Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “I mean, how well supplied with beer are we, down in the wine cellar?”

  “Oh. There are crates upon crates, senhor, of many different varieties.”

  “Good. Get one or two of the men to help you bring a couple of crates up, and take them outside. Get some buckets of ice, too, to keep the bottles cold. From what I’ve observed of these soccer games, we’re likely to work up quite a thirst. What the hell—make it three or four crates, for starters. Let’s have ourselves a little post-game party.”

  “We must not send the married men home to their wives, drunk,” Estevao cautioned.

  “That’s the wives’ lookout,” Sebastien said recklessly. “It’s not the married men I’d like to get drunk. But use your judgment. No more than four crates, then.”

  Sebastien went to his bedroom, stripped, and pulled on a pair of his own well-worn gym shorts—a souvenir of his college days, in fact—they sported the university’s logo.

  Soon, he was sweating profusely along with the other half-naked men as they fought for possession of the ball. No one took the game too seriously—the object was to be as active and energetic as possible. A few of the players, however, were particularly skilled at directing the ball with a well-placed barefoot kick, and they vied to demonstrate their individual techniques for Sebastien’s benefit. Then they wanted Sebastien to show them his repertory of norte-americano-style moves.

  Sebastien decided he’d earned a beer, so he retreated to the sidelines to drink it, straight from the bottle, and observed the ongoing action on the field. Estevao moved next to Sebastien and spoke to him in a low voice. “The men are enjoying themselves, mestre.”

  “I hope so. And none of them seems to be getting too intoxicated.”

  “No, there is no harm done. They often have a few drinks, when they have done their work for the day, before they go home…or back to the bunkhouse. And, if the men liked you before, they like you even more now. You are not grandiose, senhor Sebastien. You act as though you are one of us.”

  “I’d like to think that I am, in some sense. That we are all working together as a team, here. Nonetheless, Estevao…I can remember you advising me that, as the mestre, I should try to act that part.”

  Estevao smiled and nodded, and took a swig of his own beer before responding. “True. But even the mestre can dismount from his horse at times—with the assistance of his valet, of course—and come down to earth. To amuse himself.”

  “This has been fun. I’m sorry to see the game break up.” The tired players, laughing breathlessly, were slowing down and spending more time drinking and talking than kicking the ball.

  “You could always enjoy some further recreation, later on this evening.” Estevao waited for Sebastien to say something. Then he took Sebastien’s somewhat bemused, inquiring look as an invitation to be more specific. “For example, mestre…which of these men do you find the most attractive?”

  “It’s hard to pick just one.” Sebastien surveyed the group of half-naked, sweaty soccer players, who had now let the ball rest and were standing around, laughing and drinking. “It’s like being back in Belém, in one of the ice cream shops, deciding which flavor of dulce de leche to try. If pressed to choose…I might almost settle upon Uver.”

  “An excellent choice. I have always liked Uver. And admired him.”

  They both studied Uver for a moment. He was short, very muscular, but ripped, without a hint of excess body fat anywhere on his body. He had medium-length black hair, and skin the color of cherrywood—skin so vibrantly dark that it made his curiously light-brown eyes and dazzlingly white teeth, which he usually had bared in an infectious smile, stand out all the more clearly in contrast.

  “He is very handsome,” Estevao went on. “And most friendly.” Once again, Sebastien caught the subtext in the eloquent way Estevao inflected that seemingly innocent-sounding word, friendly. He could not have told Sebastien more plainly, had he delivered an extended discourse on the subject, that Uver was available, that Estevao knew from personal experience that he was good in bed, and that he would be discreet.

  “I’m sure he’s very nice,” Sebastien said—rather inanely. He still wasn’t quite used to the idea that Estevao was ready, willing, and able to procure other sex partners for him.

  “I could speak to him, senhor, and tell him that you would enjoy having someone to talk to this evening.”

  “Yes,” Sebastien heard himself saying. “Just to practice my Portuguese, of course. Although it might be interesting to talk about the fazenda, one on one, with one of the ranch hands. Get his point of view, you know.” He was still looking at Uver, but trying not to be too blatantly obvious about it.

  The post-game party had begun to break up, with several of the men drifting away. Sebastien, too, started to go, and was surprised when some of the men applauded and cheered him, and wanted to shake his hand, or slap him on his bare back, to thank him for the beer. Sebastien felt a bit guilty, but not too guilty. If the men could read his mind, could see what libidinous thoughts were circulating so freely there, their reaction might be quite different. Or—possibly—in some cases, their reaction might be the same, or even warmer. Uver was one of the ones who gave Sebastien a slap on the back. Afterward, when Sebastien was back inside the main house, showering and getting ready to change his clothes, his shoulder blade still seemed to tingle where Uver’s hot palm had touched it.

  He pulled on a pair of light khaki trousers and one of the soft cotton T-shirts he had bought in Belém, then slipped on a pair of comfortable leather boat shoes, without socks. It was odd not to have Estevao hanging about, insisting upon helping him dress. Then Sebastien remembered that he had, for all practical purposes, sent Estevao on an errand. He was probably waiting for an opportunity to speak to Uver, alone, right now.

  Get your mind off sex, Sebastien sternly lectured himself. Even if Uver does show up…well, we wouldn’t necessarily have to do anything that either of us might regret afterward. We could always just talk!

  By way of multi-tasking, he took some reports Joaquin had given him along with him to the dining room. He could glance through them and make notes while he ate.

  Estevao, also freshly showered and shampooed, and looking very spiffy in his own clean clothes, served him at the table.

  “Will you be working after your dinner, senhor?” he inquired.

  “Oh, maybe just for a short while. I would like to go through these reports.”

  “Perhaps you would be more comfortable reading them in your bedroom, rather than in your study,” Estevao suggested, with the faintest hint of a sly innuendo in his voice and manner. “You will be less likely to be disturbed.”

  This made no sense whatsoever, since the odds of being disturbed in the bedroom as opposed to in the study were surely equal—the two rooms, after all, adjoined one another. But Sebastien was willing to play along with the game.

  “Oh yes, Estevao, I think that is an excellent idea.”

  “I will bring you your coffee in your bedroom, then.”

  Yes, please do, Sebastien was tempted to say, and maybe you can find a tasty late-night snack for me to nibble on, to go with the coffee!

  In the master bedroom, Sebastien kicked off his boat shoes and got comfortable in a chair. The lamp on the table next to the chair gave him enough light to read by. To do him justice, Sebastien soon found himself becoming engrossed in the reports. He drank the coffee which Estevao brought him, then, left alone again, he lost track of time. It was a quiet night, hot and dry, and a slight breeze penetrated the room through the open French windows.

  He heard a light knock, which was repeated. The sound momentarily disoriented him, because it seemed to be coming not from the door that opened onto the hallway, but from the opposite side of the room. Then Sebastien realized that someone was standing outside on the terrace, knocking on the jamb of one of the open windows.

  “Come in,” he called.

  He wasn’t surprised to see Uver step into the room.
The cowboy had a freshly scrubbed look about him—his hair was damp and tousled, as though it had been quickly towel dried after a recent shower. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, with rubber flip-flops on his feet. He stood there, smiling at Sebastien, looking quite relaxed.

  “Boa noite, senhor Sebastien.”

  “Boa noite, Uver.”

  “Estevao told me that you would like some company this evening.” There was nothing sexually suggestive about the man’s facial expression or tone of voice. He might be talking about some routine chore Estevao had asked him to do.

  “Yes. I would greatly enjoy your company, in particular, but only if you are free.”

  “I am free. I am not interrupting your work?” Uver asked as he saw Sebastien set aside the stack of reports.

  “Not at all. We will have to find something to amuse ourselves.” Sebastien had trouble keeping his own voice innuendo-free, under the circumstances. He decided it was hardly going to be necessary to censor himself—also given the circumstances. They were speaking in Portuguese, and he was framing his sentences carefully to avoid grammatical slips, anyway.

  Uver stepped out of his flip-flops and walked across the carpet toward Sebastien barefoot. “They are dusty from outdoors,” he explained, referring to the discarded sandals.

  “Yes, I like to be comfortable here inside the house, too, as you see.” Sebastien had stood up. “Shall we go to the game room?”

  “As you wish.” Uver’s demeanor was deferential, but not at all servile, which Sebastien liked.

  Sebastien picked up his cell phone and carried it with him as he led Uver to the game room. They encountered none of the servants on the way—not that Sebastien would have felt any obligation to explain Uver’s presence in the house, had they done so. I’m learning, he told himself. After all, I’m the mestre. I’m not answerable to anyone for what I choose to do. Not here inside my own house, anyway!

  In the game room, he turned on only two of the table lamps, so that much of the room remained in a soft, intimate, and—Sebastien hoped—appropriately seductive-looking shadow.

  “Let’s have something to eat and drink,” he suggested. The apparently quite complacent Uver, who had gone over to look at the trophies on the shelf, nodded. Sebastien activated his phone and called Estevao—who answered immediately, as his master had been confident he would.

  “Ah, Estevao. Would you mind going to the kitchen and asking whoever is there if they’d make me some sandwiches? Enough for two people. Me and my guest. We’re in the game room. Oh, any kind of sandwiches—whatever’s handy,” he said, in response to Estevao’s question. “And could you bring them to the game room yourself?” Now that he thought about it, Sebastien saw no reason why any of the other employees needed to know just whom he happened to be entertaining. Let them assume it was Anibal, or Joaquin. “Oh, and bring us some nice cold beers, too.”

  “At once, senhor. There is a bar in the game room. I will bring you a bucket of ice, in case you want something to drink besides the beer, later.”

  “Thank you, Estevao.”

  It wasn’t until he had hung up and started to look around the room that Sebastien realized he didn’t see anything that looked like a bar. “Ah…do you see anything that looks like a bar, or a liquor cabinet, in here, Uver?”

  “It must be built into one of the pieces of furniture, senhor.”

  Rather absurdly, Sebastien found himself and his guest doing a quick search of the room. It was Uver who first investigated a long, narrow, waist-high wooden cabinet, which had neither doors or drawers in its front panel. The top, however, turned out to be hinged, and when it was lifted, a mechanism not only gently raised this lid the rest of the way, to a perpendicular position, but also caused bins holding liquor bottles, glasses, and miscellaneous bar supplies to rise up from inside the cabinet, as though by magic.

  “Ingenious,” Sebastien said with a laugh as a triumphant Uver smiled at him. “Now that we’ve solved that mystery, what game would you like to play?”

  “Not billiards, if you don’t mind,” Uver said apologetically. “Something that I can play while sitting down. I have been on my feet all day, out in the pastures, mending fences. Xadrez, perhaps?” he suggested, using the Portuguese word for chess, and gesturing toward the table on which the board was already set.

  “All right. Sit down.” They seated themselves, at opposite sides of the table, and Sebastien began to take the large wooden chess pieces out of their box and set them up. Uver assisted him.

  Estevao came into the room, pushing a serving cart. It held not only the tray of sandwiches, draped in the inevitable napkin, but two buckets. One contained only ice cubes. The other held bottles of beer, nestled in crushed ice. Estevao moved the cart next to the table.

  “Boa noite, Uver,” Estevao said.

  “Boa noite.”

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Oh yes. What a pleasant way to spend an evening, after a hard day’s work.”

  “Do you have everything you need, senhor Sebastien?”

  “I believe so. You may as well take the rest of the night off. If Uver and I should need anything else, I’m sure we can fend for ourselves.”

  “Very good, senhor. I will go turn down your bed first, senhor, and make sure that you have everything else ready in your bedroom that you might require…for the rest of the night.”

  Well, not quite everything! Sebastien thought, as he uncovered the sandwiches and offered them to Uver. I’ve got the main thing I’m going to require, sitting right here opposite me!

  “You might move that lamp a little closer, Estevao, so it throws its light on the chess board. Thank you. You may go. Boa noite.”

  “Boa noite, gentlemen.”

  Uver was helping himself to a beer. “It’s kind of Estevao to call me a gentleman, and to treat me like one,” he remarked after the valet had left the room and closed the door behind him. “But I’m hardly a gentleman. It is an honor to be here with you, senhor.”

  “Thank you for saying so, Uver, but let’s do without a lot of formalities, shall we, if you don’t mind? I’d prefer for us to be just two men having a good time together. Pretend I’m just one of the other men in the bunkhouse.”

  “In the bunkhouse, we tend to be very informal with each other.”

  “So much the better.” They were already busy eating and drinking. Sebastien had to swallow a mouthful of sandwich so he could speak without mumbling. “Are you a good chess player?”

  “You will have to be a very good one indeed, to beat me, senhor.” Despite the fact that he continued to address Sebastien as senhor, Uver now seemed completely at ease in his company—which was exactly what Sebastien had hoped for. Sebastien was already beginning to enjoy himself. The thought that the evening was almost certainly going to climax in some sort of a sex act with this desirable man only heightened his pleasure. As Paolo had told him, a little anticipation always increased the excitement.

  “That sounds like a challenge. Are you ready to begin?” Sebastien picked up a white pawn and a black one, shuffled them back and forth between his hands under the table, and then hid them in his closed hands, which he offered to Uver. Uver chose white, which necessitated turning the board around, so that the rows of white pieces were toward him.

  “What stakes shall we play for, senhor?”

  “Do you gamble on chess games, here in Brazil?”

  “A prize makes any game more exciting,” Uver pointed out.

  “Well, I’m reluctant to play for money, unless we agree to keep the stakes very small. I would hate to take your money, Uver. Especially since I have every intention of beating you,” Sebastien boasted, “and beating you soundly, while I am at it.”

  “Ah, you think so, senhor?”

  “I know so.” Sebastien was delighted by the way Uver bantered with him. This man was not in awe of him. Estevao had chosen well.

  “I had not thought we would play for money. I had hoped we might play for
a forfeit.”

  “A forfeit, Uver?”

  “Yes. Meaning, the loser must do the winner’s bidding. He must give in to him, and do what he asks. Provided, of course, the request is not…not altogether unreasonable, or repugnant.”

  “That does sound exciting. Very well. I accept your challenge. Shall we say, two games out of three? And if a game is declared a draw by mutual agreement, it does not count?”

  “Agreed.”

  They began their game. Uver played a fairly conventional and cautious opening game, developing his pieces and taking no chances, and Sebastien, instinctively, tried his best to imitate the other man’s approach. They played in silence at first, consuming two bottles of the refreshingly cold beer apiece.

  The alcohol began to remove both men’s few remaining inhibitions. At one point, as the middle game became more combative, Sebastien was pondering his next move when he felt the warmth of Uver’s bare foot pressing against his own, under the table.

  “Stop that,” Sebastien warned, mock sternly, after he had returned the pressure and confirmed that the contact was no accident, since Uver didn’t pull away. “It’s an obvious ploy to distract me.”

  Uver grinned insolently at him. “Is it succeeding?”

  “Yes. Shame on you.”

  But it was a ploy that did not succeed, because Sebastien won the first game, by checkmate.

  “Well played, senhor.”

  “Thank you. We need more beer. This is surprisingly thirsty work.” Sebastien pulled two fresh bottles from the bucket.

  This time, Uver picked black, so they set up the pieces accordingly. Sebastien tried a somewhat bolder and more aggressive opening strategy, with mixed results. He eventually made an ill-judged move, and lost one of his rooks as a result.

  “Shit,” he exclaimed, in plain English. “I’m not thinking, before I move,” he admitted, reverting to Portuguese.

  “It’s not always easy to anticipate your opponent’s moves.”

  Sebastien sat back in his chair. “Let’s take a time out. There’s nothing in the rules against that, is there?”