail, with Sebastien using the laptop computer he always took with him when he traveled. Medeiros was as polite and formal in his electronic correspondence as he had been in that first, handwritten note.
Everything is in complete readiness here at Saõ Martinho for you to take possession at any time you wish, he said in his latest e-mail, which Sebastien received in Belém. We await your arrival with great eagerness, and are ready to receive you at any time of the day or night.
Provided, of course, the employees at the fazenda received some advance notion. It was assumed that Sebastien would avail himself of one of the air taxi services that regularly flew back and forth over the island. Since his property had a small landing strip, he could pay a pilot a little extra to make a detour from his normal route and land directly there.
And then, naturally, Sebastien encountered a snag. Back home, when he had first started planning this trip, the air traffic controllers had threatened to go on strike. In the event, they had negotiated a settlement, without ever striking. But now, no sooner had Sebastien arrived in Brazil than the pilots of the air taxis really did go on strike, refusing to take to the air.
“Labor relations still seem to be on the primitive side, in this country,” Sebastien commented to himself when he heard the news.
When he went to the hotel’s front desk to discuss alternative travel arrangements, he met with every possible discouragement. It was the rainy season. With the air taxis grounded, there was practically no other way of getting to the island. Of course, there were boats, which made their runs down the river to some of the northern “cities,” but Sebastien was assured that the accommodations would be beyond his endurance.
“They are not designed for tourists, senhor Leon,” the concierge told him. “They are not even suitable for commercial travelers. Only the locals, the inhabitants of Marajó, are accustomed to these boats.”
“Well, since I intend to become an inhabitant of Marajó, at least temporarily, I may as well get accustomed to them, too,” Sebastien said. “What’s good enough for my neighbors will be good enough for me.”
“If you insist, senhor—there are several cattle boats, docked here in Belém. You might be able to secure passage on one of them.”
One of these boats was owned by a prominent landowner, who now ran one of the larger fazendas.
Sebastien learned that the head of this Brazilian family was in fact an Italian, who had married the daughter of the original owner. Since that man had died leaving no sons behind, his son-in-law now in his own right ran the cattle ranch. Sometimes he was in Pará on business, but more often he was on the island, supervising the men who worked for him and his wife. The couple’s main home was in the city of Manaós, a considerable distance up the river. Sebastien would be fortunate to find him, but the concierge would make inquiries.
Here, at least, luck was with him. It would be a mistake to underestimate the extent or the resourcefulness of the local gossip network. The very next afternoon, Sebastien found an envelope waiting for him at the hotel’s front desk. He opened the small square of heavy cream-colored stationary, and pulled out a business card, printed on matching card stock. The card was that of one Paolo Brescanti. Turning it over, Sebastien saw that the same message had been written on the back in both English and Portuguese.
I would be delighted to make the acquaintance of senhor Sebastien Leon, should he wish to come to the Café do Sol today at two o’clock in the afternoon.
“Where is this Café do Sol?” Sebastien asked the concierge.
“It is a few blocks down the street, that way, on the right.”
After lunch, Sebastien went to the café, where he asked one of the waiters if a senhor Brescanti had left his name, and was waiting for him. The waiter indicated a table occupied by a tall, slim, young blond man, per
haps not much older than thirty, who was dressed impeccably in a three-piece tan linen summer suit.
Sebastien’s first impression was that this extraordinarily attractive man couldn’t possibly be a cattle rancher. He looked too perfect, too urban, to be involved—even peripherally—in that kind of work. His long, narrow nose and his delicate high cheekbones were the finely chiseled features of a sophisticate, whom it was hard to picture taking part in the rough-and-tumble daily routine of rural Brazilian life. Feeling a bit intimidated, Sebastien approached the man’s table. He got over much of his shyness when the man glanced up and smiled at him, in a most disarming way. This gentleman wasn’t just a beauty—he was a charmer.
“Good afternoon. I am Sebastien Leon.”
“My name is Paolo Brescanti,” the young blond said, rising and extending a hand. His English had no more than the faintest hint of an Italian accent.
“I’m very glad to meet you.”
“Please sit down. How delightful to make your acquaintance. I knew your uncle. Not well, but I met him on several occasions. We have a Cattleman’s Association here, you know, and there are annual conventions, as well as other activities. Senhor Gilberto was always most cordial. There is a definite family resemblance.” As he spoke, Paolo, with that openness that was typical of Mediterranean cultures, placed his hand on Sebastien’s shoulder, establishing an immediate, casual intimacy between the two of them.
Sebastien felt his body respond to that light touch. He turned in his seat and smiled at his new acquaintance. The subtle pressure on his shoulder was making his heart pound faster and his blood race a little more quickly through his veins. Sebastien could even feel an odd tingle spreading through his skin, making him hyper-aware of his own flesh and its responses. He was surprised that this man could arouse such a powerful reaction in him.
They were maintaining a steady eye contact, and Sebastien now had a closer view of the Italian. Paolo’s full head of blond hair waved down over his narrow forehead, nearly touching the ends of his eyebrows as it swept up and over his ears. His gray eyes were flecked with golden highlights and were set in angular sockets, giving him the appearance of a jaguar on the prowl. The long, narrow nose Sebastien had taken note of earlier was the strongest part of Paolo’s face, arching gracefully up, then flaring out and folding down delicately to his cheeks. His full mouth curved upward sensuously, even when he wasn’t actually smiling. The thick, almost drooping, lips glistened with moisture. Paolo’s face was smooth and lightly tanned, with only a light, barely visible fuzz of beard stubble coating his chin. When the strong equatorial sunlight fell on him from behind, it lit him up, giving him the appearance of being surrounded by a halo—not unlike the images of the saints that one could see everywhere in the city, not just in the churches, but displayed in restaurants and shops. Sebastien found it difficult to find something to say, as Paolo continued to return his gaze with unapologetic curiosity.
“You are looking at me as though I’m not exactly what you expected me to be,” Paolo finally said, easily.
“That’s true. I have to admit, based on what the concierge at the Grande told me about you, that I was expecting someone a little older and more—” Sebastien searched for the right word to express what he was thinking. “More experienced-looking,” he specified.
“More well-worn, you mean?” Paolo said with a laugh, arching his eyebrows and smiling just a tad cynically, as he nodded. That smile completely transformed the man’s facial expression, from one of bland innocence to one of irony and shrewd intelligence. “Well, don’t let my appearance fool you. I’m not as helpless as you might think. As for this—” He glanced down at his own immaculate attire. “When I come to the city on business, I try to dress the part. The locals expect it. They’re very quick to judge a man by his appearance here, and to treat him accordingly. One can turn that to one’s advantage, often enough, to make the extra effort worthwhile.”
Paolo turned his gaze back to Sebastien’s face, making no effort to conceal the fact that he was subjecting his new acquaintance to an intense scrutiny.
“You are a very attractive man,” Paolo finally said.
Sebastien was a little surprised by the young married man’s forwardness. He glanced sideways, pretending to consult the menu, but he could see Paolo continuing to stare at him. He felt his face glowing red with embarrassment, which made Paolo smile with amusement.
“Am I embarrassing you, Sebastien? I am sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not used to receiving compliments—that’s all.”
“No? How odd. That you should not be accustomed to that, I mean.”
The waiter took their order, and then the two men talked—casual small talk at first, before they got down to business.
Paolo explained that, like many of the landowners whose property had river frontage, he maintained an old-fashioned cattle boat—not just to transport the livestock, but because it was useful for carrying the kinds of supplies that could not be shipped in small airplanes. His wife and children were at home, in Manaós. They only occasionally accompanied him on his visits to the old family fazenda, on Marajó—his wife preferred city life. The island was beautiful, but not all parts of it enjoyed modern conveniences. One had to be prepared to “rough it,” to some extent, in order to live there.
In three days’ time, Paolo, having concluded his current business here in Belém, would be going to the island on the cattle boat, and if Sebastien would be willing to put up with the inevitable discomforts of such accommodations, he would be glad to take him along. The cattle boat would make several stops on Marajó—first, to load cattle to transport farther along the coast, to drop off some freight items which people had ordered, and finally to pick up more cattle, for the return trip upstream. Of course there was no question of Sebastien paying even a token fare. Paolo would not think of such a thing. The ride was a courtesy, extended as a matter of course to his new neighbor, a fellow landowner. Sebastien might give the captain of the boat a small sum of money, to be distributed among him and the crew—that would be appreciated. If Sebastien remained on Marajó for any length of time, and Paolo had not yet returned to Manaós, then Sebastien must come and stay as his guest, at Paolo’s own fazenda, for as long as he wished. Or, before Sebastien left Brazil, he must come to Manaós and stay with Paolo and his family there. It was a beautiful city, and there were many things to see.
“There is a sort of freemasonry, you see, among us ranchers,” Paolo explained, with a smile. “There is no need for us to have a long acquaintance before we become good friends. We have our work—our obligations as property owners, as cattle men—in common. And you and I, Sebastien, have an additional thing in common—neither of us is a native Brazilian. We are both foreign born.”
“I’m very fortunate to have met someone like you,” Sebastien said. “Someone who has a lot of experience living here, and running a ranch. I’m sure you’d be able to give me a lot of good advice.”
“I’ll do my best.”
They talked further, until Paolo had to excuse himself. He had crammed many business appointments into his schedule, during these few days he was spending in Belém, and he had to leave for one of them now. But he was, he said, free for dinner. They arranged that he would meet Sebastien at the hotel, that evening, and Paolo would take him to an excellent restaurant he knew of.
“What a shame that our first meeting must be such a brief one.” Paolo smiled at Sebastien as he made the remark, in such an open and friendly, and yet intimate, way that Sebastien felt quite flustered.
He was not used to being the object of another man’s undivided attention—unless he was paying for the man’s company, of course.
He wasn’t even sure that Paolo was cruising him. Some residual lack of self-confidence warned Sebastien that no man as beautiful as Paolo Brescanti could really be interested in him, sexually. No, the Italian was just being friendly. Extraordinarily friendly!
Sebastien finally found his tongue.
“Yes, I wish I could stay longer, too. But I’m already looking forward to this evening.”
“As am I.” Paolo didn’t confine himself to shaking Sebastien’s hand as they parted. He kissed Sebastien on the cheek. The fleeting contact of Paolo’s lips made Sebastien’s face tingle.
And so Sebastien made his first friend in Brazil. Overnight, Luis and his fellow hustlers had lost a customer. For the time being, Sebastien’s thoughts and erotic energy were firmly focused on the beautiful, seductive Italian man.
He found himself paying more attention to his outfit and grooming than usual as he prepared for his rendezvous that evening.
I have a date. I actually have a date with a man. And not just any man—an attractive and interesting and exciting one! The novelty of it set his nerves keenly on edge, as though he was experiencing a prolonged adrenaline rush.
Being in Paolo’s company, however, proved to be calming as well as stimulating, paradoxically enough. The blond man had a way of putting Sebastien at his ease, as though the two of them were old friends.
Paolo proudly showed Sebastien his wallet photos of his wife and their children, a boy and a girl.
“And you, Sebastien,” Paolo asked, casually, “have you no lover?”
Sebastien already felt too comfortable in Paolo’s presence to be startled by the question—or by the fact that his dining companion had assumed, correctly, that he was not only gay, but unattached.
“No, none,” Sebastien admitted.
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t aware it was something one can control. Something that I could make happen simply by wishing it, so to speak.”
“I would think a man such as you would have many admirers.”
“You seem determined to flatter me, Paolo. And I’m afraid you may be projecting your own experiences onto me. Someone who looks like you must find it difficult to understand that life isn’t necessarily as easy for us lesser mortals.”
Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove) Page 9
