Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “Fuck you, punheteiro,” Estevao retorted. “What do you think you’re going to do about it, big man?”

  “This,” Cristiano growled, tossing the undershorts aside and grappling with Estevao. The two men fell down on the grass and wrestled naked—quite a sight. They even went at each other with clenched fists, although Sebastien could see that they were careful to pull their punches, and to confine the blows to the less vulnerable parts of each other’s bodies, such as their chests and thighs. They laughed breathlessly and shouted obscene insults at each other as they struggled together.

  As though this impromptu wrestling match was not exciting enough to watch, Sebastien was really astonished when Estevao, who was caught in a leg lock at the moment, suddenly stopped pummeling his opponent and, instead, grabbed Cristiano’s head between both his hands. Estevao’s fingers combed through Cristiano’s still-damp long hair—and then he planted a kiss, full on Cristiano’s lips. Cristiano grunted loudly, as though this maneuver had taken him by surprise—but he kissed back.

  Estevao took one hand away from Cristiano’s head and put it down between their bodies to grope blindly for Cristiano’s cock. He actually made contact, and maintained it for a few seconds, before Cristiano slapped his hand away, none too gently.

  “Not in front of the mestre,” Cristiano protested, in a low voice, as he broke the leg lock, rolled off Estevao, and then stood up.

  But Sebastien had seen and heard the aborted sex play. “Oh, don’t let me stop you,” he said airily.

  Cristiano didn’t seem at all embarrassed. “Estevao is very silly, sometimes,” he said. “That is all.” Estevao, looking a little sheepish, had also gotten to his feet. He had the beginnings of a respectable erection. Cristiano gave him a slap on the cheek—again, a rather forceful one—then ruffled Estevao’s hair affectionately.

  “Put your clothes on, chupador,” Cristiano told his fellow Brazilian. “Senhor Sebastien must not be late for his appointment with senhor Medeiros. They have important business to discuss. Senhor Sebastien doesn’t have time to waste, watching you play around like a silly little boy. And shame on you for using such foul language in front of the mestre.”

  “You talked just as dirty,” Estevao reminded him.

  “You started it.”

  “Gentlemen,” Sebastien intervened, “don’t make me get rough with both of you!”

  Both of the other men grinned at him. “You may get rough with me any time you wish, Sebastien,” Cristiano invited. “It might be interesting to see which of us is the stronger.”

  “You may get rough with me, as well,” Estevao said. There was an eagerness in his voice that suggested, to Sebastien’s ears, that he was not altogether joking. “You may punish me, mestre, any time I disobey or offend you. You may beat me with your riding crop.”

  “Don’t do that, Sebastien,” Cristiano advised as he pulled on his plaid shirt and buttoned it. “It would hardly be a punishment. The little chupador would enjoy it too much. He would deliberately annoy you, to earn a beating.”

  Interestingly enough, Estevao didn’t bother to deny it, but maintained his sunny smile.

  Back at the main house, Sebastien’s afternoon, devoted to business, inevitably seemed anticlimactic.

  He spent several hours sequestered with Joaquin, in the room his uncle had used as both an office and a study.

  It was the only room in the house that betrayed signs of slight clutter—the maids, Estevao explained, had been under strict orders not to tidy up in here, but always to leave senhor Gilberto’s papers untouched. There was a large desk, with filing cabinets and bookshelves and glass-enclosed barrister’s bookcases within easy reach. The shelf space was devoted not only to books, but to stacks and sheaves of loose papers, and envelopes of various sizes, all visibly stuffed with yet more papers. As a result of Tio Gil’s admonition, some of the open shelves and their contents were actually dusty.

  In contrast to the decidedly old-fashioned furniture, the computer on the desk was entirely up-to-date. There was a printer and a fax machine. And this room, interestingly enough, was the only one in the house which Sebastien had yet seen, which was equipped with a television set—a modest-sized flat screen model, but a TV nonetheless, and also only a few years old. Apparently his uncle often kept the television turned on while he worked at his desk, for the remote control was there, next to the computer’s keyboard. The television service out here in the open countryside, Joaquin explained, was provided by satellite dishes.

  The other noteworthy item in the room was a large freestanding safe, which looked old, dating possibly from the first quarter of the twentieth century. It was bolted to the floor, in such a no-nonsense way that it would take a thief equipped with a blowtorch long hours to detach it, and even then the safe looked so heavy that moving it would be no easy task.

  Joaquin began by giving Sebastien access to the computer, then showing him how he could change the password to one of his own choosing. Sebastien thought for a moment, and then, on a whim, typed in CristianoNude. He doubted any would-be hacker would guess that one very easily!

  Joaquin then showed him how he could access a staggering variety of information, not only concerning the fazenda and its accounts, but his uncle’s bank accounts, investments, and other assets—which were, of course, now his. Engrossed in their work, the two men barely noticed when Estevao brought them coffee, which they drank automatically. Fortunately for Sebastien, his uncle had kept many of his personal computer files in English, which simplified matters somewhat.

  “All right,” Sebastien finally said. “I think I’ve got the general hang of it. I’ll have to play around with it on my own, of course, to get used to it.”

  “If you ever have any questions, all you have to do is call me on your cell phone. And—” Joaquin hesitated. “If you decide to stay here for any length of time—”

  “Which I believe I will. This is turning into a very interesting and enjoyable vacation for me, so far. A working vacation, from the looks of all this, from now on, but a nice change in routine for me, nevertheless. But you were saying, Joaquin?”

  “Your uncle and I met regularly, usually two or three times a week, for an hour or so each time, so that I could keep him updated and we could discuss business matters. He usually came to the office building for these meetings.”

  “Then we will do the same. We will set up a schedule.”

  “Thank you, senhor Sebastien. I trust you will find these meetings informative, and productive.”

  Joaquin handed Sebastien a slip of paper.

  “I have written out the combination of the safe,” he explained. “I suggest you memorize it, of course, and then either destroy the paper, or hide it somewhere where only you will have access to it.”

  “Thank you. Who else knows the combination?”

  “Besides you and I…only your uncle’s lawyers, in Belém. And Estevao, of course.”

  Sebastien had to smile. “Of course.”

  “Your uncle trusted Estevao with everything. He treated him like a son. And he trusted him for good reason. The man is incredibly honest. If he found a five-centavos coin lying on the floor, he wouldn’t dream of just putting it in his pocket. He would try to find the owner and return it to him.”

  “What’s in the safe?”

  “I really have no idea. Your uncle rarely opened it, in my presence. And I know the combination only as a backup, in case of some emergency. Once, when he and I were sitting here, talking, he asked Estevao to get some papers out of the safe for him. That is how I know Estevao knows the combination. I do know senhor Gilberto kept some cash and other valuables in it. It has not been opened since his death.”

  “Let me try the combination right now.” Sebastien consulted the slip of paper, then squatted down in front of the safe and worked its dial. He was successful—the heavy hinged door opened with a loud and distinctive click. He opened it wide. The interior of the safe was filled, mostly with papers, enclosed in folders
and in envelopes, and neatly stacked. There were also stacks of cardboard boxes. All of the paper and cardboard that was visible had a certain look of age about it. None of these things seemed to have been disturbed in some time. The upper part of the safe had two shelves, and Sebastien wasn’t particularly surprised, especially after what Joaquin had just told him, to see bundles of paper currency occupying some of this space. There were reals, US dollars, Argentine and Chilean pesos, and euros. Sebastien also saw rolls of coins, in paper wrappers. There were more stacks of envelopes on the shelves.

  Sebastien was baffled by what looked like a stack of candy bars, each wrapped loosely in paper, on the top shelf. He pulled the top one out, discovering as he did so that it was heavy, and opened the wrapper. The flat rectangular object was not a candy bar, but a gold bar, with stamped marks attesting to its origin, weight, and authenticity.

  “Quite a little treasure trove,” he remarked.

  “For emergencies, no doubt,” Joaquin suggested.

  “I suppose this stuff is as safe here as it would be in a bank.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “I wonder what all these old papers are?”

  “I honestly do not know. They are your uncle’s personal papers and records, in all probability. Some of them may be old business records. There is a safe in the office building, as well. Most of the more current documents related to business are kept there.”

  “I guess I’ll have to sort through all this, and see exactly what’s in here.”

  “I will be happy to assist you, and help you by drawing up an inventory. No doubt many of these papers—not only in the safe, but there on the shelves—are obsolete and could be destroyed.”

  “It’s the kind of chore I think I’ll put off for a day or two.” Sebastien replaced the gold bar and closed the safe. Its door locked with that same metallic click. “And even then, I’ll probably start by going through the desk…and these filing cabinets.”

  “Do not hesitate to call upon me if I can be of any assistance.”

  “Believe me, I won’t hesitate at all. All this is a little overwhelming. I’ll tackle it a little at a time.”

  Estevao appeared in the doorway. “Ignacia has delayed your dinner, senhor Sebastien, knowing that you were busy with senhor Medeiros. She would like to know if you would like it served now, and whether senhor Medeiros will be joining you?”

  “Good God, it’s after sundown,” Sebastien realized, glancing at the windows. “It’s already getting dark outside. Dinner, Estevao, by all means. And you absolutely must join me, Joaquin, after putting in all this time and effort on my behalf.”

  “With pleasure, senhor Sebastien.”

  “We can talk some more during dinner. But I promise it won’t be all business talk. And I’ll have Estevao raid the wine cellar.”

  Sebastien ended up having a most enjoyable evening, in Joaquin’s company. When he accompanied the fazenda’s manager to the front door and bade him good night, Sebastien realized that, for once, his usually reliable gaydar had failed him. He had no idea whether Joaquin was gay or straight. He was a bachelor, but it wasn’t uncommon for a professional man in Brazil to save his money and wait until comparatively late in life to marry and start a family. Sebastien decided it didn’t matter, either way. He liked the man.

  As for Cristiano Lapuente—he shared Joaquin’s house with him, but from their conservation at dinner, Sebastien had learned that Cristiano had his own suite of rooms, amounting to his own apartment. It was, Joaquin had casually remarked, a convenient arrangement. He and Cristiano kept each other company, but without—as Joaquin put it—getting in each other’s way.

  Sebastien was tired—the kind of fatigue that resulted from productive activity, and that felt almost enjoyable, as a result. He went to the master bedroom and tried out the buzzer on the nightstand. Estevao entered the room almost at once, through the connecting door which led to his own room.

  “You rang, senhor?”

  Sebastien couldn’t help snickering. “I’m sorry, Estevao. I never thought I’d ever hear anybody actually say that, outside of a movie. I think I’ll go to bed early tonight. I’m rather sleepy.”

  “Shall I run you a bath? A warm bath, to relax you and help you to fall asleep?”

  “Yes, please. That sounds like an excellent idea. But first…tell me something, Estevao. Man to man, as we say in English.”

  “Anything, senhor.”

  “You and Cristiano have been keeping a secret from me, haven’t you?”

  Estevao’s expression was suddenly guarded. “What makes you think that, senhor?”

  “I’m not blind. I could see, today, that you and Cristiano have been together.”

  “Of course Cristiano and I have often spent time together. Ever since we were both small boys. We grew up together here on the fazenda.”

  “That’s not what I meant…and you know it is not.”

  “I do not understand what you mean, senhor.”

  “Don’t start acting dumb now, Estevao. It doesn’t become you. You and Cristiano have fooled around with each other. Had sex with each other,” Sebastien specified.

  “I may have sometimes…taken advantage of the fact…that he is easily aroused, and has his needs, like other men.”

  “Why, you devious little! Well, never mind. I can hardly blame you. So tell me, what is he like?”

  Estevao bared his teeth in what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. “He is magnificent, senhor. Very big. Very virile. If you like a man who is bem dotado,” Estevao added, using the Portuguese slang expression for well hung, “then Cristiano is your man. And he is very passionate.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Sebastien muttered, already seething in his own juices at the thought of just how passionate the allegedly well hung Cristiano might be.

  “He may think he prefers women, but he enjoys sex too much to limit his options. And why should he, when all of the men here are his friends…and many of them would be only too willing to accommodate him?”

  “Damn it,” Sebastien groaned. His imagination was already working overtime.

  “Perhaps you are not altogether immune to the charms of the beautiful Cristiano, yourself.”

  “Perhaps my valet is asking to have his butt smacked with a riding crop, as was suggested this afternoon at the reservoir.”

  “That is for you to decide, senhor. Did you enjoy your outing today?”

  “Very much.”

  “I am glad. I will run your bath, now.”

  Later, after he had dismissed Estevao and was lying in bed, Sebastien felt pleasantly fatigued, but not sleepy.

  It was a hot night, and the bedroom was filled with a sweet, exotic odor which at first he did not recognize. Then he realized that he had indeed smelled it before, but he associated it with female perfumes, captured in little glass vials and spray bottles, or in containers of dusting powder—it was jasmine. But here it had not been extracted and refined. It came from the living flowers, not gathered and crushed, but still blooming profusely in their pristine shining whiteness. When Sebastien got out of bed and wandered over to one of the open windows to investigate, he saw that the plants were growing in large terracotta pots set on the terrace outside the windows, the masses of flowers resembling bright stars in the night air. At this closer proximity, the scent was even stronger. He stood there, nude, and breathed it in.

  His thoughts wandered. He had taken for granted that he would, of necessity, be celibate during his stay here on the island—celibate, that is, with the exception of the occasional nocturnal tryst with his reliable right hand. The culture here on the fazenda seemed predominantly masculine, as Sebastien had anticipated—but it was a considerably more easy-going masculinity than he had expected to find. There was some fairly intense male bonding going on among some of the men, and Sebastien could already tell that, in several instances, the bonding had crossed the line into real emotional and physical intimacy.

  He found himself thinking
about Cristiano Lapuente. Estevao had guessed only too correctly. Sebastien was anything but indifferent to the appeal of “the beautiful Cristiano,” as Estevao had called him. Cristiano, to put it bluntly, was a hunk. Sebastien had little direct experience with the kind of men who identified themselves as bisexual. Everything he had observed so far told him that Cristiano liked both women and men. Maybe he was one of those rare guys who could respond equally to either sex.

  Chupador, Sebastien thought, remembering the banter between his two companions at the reservoir. That means ‘cocksucker’…I’d like to be Cristiano’s chupador. I’d like to suck his cock. Oh, get your mind off sex, he lectured himself sternly, stepping away from the window. It’s late. Go back to bed and get some sleep.

  As he made the cautious ascent back into the high bed, Sebastien happened to glance at the objects on the nightstand. During the gradual process of completing his unpacking and arranging his things to his satisfaction, he’d happened to toss the little hand-crafted necklace he’d bought in the marketplace back in Belém onto the nightstand. Now, seeing it, he remembered that it was supposed to be a love charm. If he wore it at night, or hung it over his bed, he would supposedly dream about his true love.

  In his mellow state of mind tonight, the idea amused him. He took the necklace and carefully draped it around the neck of the carved griffin on the headboard of the bed, so that the variously colored beads—including the white ones shaped like skulls—were suspended high above the pillows.

  “Perfect,” Sebastien declared, out loud, as he settled into bed.

  He slept soundly. If he dreamt, he could not recall the details of his dreams in the morning when Estevao woke him up. Sebastien’s true love, he concluded, had yet to make his appearance—either in his dreams, or in reality.

  Chapter Eleven:

  Home Improvements

  Sebastien was enjoying his breakfast one morning when he suddenly realized that he not only had no idea what day of the week it was—he wasn’t sure how long he had been on the fazenda.