Date: Tue, 20 Nov 2012 03:00:58 -0500 From: John Marshall Subject: EcstasyInc chapter 4 In trying to avoid the most common plot scenarios featured on Nifty, this story continues the saga which began with "Ecstasy Island,"continued with "The Working Boys," followed by "Ecstasy Renewed." "EcstasyInc," like the previous segment, is unorthodox but quite seductive, as are the figures depicted. Like "Ecstasy Island" and "The Working Boys," and "Ecstasy Renewed," this one is also written in third person and proceeds in something close to real time with extensive dialogue to carry the story along and intense character development. Most of the characters from the earlier stories have returned, but there are also quite a number of new characters which will occupy the main spotlight in this segment. Once more, this story is extremely orgasmic with all ejaculating dialogue written in UPPER CASE. If you do not wish to be exposed to such material as described, leave now. If you are too young for this sort of thing, leave now. If reading this causes you to break the law where you live, leave now. Otherwise, take the time now to get naked and get your cock hard, start strokin' it. Jack yourself off as you read and see if you can time your own blasts of naked sexual pleasure with those of the people in the book. This one averages about two to three orgasms per chapter. For that reason, I don't recommend reading more than one chapter at a time. Any more than that might be hazardous to your sexual health...especially your hard, throbbing cock. Note: The inclusion of any actual individuals in this story is in no way meant to suggest actual occurrences or their sexual orientation. All drugs mentioned are fictitious. If you like what you read, let me know at crackerjacker18@hotmail.com. ECSTASYINC CHAPTER 4 The street, such as it was, inclined sharply, often more of a stairway than a street, almost too narrow for a street yet too wide for a stairway. Even early in the morning women were hanging laundry from their tree-house-like cabanas, the damp clothes if not the "houses" themselves hanging out over the street like the foliage of giant trees. Steve Mathis was on a mission. The company called it "Pooh Bear Harvest" after some English storybook character. He had no idea what connection that might have with the two eleven-year-old street urchins he was charged with spiriting out of Rio north to Miami, then to Nassau and from there to some kind of mysterious island resort where rumor had it the law forbade wearing clothes of any kind. Andre and Alesandro Santos were like hundreds, perhaps thousands of other hand-to-mouth crianças de rua, or street children, except that they happened to be twins and they had a very street smart older brother, Mario, who provided a rudimentary sustenance for them, shielding them from the worst that might befall two young boys on the streets of Rio de Janerio. He knew he was getting close, but all the wooden hovels tended to look very much alike. There was no street address, barely even names for the back alleys pretending to be streets. His employer, Cox Brazil was interested in the boys for only one reason. They were identical twins, and from the photos Mario had supplied him for their passports, extremely attractive young boys who appeared much younger than their birth certificates claimed. With their large, expressive eyes, dark hair, slender faces, tiny noses and broad smiles, they barely appeard to be eight or nine. They stood only 54 inches tall and weighed a meager 89 pounds, a good part of that, Steve guessed, was DIRT. Their plane left at 12:46 p.m. He was rounding them up early anticipating he'd have to take them back to the Hotel Caesar, scrub them clean, and outfit them in decent attire for the plane trip north. "Santos!?" He cried up an one of the women hanging out of the street pinning laundry to a line. "Quatro casas mais," she cried back. Four more houses. He counted and pointed. She nodded vigorously. Their humble abode was built high off the street between two utility poles. A makeshift ladder, which appeared much more makeshift than Steve would have liked, seemed to be the sole access. He briefly considered yelling up at them but so early in the morning, he didn't want the whole neighborhood angry with him for disturbing their slumber. Cautiously he began his climb. Whole wrungs were missing. This was way more than he'd bargained for when he'd signed on with Cox as coordinator of support services, a meaningless gopher title if there ever was one. He wore so many hats his job description read like the yellow pages. "Santos?" Steve asked quietly as he poked his head through the opening in the large cobbled-together wooden box making up the family estate. "Sim...you Senhor Mathis?" a childlike voice ask from the darkness inside. "Sim...Mario Santos? Steve questioned. "Nao, he is my brother, I am Andre," the boy told him as he gripped his hand and helped pull him up and into the grubby residence. "Where is Mario, I have something for him...some papers for him to sign," Steve told the boy. "He and Alesandro went for water so we can lavar...banhar...scrub ourselves," the slender waif informed him in Portugese. "They will return soon." Steve looked about, uncertain what he might see in such a place. "Nice place you got here?" he joked. "The carport we build next year," Andre replied dryly. "You have nao pais, nao mae, nao pai?" "Nao...mae morreu...died. Pai..." he shrugged. "foi por cinco anos." "Five years?" Steve repeated in dismay. "Sim...Mario nosso pai," Andre told him. "You speak any Inglis at all?" Steve asked as he struggled to understand the boy. He spoke some degee of Portugese but barely enough to carry on a conversation and far too little to see him comfortably take on the role of "nosso pai"--our father. "Sim...yes...I suck your cock?" the boy proudly demonstrated what amounted to his total grasp of the language. "Nao, obrigado," Steve shook his head in dismay, "I just had my cock sucked a few minutes ago." The boy cocked his head, looking at him inquisitively, uncomprehendingly like a befuddled puppy. "I see you found us," Steve heard behind him coming up the ladder the welcome sound of his native language, though heavily accented. Mario handed up to him a battered bucket of clean water. "You are well known on the streets," Steve told the handsome sixteen-year-old as the boy climbed into the cabana. Mario reached back and with one muscular arm hoisted his little brother up and safely inside. "This little punk is Alesandro. We have no soap but I thought that with some water, I might scrub hard enough to make them presentable." Steve smiled induligently. "I can see you've gone to a lot of trouble but that won't be necessary. I plan to take them back to my hotel and...we have soap there...polish them up a bit." "But..." Mario held his nose, "they STINK." Given the hundreds of background aromas wafting through the tenement slum, Steve would never have noticed. "They have clean clothes?" "Sim...I steal them from street market yesterday," the boy confessed. "No shoes...were all too big." "No one told me the boys spoke so little English," Steve sighed as Andre stripped naked before him and began to wash himslf from the bucket of cold water with an old rag." Mario laughed. "I suppose he offered to suck your cock?" "I say good...inglis," Alesandro claimed. "Muito better than Andre. "He mudo...uhhh...dumb." "Alesandro...get naked...wash..." Mario ordered his "smarter" brother. Dumb or smart, one thing the boys both had going for them, they were quite...well hung, as his friends back in Chicago would have said. Each boy sported a generous five inches, even soft. A few minutes later, judging by how dirty the water left in the bucket had become, the boys were as clean as they might get under the circumstances. Their new clothes were adequate, though mismatched as to size; and Mario had neglected to steal them any underwear. Steve decided he'd have to sneak them in the back door of the hotel. From his pocket he counted out five hundred Cox American dollars in twenties to Mario, probably more money than the boy had ever seen in his life. His two little brothers, in seeing Mario's windfall, were suddenly not so anxious to leave, but a few sharp words Steve did not understand from Mario left little doubt that he was, indeed "nosso pai." Careful not to rip their new clothes, the boys scampered down the "front steps" from their cabana like Brazilian monkeys as Steve shook out his own clothes, wary of what he might have inadvertantly picked up from his brief encounter with abject poverty. The boys somberly hugged and kissed their big brother there in the street as the neighbors stared down from above, well aware that something extraordinary was transpiring in their midst. "The car is parked at the bottom of the hill," Steve told the boys as he took one tiny hand in each of his own and led them gamely down the street, wondering in his mind if the locals might be thinking he was somehow "buying" the boys for his own prurient pleasures. "Nice automobile," Alesandro smiled as both boys climbed into the back seat. It wasn't a "nice automobile," at all--an old, beat-up, Brazilian-made Ford--but in this neighborhood, it would have been unwise to have left parked on the street anything much better. Steve parked the car in an alley behind the hotel, not caring particularly if doing so was legal or if the car might be towed. Cox owed him a better set of wheels after what he'd been through that morning. His plan to smuggle his pathetic little scrubbed up street urchins in the rear entrance to the hotel he found impossible. The back door was locked. The best he could do was take them in the front when the doorman was preoccupied with another guest, and then avoid the gaze of the desk clerk by sneaking them up a stairwell to his room on the fourth floor. The boys seemed not to mind, at least it wasn't a rickety ladder and to their surprise and delight it was cool inside. Alesandro acted like they'd never encountered air conditioning before. "Okay, kids, hit the shower," Steve told the boys as they marveled at the ceramic tiled bathroom with it's sparkling porcelain fixtures and large, walk-in shower. Both boys simply looked at him in dismay. "Go...shower...get naked...wash...scrub," Steve tried body language sufficient to have won him a game of charades yet neither boy moved. As a last resort, Steve decided to demonstrate. He begn removing his own clothes as finally, he got the boys to respond, though it gradually dawned on him they thought he wanted to have sex rather than a mutual scrub fest. Once he got them to join him under the warm spray they began to enjoy it perhaps even more than sex. What they didn't seem to enjoy was the soap. Steve heard the Portugese equivalent of "yuck," more than once. He rolled his eyes in dread and dismay. These two were in danger of dying of culture shocks, if not now, then before the day was over. Inasmuch as he'd already showered once that morning, Steve left the boys to enjoy themselves and their newfound taste for physical hygiene as he dried himself with one of the hotel's opulently large terry blankets. "Okay, kids, fun's over, we got a plane to catch," he urged as he turned to find the two boys, side by side, their arms locked around one another, their hands stroking one another's hard young boy-cocks furiously. They'd discovered their "yucky" soap made a fine lubricant. "Oh, forgodsake," Steve exhaled as he watched the boys in their mutual masturbation. This was something he'd not expected. Not only was this something he didn't know how to handle, it quickly became apparent the boys had done this before. The sight was one of the most intensely erotic encounters he'd ever witnessed. He'd watched a few Portugese porn flicks on the hotel TV so he recognized some of the language of passion and pleasure. "Do it to me, Andre, do it to me, do it to me, do it to me, harder, faster, harder, faster, make me orgasm," Steve recognized in Portugese. "I enjoy your hand, my cock enjoys your hand," Andre responded, thrusting his slim, tiny, pre-pubescents hips back and forth as his soapy six-inch boy-cock slipped back and forth through his brothers tightly gripping fist. "Climax me," Steve translated in his head as best he could Alesandro's words of pleasure. The boys seemed unaware he was even in the room, much less completely naked, hard, and watching them. He was starting to enjoy their wet little sexual performance immensely. Involuntarily almost, his hand found his own soaring hard cock and started emulating the boys and their sexual pleasure. "I'm feeling great pleasure," Andre murmurred softly as he writhed nakedly in his brother's sexual embrace. Steven only understood about half what the boys were saying to each other as they strained their slender little boy-bodies to wring every ounce of stroking pleasure from their sexual play time. "Make me cummmmmmm..." "Make him cummm," Steve found himself repeating in Portugese as he worked to make himself do the same. "Jack those cocks, boys, make'em feel good, do it, do it to yourselves, ohhhah fuck, feels good, feels sooo good, ahhahhahhh," he moaned in a mixture of English and Portugese that mattered little to anyone inasmuch as the boys seemed totally oblivious to him and all about them except for their growing, aching sexual pleasure. "Finish me," Alesandro moaned as Steve began to relize both boys were tetering ominously on the brink of an orgasmic dive into the depths of boyish sexual pleasure he found extremely stimulating. Faster and harder he jacked his cock, trying desperately to catch up with them, though without their soapy lubricant, he could not match their blurred fists stroke for stroke. "Ohhhh shit, you little fuckers are really into this," he told the boys as they continued to ignore him completly. "Do it, kids, jack them cocks, feel the pleasure, make each other cum...ahhahhah fuck, do it, do it, I'm feeling it, I'm feeling it to, boys, I'm gonna cum too, I'm ah...ahhhh...ahhhhhh...ohhh fucccckkkk...FUCCCCCCKKKKK....AHEAERGHEHAEIIGHEHAHERH...OGIEAHERHHHGHEHHEHHHG...UNNGGHHAHHH," Steve launched spurt after spurt of man-cum hard against the slippery naked boyflesh before him. Andre suddenly exploded, "Aghahehrhh....oeoiaiehhhhhhehhahehh...Alesandro, Alesandro, Alesandro," he gasped as his slender little boy-body trembled and shook, writhing in an almost agonizing moment of heart-pounding sexual release. "AHIIAHEEHRHEHH...EIAIEHAHRHEHRHHH...GHEHAEHRHHHGHHHHhhhhhhh!" "I CUM...I CUM...I CUMMMM," Steven heard Alesandro add his childlike voice to that of his brother's and indeed, also his own, as the three of them joined in a trio of orgasmic exultation rivaling anything Frederich Handel ever orchestrated. "OHHHAHHAHHH...WOW...AHHAHHAHHHHGHGHHHAHHhhhhhh," Andre gasped, clinging now to his naked brother simply to remain standing. Only then did either boy realize that Steve had washed them with several well-aimed spurts of thick, hot, cloudy man-cum. "You cummed too?" Alesandro's English was sufficient to exclaim in surprise as he saw the naked man who'd brought them there still gently stroking his seven-inch cock. "I cummed too," Steve confirmed. "You boys put on quite a show." Andre smiled, perhaps somewhat embarrased. "I like soap." The tiny piece slipped from gripping fingers and skidded across the shower floor. "Don't bother to pick it up, kid," Steve advised, "we don't got all day, we've got a plane to catch, remember?" They caught their plane. Decked out in stylish white shorts, short-sleeved sports shirts, low-cut white socks, and brand new white sneakers (miraculously the right size) the boys cleaned up really good, as Steve recalled his mother used to comment. The Massive 737 roared off on time as the boys struggled with so much newness in their young lives they could barely contain themselves. Steve found himself having to explain EVERYTHING to them, even such routine tasks as flushing the airborne toilets and the use of paper towels to dry their hands, which the boys wanted to save in their pockets for use the next time. Airline food was a bit sophisticated for their tastes. Coq au vin the boys both pronounced to be podre galo (rotten rooster) though they quickly developed a taste for Steve's red wine, begging again and again for "so um gole" (just a sip). Apparently they liked their wine minus the rooster. Steve discovered to his chagrin that Andre apparently had a very weak stomach. Even the smell of the "rotten rooster" sent him digging for the barf bag. Steve wasn't sure if it was the food or perhaps air sickness, but three times Andre upchucked into the handy flight accessory. Eight hours was a long time for two young boys to be confined to their seats, no matter how roomy and comfortable their first-class accomodations might be. Even in school (what little they attended), Steve doubted either boy had ever sit still for more than an hour. Fortunately, the flight attendants were quite patient and accomodating, allowing the boys to roam up and down the aisles from one end of the plane to the other. Each time they returned to their seats with fresh reports of amazing marvels and dozens of questions. Andre couldn't understand why there was no smoking (as was the case with other Brazilians on the plane), or why there were lights on the floor, or why the little signs all went "dong" when they lit up. Alesandro, for his part, found the almost continuous access to free Coca-Cola quite delightful, though he couldn't figure out why everyone insisted on pouring it into cups made of plastic or why they were called "glasses" or why the ice cubes were called "rocks." No doubt to the consternation of the passenger behind him, he also found the reclining seats quite fascinating to play with. Steve finally had to forbid him even touching the controls. Neither boy was fond the idea of wearing shoes and socks. Steve didn't mind their kicking off their expensive sneakers but absolutely forbid them running around the plane barefooted. Before the flight was over Alesandro had once more returned to his shoes. He'd had his toes stepped on once too often in the crowded aisles. Once the plane was back on the ground for a two-hour layover in Panama City, Steve found himself facing a new problem. The boys seemed frightened half out of their wits by the size and pace of the strange air terminal. For some unknown reason, the much larger Rio terminal hadn't seemed to bother them. Perhaps it was the security of being able to understand everything said and to read signs, etc. In Panama City everything was in English or Spanish and most of the conversation they encountered was too. It was as if they'd suddenly landed in a different world. Steve found them clinging to him like frightened little school boys...which they were, sort of. Steve treated them to tacos then it was back on another plane for the three-hour hop to Miami. It was shortly after ten Miami time when they arrived. A Cox chopper pilot greeted them as they got off the plane and hustled them through customs then onto his aircraft. If the boys had been fascinated by the giant 737, they were simply overwhelmed by the sight of the Cox helicopter. It took Steve and the pilot several minutes to talk Andre into even getting into the thing. Alesandro seemed a bit more trusting, but Steve could tell the kid was little short of terrified. As Steve outfitted them with headsets, he was able to talk his frightened little boys through the liftoff after which the incredible fascination of flying so exposed to the elements and bright lights of Miami and Miami Beach captivated them at least until they were off shore. From that point on, simple fatigue overtook them and despite the horrendous volume of the whirling blades and loud engines, they drifted off to a fitful sleep. It was just as well. The pilot had intended to take them to Nassau, then refuel for Ecstasy. However, he quickly learned after taking off that Nassau was socked in with fog to the point that landing would have been tricky, at best, even for an experienced pilot, which he wasn't. Instead, Nassau International directed him straight to Ecstasy, where visability was much better. His fuel supply was adequate but left little to spare. And, while visability at Ecstasy was said to be passable, the weather along the way was just a shade short of rotten. It was five-hour trip, at night, through moderate to heavy rain and wind, navigating solely by radar. Worse, for some unknown reason, Cox had neglected to schedule a co-pilot, which Steve guessed was against flight rules in the first place and downright horrifying under such adverse weather conditions in the second. Steve observed his tired little boys peacefully sleeping through it all. He envied them. He'd been up since before six that morning, Rio time which, being two hours earlier than Miami, meant he'd been awake for something over 20 hours. Bored, he climbed into the front seat next to the pilot, who seemed tense but not frightened...or at least if he was, he hid it well. Although he knew not the first thing about flying a copter, Steve found himself watching the radar and feeding the pilot course corrections as the wind tossed them about like a leaf in a hurricane. In effect, if not the co-pilot, Steve became the navigator and radioman. Ecstasy was a small dot far out in the Atlantic. Given their meager fuel situation, they'd have only one chance to locate the island. As they drew closer, the pilot had to reduce his altitude to stay beneath the lowering cloud cover. Steve's eyes were glued to the altimeter. When it dropped below 500 feet, his breathing became shallow and labored. Around two a.m. the pilot radioed the Ecstasy heliport. "Cox International Flight 212, request landing lights and weather conditions, over." There was silence for close to two minutes. The pilot was about to repeat his call, then, "Cox 212, roger. Sorry, I was takin' a piss. You're early. Winds 10 to 20 knots and variable, ceiling 300 feet, I have you about 20 miles out, come left five degrees, over." "Damn...I hate shit like this," the pilot let his feelings slip. "You ever land in weather like this?" Steve questioned. "You wanna know the truth?" Steve looked at him in alarm. "No."