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A Short Story



"Alejandro Mendez for you on line two, Randy-James."


Trainer McLeod recognized the name, frowned, thanked the secretary, and punched two. "Sr. Mendez, how may I help you?"


Excited at having gotten through, Mendez spoke rapidly, brokenly, and with slurred diction. Such qualities coupled with his thick accent annoyed the Trainer.


"Yes, of course, I heard about your contact last week. Indeed sir, we all are aware that your time is limited. It's just that, until today, the Team's assessment report had not reached my desk."


He held the receiver away from that ear and located it to his other.


He wished they hadn't approved this guy. Loud Hispanics – hard on the ears. Crude sounding, too.


"Seρor, it may," he stressed, "may be possible before then. Let me check something. I'll put you on hold for just a minute. Don't go away," he said professionally. Trainer McLeod needed to reflect on Mendez' urgent request. He's rushing it. Quite keyed up. Quickly typing in the man's name under Assessments Pending and running his mouse to the report's conclusion, APPROVED, he reasoned with a bit of a grudge, All right. If they say so...


"Seρor Mendez? There's good news. The day after tomorrow at 8:30 PM. Isn't that great? You're in. Listen carefully: You need to arrive at Birchfield Farm by yourself for the intake. Use the highway entrance you know about and stop at the gate. An officer in uniform will direct you to the special-client parking area and will escort you to City Hall. The one you've seen the photograph of. That's right. And bring your overnight bag. Just personal essentials. We provide the rest."


He listened. If something needed a hundred words to express, Mendez used two or three hundred running all over each other. The early interview McLeod had observed demonstrated that abundantly. Redundantly. Mendez made points or asked questions repeatedly.


"Si, the details are well-known to us. Both sets of measurements. Yes, I promise you. Good to hear. We are particular, as well. Ah, Mr. Duval – he recommended you to us, didn't he? We trust him. A valued and, I believe, happy client." At what he was told, McLeod was able to laugh freely, "True. He has said something of the sort after each session here. If you want reassurance, call him. I must ring off now." In his most pleasant voice, he added, "Your dream's safe with us. Count on that and be on time."




Days earlier, in the Trainer's office, a call had come from the organization's CEO, the distant, detached Alan Ecks, whom staff members referred to as "X."


"Very easy-going, a pushover really. Lovely almond eyes. Soft spoken. Gentle Ting, we call him. He puts on a good show, though, as Tiger Ting. Purposeful, you might say. Has moves like a cat, the scary kind or the rub-my-tummy type."


"Can he meet the new guy's expectations, if the approval's made?"


"Contingent on both the approval – which I note – and on Mendez's cooperation with our guidance. Ting's our only suitable candidate anyway," Randy-James shrugged unseen. He dropped his voice, "Ting should work for Mendez because he can lie back and take any length either place."


"Equipment up front?"


"The nubbiest nips you ever pinched or nibbled."


"That wasn't what I was asking."


"You had to know. They're a-mazing," he emphasized, tacking on, "so I've heard."


X said, "Get serious."


"Okay, here's the story. Plump, uncut six inches, tight ballsac, that funny oriental straight pubic hair – trimmed. Enough to notice, not enough to bother."


"His performance?"


"Ask any of the boys who've taken him from behind while they're prone. He's bitten their necks like one of the big jungle cats. Yes, that's where the name Tiger came from. Very `top,' he makes them feel his every inch any way they want or he may desire. I heard the word `feral' used. He can growl."


"His skin?"


"Faultless. Smooth like satin. Naturally almost hairless – a bit in the armpits and on his shins. None to speak of on his chest, tummy, arms, or thighs."


"On his face?"


"You mean beard? Hardly developed. Shaves lightly about once a week."


"His patrons so far? Their critiques? Remember, I've been away."


"Only the one, Mr. Duval. Complex man, with more fantasies than he can afford. Ting was his third with us. The first, Konstantin, did a reluctant serf routine with him – which resulted in a few weals that didn't fade right away. Got a rave review, however, and an almost immediate reservation for a recalcitrant naval recruit scene. That went to Mike."


"Konstantin I've seen in action. Cowers great. Likes to. Authentic Russian accent. He's good. Mike? Who's that?"


"Our formerly underemployed actor who's somewhat hirsute and muscular. Comes with Alpha attitude. The sort that needs taking down a peg, which was exactly what Ensign Duval wanted to do. Great success. Five months later, his bank account replenished, professional tennis coach Duval met the challenge of a young Asian star not living up to his potential. Ting, you know. Tall and slender, he does actually play tennis. Swims well, also."


"I get it. Duval knows Mendez and broke the code by telling him to ask by name for Ting?" X sounded ominous. Serious consequences faced those who broke the organization's code of silence.


"Strictly, no. He and Mendez know each other from meeting at Wilderforce's place in Paris over some art. Actually, Wilderforce's boy, the Algerian or whatever he is, planted the idea of us in Duval's ear."


"Oh, I see now. Makes sense. You know about their means, Duval's and Mendez's?"


"As I understand it, Duval's is inherited money still being doled out to him through some trust. Mendez has cartel connections, evidently lucrative. Almost ludicrously so, as you know from his financial report. Probably best that we don't have the source's names – only that he has more than enough to afford our services. But, to answer your concern about Duval possibly betraying our confidence, he didn't."


"I haven't read everything. That's why I've called you."


McLeod considered how to put it. "Thanks to drunken conversations with Mendez in Mexico City, Duval and he shared a revelation or two about mutual cravings. I don't know all the details. Duval merely suggested that there might be an Oriental who could meet his friend's demands. Thanks to our security measures, Mendez's verging on giving vent to behavior his macho world would never countenance."


X mused. "He is anxious, you say?"


"Highly. Certainly impatient."


"Randy? More? Dangerous?"


"We'll surveil. Plus, as you know, I'll prepare Ting."


"As long as your nurse practitioner approves."


"Rockwell already has. Dubbed Ting `A-plus' in readiness. We will have him fully prepped. Okay?" Suddenly, he added, "Ting's a quick study."


X assented, and ended the call.




Placed carefully, Sr. Mendez sat in a booth, his back to the door, a cup of coffee lazily steaming before, and his eyes on the mirror that allowed a view of the entrance. Neon proclaimed Earl's Diner to the night. Florescent harshness rather like an Edward Hopper painting caught the timorous face of a lanky young man wearing a backpack and looking side to side before walking into the glare to enter.


At the counter's far end, Wade, the attendant, idly wiped its genuine formica surface. "Hi," he said. "Sit anywhere."


A vinyl-covered seat at the counter was taken none too confidently. Prices posted over the range and prep area caught his attention. He studied them, reached for what was in his pocket, looked at the crumpled bills and sparse change, obviously making a calculation.


Wade took in the small action before approaching to ask, "What can a get for you?"


Embarrassment spread on the boy's face. "I – uh – wish I could afford a cheeseburger and fries but I can't."


"You look hungry and tired," Wade said sympathetically. "Are you on the road?"




"You don't look like you're from around here. Don't sound like it either. What's your name?"


"Ting," he answered. "Could I have some water, please?"


The diner's other occupant had not moved. Riveted to the mirror, its scene, and what he was overhearing, he blew on his coffee and sipped. He watched the way the kid greedily swallowed a glassful, his Adam's apple bouncing up and down.


A long neck when his head tilts like that.


Wade moved things along, "How about a hotdog? They're filling, and they cost half what a cheeseburger and fries do. Plus, you get free chili for a topping, if you want it."


"Waiter," Sr. Mendez called out, twisting in his seat. "If the young man wants to join me, I'll buy him that cheeseburger."


Ting turned, "With fries and a soda?" – the innocent question of a truly hungry, if uncertain or cautious, hitchhiker.


The heavily moustached, overweight Sr. Mendez broke into a big, if clumsy smile. "Sure. I travel, too, and also am not from around here. Give me some company and I'll feed you."


Wade leaned forward to whisper, "If I were you, I'd take him up on that."


Ting slipped off the stool warily, brushing his wrinkled trousers as though the effort would make them look better. He walked over the linoleum floor, paused to let the man see him up and down, and asked, "May I take this off? My backpack's pretty heavy."


"Si, si. How you say," he indicated the room, "my house is your house."


With relief, the beautiful Asian relaxed into place, backpack to the side. "Thank you, sir. You are kind. Nobody's been nice to me in days."


Mendez thought he heard the boy's voice about to crack. For sure, his elegantly slanted eyes looked watery.


Timing perfect, Wade asked from behind the counter, "How do you want your cheeseburger, medium or well-done? I recommend medium. Our beef's high quality."


"Whatever you think is best for me," Ting replied. "I could eat anything about now – any way."


The agreeableness registered with Mendez. So did the implication of the boy's statement. His mind raced. He remembered not to rush. "Tell me, how come you're on the road?"


"I'm looking for work. There wasn't any in my town in Texas, not since the oil spill. My dad's poor. He told me to strike out on my own, you know, to look for a job someplace else. I have my high school diploma with me." He searched his host's face.


"Me, I'm from Columbia but I live high up in Mexico City. I'm a businessman, a boss. They call me El Jefe. I tell people what to do and they do it." Arrogance seeped from behind the nice faηade.


The kid looked worried.


"Sir, do people like to work for you?"


Black marbles. His eyes look like black marbles.


He almost answered, "They do if they're smart," but softened his reply to, "I'm known for clear instructions, so employees who pay attention and do their jobs correctly never have problems with me and..." he plunged on with a smile spreading his bushy moustache, "... really good ones get bonuses."


Ting was admonished not to eat so fast.


"But it's so juicy and I'm so hungry," he protested, cramming a long French fry into a mouth already full.


"I don't want you to get indigestion," Mendez said.


Wade noticed the final consonants of his customer's words often went unsounded. His sentence sounded like, "Ah don' wan' chew..." Randy-James said it, he's crude. Certainly, ill-educated. Street-savvy and wily if he's made tons of money. Ruthless, too, I'll bet.


Head back, Ting swallowed so that his food's journey could be noticed. He almost choked but the effect tightened the bulgy area below Mendez' belt. He wriggled in his seat and reached out to give the boy's shoulder a friendly squeeze.


"Okay now? See, told you?" He patted.


Sounded like "tol' chew" to both Wade and Ting.


"Eat slower. Chew more. You might strangle."


Ting fought off the urge to laugh, cleared his throat, and excused himself with a few words. His blushing cheeks and apologetic tone – "I should have listened to you, sir" – enchanted Mendez.


The rest of the meal passed uneventfully into Ting's stomach. Few words were spoken before it was over, signaled by Ting's use of a paper napkin and brightly said, "Thank you so much – uh – I'm sorry. I don't even know your name. I'm Ting."


"Alejandro Mendez, but you call me Jefe."


An uneasy moment later, waiter Wade, eyes directly on Ting, asked whether he could get them anything more.


"Not for me, thanks. I'm full" The boy sucked at his straw noisily for the last drops of soda. Satisfaction marked by a small burp and a sigh, he slumped slightly. "Sorry, I'm really tired."


While the check was presented and a twenty dollar bill handed to Wade with a gesture of dismissal, Ting spotted his little friend Cosmo walking in the combined neon-florescent wash outside and exchanged waves. Risky business, unseen by Mendez who turned full attention back to his guest.


"You need a place to stay? I'm passing the night over there," he pointed to The Shellman Hotel, its sign incandescent across the town square. He waited.




The room to which they were shown personally by the front desk clerk, Charles, was spacious. Its amenities were pointed out – empty closets, cabinets with interesting contents, a quite large bathroom with bidet, fluffy towels, and complimentary robes in two sizes, bedside chairs and a table, a huge flat-screen TV, a double bed. Charles picked up two remote controls, "This is for the television – press 1 if you want our `special programing' – while this," he extended the other, "controls the bed."


He demonstrated how the foot area could be raised and lowered, the upper body area as well, and how each of its three segments could be made to vibrate at various speeds. "It works wonders for those who are very tired." At Ting, he directed, "Put your dirty things in this hamper bag and place it in the hall. They will be laundered for you by the morning. And sir," he addressed Mendez, "when I return to collect the clothes bag, I'll leave that pitcher of margaritas you ordered. About ten minutes."


Mendez couldn't get Charles out of the room quick enough. Pulse churning, he took Ting's backpack and put it on the bed. "You heard the man. All your dirty clothes in here – whatever's in this thing that washes and what you're wearing. We'll get you clean, too. You stink."


Ting thought of the amazing spray. How it was just like days-old sweat. Convincing to the nose, it permeated the boy's immediate environs. It had been really effective when he was a tennis player for Mr. Duval. A few whiffs and Duval had become hot and bothered.


The appearance of modesty drove Mendez' blood pressure higher.




Their shower had its moments. Ting drooped with fatigue. Mendez had to hold onto him and to help the sleepy boy, who rested his head against the man's shoulder and thanked him for soaping his back and the rest that was reachable. Reachable also was Mendez' cock which plumped to nearly full, gently persuaded by Ting's delicacy of touch – accidental, more suggestive than deliberate.


The boy's weight and slippery skin-on-skin contact under the suds and spray moved like a slow dance. His burly host supported as they moved together, the hot jets prompting a shift to the side, another to the front, lips on napes, Ting's tongue lapping slowly.


For Mendez, this tenderness came as unexpected and titillating. He braced himself, clinging tightly and thrusting at Ting in abandon.


"Oh Jefe, I'm too weak. Can we please lie down, just for a while?"


On its own, the request meant one thing, but with the boy's clasp firm, it promised something else. The shower was turned off, a large towel grabbed and Ting's body roughly dried. Dripping, Mendez led him to the bed.


Near the boy's sprawl, Mendez hurried to wipe himself. He ran the towel over his head and checked the mirror to re-order his moustache.


Ting crossed arms over his chilled chest. "I'm cold." His eyebrows angled toward a frown that beckoned. And, at once, expected burly warmth surrounded him.


Mendez' arm reached under Ting's neck. The boy rolled to face him. They searched each other's eyes in silence. Mendez felt the touch to his free arm of a slender hand smoothing his skin. In itself, a gesture of attraction sufficient to send chills of a different sort over his very warm body. Ting's next words – barely audible – stopped the affect.


"Could you do something else for me? My throat still hurts. Could you rub it? You know, kind of like a massage?" As he asked, Ting straightened so that his throat was exposed.


With a hand that could have crushed the bobbing Adam's apple, Mendez tried to improvise with his fingertips. Damp, satiny skin, relaxed throat muscles, and throbbing veins – he had never felt the like. Yet the boy's expression remained the same.


"If you could use both hands," Ting let his voice suggest, then trail away.


"How chew mean?" The more excited he got, Mendez lapsed into Spanglish.


Stirring, Ting said, "I have an idea. If I lie like this..." – he stretched out on his back to allow his head to hang off the bed – "...and you stand over me..."


The sight from his new position – Ting's chin directly beneath the man's hands which cupped the trusting boy's swan-soft neck so that thumbs could gentle its skin – offered more than Mendez expected. Speculation seized his limited imagination. He closed his eyes, he thought, to savor the experience but was unable to prevent their opening upon Ting's chest rising and falling, and further on to his impossibly flat stomach and rising excitement beyond that.


A murmur from Ting drew Mendez back. He looked down – and heard faint words he would never forget: "It's so much better on the outside. The inside is sore though. Could you massage it for me...please?"


Ting's mouth opened directly before the man's extravagant, long thickness. An inch being touched with no resistance by the boy's warm, wet tongue, Mendez dared to venture past the row of white teeth into what was for him a personal dreamland.


With a heave, he swept through the fleshy channel and began the intoxication of sex without inhibitions, beyond borders, out of this world. Nothing prepared him for the liberating affect of burrowing repeatedly into Ting's initially welcoming throat. Nothing warned him of the onrush of feelings which burst his reserve and sent him into spasming ecstasy as Ting fought for air.


They churned at and away from each other for wildly confusing moments.


Tempests of discomfort and paroxysmal joy having died away and both in recovery, Ting managed to choke out, "You hurt me more, Jefe," and started to cry.


A suddenly contrite Mendez took the boy into his embrace and apologized profusely in understandably broken English. Sometime later, fretting but solicitous, he remembered the margaritas in the hall, fetched the pitcher and glasses, and poured one apiece. "Here, drink this. Slow, muchacho. Like this," he sipped his.


In minutes, the combination of tequila, triple sec, and lime juice kicked in. Well cushioned by hairy brawn and subcutaneous fat, Ting relaxed and began to toy with Mendez's flaccid lump. He pushed at it as if inquisitive about its response. Rolled it to and fro.


Both sipped at their drinks in silence as the play went on. Ting's jiggle of the rubbery monster tickled the man. The room's atmosphere improved.


"Why were you so fast?"


"I was excited. I lost control." An uncharacteristic admission.


"You didn't mean to hurt me?"


"No, niρo. You made me what Americanos call `horn-y'.


Ting needed to think before he asked, "If I made you excited again, would it happen the same way?"


When no answer came, he said quietly, "Try me here," and rolled out of the embrace to place a pillow under his pelvis for the elevation of his rear charms. Legs parted like a wishbone revealed his young, lithe body's most private part, a ruddy rosebud-like spot.


The distance between Ting's position on the bed and their room's supply of suitable oils, gels, and creams was spanned by Mendez quicker than it took his erection to lumber into life. Heatedly, he fumbled with the product's cap and slathered his now-rigid knob and shaft with the tube's contents. His mind managed to think of easing the path through what he saw as a small, tight target.


"Oh, Jefe," said Ting who looked back at the preparation, "some for me, too, por favor."


The mattress absorbed the weight of Mendez' body, hardly disturbing Ting. Wet and blunt, a finger coated the area – to an appreciative wriggle from the boy – and was driven in knuckles-deep – to the sound of a long-drawn sigh.


By twists and turns, he probed. Had Ting not requested more lubricant and more time "to open me for your pleasure," Mendez' rampant urgency might have ruined what was about to enter his memory as this tryst's second highpoint. He overlapped his index finger with the longer one next to it and used their combination to separate as carefully as he could the boy's cooperative tissues. Rotations, pauses, other motions, pauses, and short, slow pulls and thrusts brought the two of them to readiness.


As Mendez straddled his legs, Ting closed his eyes then reached back to guide the great cock into place. Mendez, heart pumping madly, settled slickly if forcibly all the way to his pubic bone in a single, breath-catching lunge. He felt the boy's body seize up before gradually relaxing in acceptance. No protest foiled his instant of conquest. No obstacle prevented this realization of his dream – years in the making – to fuck a handsome Asian youth into total insensibility.

With a test of the distance he could withdraw from and replumb Ting's interior, Mendez commenced not a dance of manly love but an assault. Progressively violent, his moves shook Ting like a ragdoll. He harder he skewered the unresisting boy, whose head wobbled with every stroke, the greater his succession of thrills.


Trainer McLeod's earlier use of "impatient" was proven inadequate.


The fuck became a fury during which Mendez's arms tired. He let his full weight fall upon Ting's back and moved his knees between the boy's legs, roughly nudging them further apart and driving himself anew, full-length into the channel between the most prepossessing buttocks ever accessible to him. Each contact of his bristling pubis against Ting's silky-skin mounds registered as enchantment, was forgotten, was relished again and abandoned recklessly.


It dawned on Mendez that the boy was uttering little "uh" sounds to his rapid drumming of his interior. A kind of music he had never heard. He stopped. It stopped. He slammed forward to hear it again. Once more.


He would show this hapless boy his power.



"Ting's doing great."


"That he is."


"See, there's his finger signal. He's fine."


Pleased enormously by the scene being played out over closed-circuit screens, McLeod and Rockwell were not about to let any detail of the action go unnoticed. They returned to their surveillance.


"Mendez has just shifted into a different gear," Nurse Rockwell observed.



The drawn-back penis was held just inside Ting's widened sphincter for seconds. Its plunge – fast and severe – was intended to jolt, and did. How long it waited to be sent flying into Ting's bottom varied. As devious as Mendez' plan was to unsettle his hitchhiker's regular "uhs", his passion grew. He did try, but pauses of so many seconds deprived him of the thrill of immersion. That passion lessened the interval between strokes – until Mendez once again was pummeling irrationally to the edge of a climax he feared would come sooner than wanted.


His fuzzy thought about stopping for a moment could not fight Ting's cry of, "Oh, Jefe!" – high-pitched and loud, and reinforced by a sudden lift up and thrust back of his rear allurements. Mendez hit a spot as yet unreached by his vigor and was catapulted beyond reason into a red glare brighter, more disorienting than any in his sexual life. Neck and shoulders flush from effort, surprise, and release, he gasped mightily, saw stars falling, shoved a few times to vent his glands of remaining secretions, actually became aware of his heart thumping against Ting's back, remembered the boy he had flattened beneath his pile-driving fuck, and momentarily considered whether he may have fucked him to death.


Ting did lie inert.


Alarmed, Mendez extricated himself to a lewd sucking sound. Thinking madly about possible repercussions, he shook Ting's lifeless shoulder gently. More firmly – rewarded by the boy's head and body turning slowly in his direction. He saw a smile forming as Ting rolled to his back and used his slender arms to lift his legs into the air.


"My Jefe," he wheezed, "you were wonderful but you are still big and excited. Come back into me." The smile and words were invitations in themselves but, combined with the up-tilted, beautifully stretched, melon-round cheeks and gaping hole, came as a veritable command.


"Please, I want you to be happy with me." Ting fluttered his lids to inflame the man. When he half-closed them and murmured another "Please," Mendez checked his engorgement, spat on it twice, jockeyed forward on his knees, looked at the boy's hairless, drawn-up scrotum, touched his glans to the gleaming "O" before him, spread his saliva around, drew a deep breath, and sank – for the first time ever-so-slowly – into a paraνso, a paradise of sensation.


Eyes open, Ting grinned, "You worried me. I was afraid you might have trouble, you were so overheated. Take your time, Jefe. Enjoy my body. It means a lot for me. You took me off the street and fed me and now you share your bed with me."


Mendez, his breaths like snorts from a bull, mellowed. Trapped by emotional immobility, he probed no deeper. Instead, the sight of the boy's smile closing to pursed lips inspired him to offer his own lips to Ting's for – unthinkable before – a kiss. The response took away his concentration on how and where his penis was. Tongues met tentatively, then with more assertiveness, Ting letting his Jefe dominate.


True to his nature, Mendez could not avoid being ruthless. Until Ting pushed him away, he was almost chewing the boy's mouth. "Later," came the soft reprimand, "we'll think about my mouth. Show me how you can love."


Confused by the notion's appeal but determined as ever, Mendez let himself surrender to certain quivers surrounding his hugeness. Ting was coaxing him. He grew harder as he felt contractions kneading the base of his cock as if it were stiff dough. For an unobstructed view of the big organ sliding inch by inch outward, he held the boy's legs widely apart and down to his shoulders. Coasting back through the copious fluids accumulated hotly inside threatened his unaccustomed aplomb, but he let the boy's legs reach around his own rear and managed to control the fuck as steady and unhurried for the pleasure of both, he hoped.


Yet one more first in this evening of firsts. Of dreams. One dream in particular.




Product of a deprived childhood in which nourishment was often lacking, brutish upbringing by alcoholic parents, Catholic education at the end of rulers and canes, teenage careers thieving and shilling for street-corner drug sellers, Alejandro Mendez survived by his wiles. He toughened, he fought, he bullied. For enough pesos, he would strong-arm anyone, force protection money from shopkeepers, keep whores in line for big-time pimps, attack reporters who might expose his employers – all while keeping secret his own desires.


Only when jobs took him outside his native Cartagena – where access to women was often a bonus to men such as he – Mendez sought young men. Hustlers confirmed the orientation he had known guiltily and with shame, but excitedly as recipient of blowjobs in backrooms and alleyways from age fourteen. By fifteen, when one of his repeat young throats could no longer deal with Alejandro's growing length, the boy had turned and bent over. Anal sex blew Alejandro's mind as he blew his wad.


Coarse thoughts of a coarse thug.


A single, sleazy, overnight job in the northern resort town of Punta Gallinas led accidentally to an encounter after dark in a beachside park. Seventeen-year-old Alejandro spotted an Asian lad – un turista – quite young it appeared, lolling against a palm. The limonado de coco from which he sipped woozily must not have been his first that night.


Alejandro approached. The boy proffered. One taste and Alejandro realized the drink had been spiked with far more aguardiente than necessary. It was good. Too good. The kid might pass out. An arm reached limply for support. It missed the strong shoulder but trailed over the nearby pectoral's curve and down the ridged stomach until taken by Alejandro and held away.


A scowl elicited only giggles from the boy and the reach of his other arm, also captured by Alejandro. The limonado spilled to the ground.


No effort to get free. He likes this.


Something about the situation urged the teen toward lust. His verga went hard. Trapped by worn denim, it wanted out. Trapped by hot-bodied Alejandro, the drunken youth wanted...he knew not what...exactly.


No word was spoken as arms were held back, knuckles to the palm's bark. The two bodies came in contact. Inches apart, eyes looked into eyes – one set half closed and intense, the other wide in drunken welcome. Alejandro drove his engorged rod against the light-headed boy's smaller excitement and together they worked each other's lustful need.


Not understanding his attacker's guttural intention, the boy allowed himself to be turned around, his hands thrust over his head, palms to the tree, his belt ripped off, bottom bared, and shirt lifted from behind (to a breathy whistle and admiring exclamation of "Dios mνo") – all in drunken acquiescence. He heard spitting.


Numbness from his alcoholic drink and actual innocence meant more silly-dazed amusement for the youngster at being touched back there. His response changed from initial giggling to amazed rushes of air and delayed cries of shock.


Alejandro sensed he might get away with what he intended if the boy could be cajoled. It wasn't like him to care, but the moon-lit allurement before him seemed to promise a lot. He removed his mushroomed sex and spat mouths full on it. It spread the entry wide and delved further. Stunned silence halted his advance. If he took his time...


His drool landed on the spot, greeted by a shiver. Thus cued, he pushed through and, in complete surprise for himself and the boy, glided deeper.


Strings of words – Chinese and Spanish – alerted him to go slower. With uncommon gentleness, Alejandro proceeded to run his hands from his now-partner's hips up his sides and over his back. Murmurs registered before he found purchase on the boy's shoulders and completed his impactful journey into male virginity.


The boy's upper body sprang back in agony but was no match for his attacker. Returned abruptly to the tree, he surrendered. He fought tears at the searing pain. His knees wanted to buckle in escape. When they did, the cock inside was forced deeper. He stood. His ass took the onslaught of his attacker's grindings, its former narrowness having been expanded. The traffic, fast and furious, went unimpeded. Recent pain ebbed, replaced by novel sensations.


Lang Hao drunkenly wondered at them. Whatever they were, he favored the way their concentric circles of vibrations tingled through him. His own erection tingled, too.


Alejandro flung himself into the fuck. He lurched spasmodically. Orgasm overtook him in a form of hysteria. The boy-as-object, the boy-as-target was going mad trying to impale itself. Juices jetted into the night air – on the trunk, the grass, the ground.


Mouths open, breathing hard, the two swayed before they parted. Neither gathered his wits right away.


The tougher guy was cleaning himself with the boy's shirttail when Lang Hao turned around to look at what had caused such bizarre elation. Dense shadows could not hide what he saw. No cartoon drawing of a penis had ever looked like this. He ignored the after-burn inside, fascinated as he was by the still-pulsing enormity. He knelt for a closer look.


It was Alejandro's turn for amazement. No Mexican he had ever fucked had behaved so curiously. And none had ever been able to take his now-fully-grown dimensions. He toyed with the prospect that Asians might all be drawn to his cock. This boy was. In fact, he had been so totally into what they did that Alejandro could imagine kissing him. Not where he was. No, the boy had a hand on the stiffening member, regarding it this way and that and raising the teen's excitement yet again.




A smirk on his face, he leaned down and, with both hands, pressed the boy's jaw open. Another amazement: The tongue came out to lick. He moaned in acceptance of the undreamed of pleasure. Thinking the kid was so drunk he might even try to suck it, Alejandro moved in. If the boy were wising up, there was no sign. He let his mouth be filled. His eyes looked blearily into Alejandro's – as if for permission. He received a grin and a nod, barely visible in the darkness.


Slight rotation of the boy's head allowed passage – simply, naturally – into its unbelievably receptive throat. That instant brought Alejandro his life's ultimate pleasure – as he ejaculated gobbets of remaining sperm straight into the boy's gullet.


Drained completely, he pulled out. The boy was on his hands and knees, coughing phlegm and saliva, trying to recover. Quickly zipping his trousers, Alejandro helped the boy to stand. He was so disoriented that it was necessary to assist the raising of the boy's pants, the tucking in of his soiled shirt, the return of his belt through its waiting loops, and the closure of the gaping fly.


Satisfied by normality's reappearance, he placed one of the boy's arms around his neck and helped him towards the lights of the nearby resort. Close enough that the boy could stagger the remaining distance on his own, he extricated himself by pointing to his chest and saying his name, "Alejandro." The boy caught the idea, pointed to himself and pronounced the name, "Lang Hao."




Flashbacks commingled past and present behind closed lids. Like crazily interspersed video scenes, Mendez saw Lang Hao and Ting exchanging places, one becoming the other, and two events, elements of which transposed, suggesting possibilities for more fantasy. Happy in the mix of nostagia and recent memory with these hallucinations, he drifted toward sleep. Warmth crept over him – over part of him, the part in the center. It radiated so insistently that he began drifting back, not daring to move until he could blink into the darkened bedroom. Illumination came from a light left on in the bathroom. An ill-lit, shadowy form bobbed in and out of view.


With its every movement, dawning awareness of the present. Greater warmth. Ecstasy of an extraordinary quality. Full-blown. A throat was swallowing his sex. All of it. Soft. Ting. It had to be Ting, gently persuading life's return. In the time it took the thought to form, Mendez elbowed himself for a better view, feeling his organ grow as it was caressed by tongue swirls and throat contractions.


Expansion met accommodation. Lips threaded and coated their way from the bramble of pubic hair to his tip's hypersensitive corona. A breath was drawn deeply, expelled, and drawn again. The head snapped forward to cram the ballooning dirigible of a dick deep. Had Mendez been able count the seconds involved, he would have discovered seven on the upstroke, three for the breaths, two for the downstroke, three for the pause – a total of fifteen for each cycle. Formidable by any standard. No trouble for a young man of Ting's lungs – those of a swimmer – and oral skills. And the work of his Trainers.


He had taken the lead as planned, and executed his task progressively, precisely. He had Mendez spellbound with bliss. Repetitions, four to the minute, sustained the enchantment like magic. What he felt, what he saw awed Mendez so totally that he could only marvel. Open-mouthed as if wanting to speak, sensory wheels turning, he held his breath at a new awareness.


Fingers were coddling his cajones. Legs opened on their own as elbows slid aside to relax tensed shoulders once again onto the bed. That was the moment for Ting's index finger to slip past his client's perineal seam and move to his anal ring. Coordinated with a staged gagging noise, a single probe sufficed to launch the evening's climax.


Ting swallowed and swallowed, securing from Mendez the very last watery products of exhausted seminal vesicles. Too, he had taken the remainder of the man's consciousness. In the knowledge that he had satisfied every requirement of the agreed-to scenario, he drew a sheet over his recumbent, naked "Jefe," opened his backpack, removed the note of thanks written earlier and signed "Your grateful Ting," lifted the telephone to get the front desk's attention, whispered "I'm ready," tiptoed into the bathroom for a complimentary robe and a flip of the lightswitch, and with backpack and shoes in hand exited to the nearly silent click of the door closing behind him.


Charles was in the hall with Ting's laundry, a bottle of cold water, and words of approval. "I've already heard that you surpassed your job with Mr. Duval."


Tired, Ting nodded. Guzzled the water. Let Charles take his hand as they walked downstairs.


Inwardly, he smiled.



Daylight and the need to pee woke Alejandro Mendez. His sheet tangled about him, he wrestled with it, rubbed his eyes, and knew he was alone. Ting's note pleased him. He felt more peaceful than in years. And proud.


Ablutions out of the way, he donned his clothes, collected a few remaining νtems, and headed to the restaurant off the lobby for a big breakfast.


The waiter immediately appeared with a steaming mug of strong, hot coffee and accoutrements. Although there was something familiar about the man's voice, Mendez did not recognize Wade as the counterman from Earl's Diner. Bright daylight, the young man's change of outfit, a different location, a specially-printed menu offering four-egg Juevos Rancheros, toast, and four strips of bacon, and the offer of the morning's New York Times distracted him.


He blew on the coffee and glanced at the front page absentmindedly. Recollections of the previous night claimed his attention until his name was being spoken as if it were a question.


"Seρor Mendez?"


"Yes," he saw a man who was well-turned-out.


"Randy-James McLeod. We spoke on the 'phone two days ago. I'm the one who expedited your appointment. May I take it that you were not disappointed?"


The Trainer settled for coffee – cup after cup – while Mendez gobbled his breakfast and talked. Unlike the few words he and Nurse Rockwell had noticed being spoken during the scene with Ting, Mendez reverted to his daytime rush of umimpeded outpourings.


Observations and opinions tumbled into each other along with bumbled phrases of praise and the intention to "give that Ting boy a big propina."


"A tip? How nice. It will be much appreciated because he's in college now where finacial aid helps. Just tell Charles at the front desk the amount and he will add it to your check."


"One more thing," Mendez ventured as they were about to part, "when I can see him again?"


McLeod smiled at the plaintive way the question was asked by so brusque and otherwise unpleasant a man. "Very soon. Because," he paused for effect, "the DVD will be in your hands in about ten days. Remember? It's part of your contract. You can see it as often as you like."


A hard stare preceded, "That's not what I'm talkin' about. I want to know when I can get together with him again. Damn, man, don't you understand English?"


Professional demeanor kicked in to stifle a snicker at what sounded like "Thas not whut ahm tokkin' about. Ah wanna"... and "don' chew unnerstan"... McLeod leaned close to respond, lowering his voice, "I do. Sr. Mendez, we perform assessments both before, as you know, and after these engagements for everyone's protection. They take time. If you are certified for a re-engagement, you will be notified."


There was pleasure to be observed in the way Mendez brought his red-faced seething impatience under control before saying, "Okay, I get it. But I'm a busy man. I need time to make time to come here – unless you can send the boy to me."


"Sir, that is never done. Policy, you know. Strict policy. You must come here. However, to look at the bright side, my estimate is somewhere in the area of six weeks from now. If you'll be so kind to check your schedule for availability then, I'll try to do for you what I did this time, arrange things on fairly short notice of when you'll be available. And preliminarily, I'll even," he stressed, "pencil in a hold on Ting's time."


He put out his right hand to shake Mendez' and advised, "You might want to contact our CEO, Alan Ecks, for a conversation about this."


Puzzled, Mendez shook hands.


McLeod explained, "It's not ordinarily done except in very special cases," he lowered his voice still further, "for very special clients. When you go over to City Hall, our officer will give you a disposable cell phone programmed only for the one number. Wait a couple of days before you call from Mexico City early in the morning. Understood?


"Yes. I do."


"Good. I'm doing you a favor. Now, I suggest that you have another cup of coffee and use the restroom down that hall at your leisure," he pointed, "before you get on your way. That will give me time to get the cell for you. City Hall's not open yet so, if the officer's not there right away, wait for him."


"Gracias. Muchas gracias, mi amigo." He watched McLeod leave with a nod toward the desk clerk and mumbled to himself, "Next time, I'm gonna use that vibrating bed."






My large novel - five years in the making - concerns the powerful role sexuality plays in the main character's curious passage from anonymity to a kind of prominence in his preferred, narrow area of the world of art - within less than a year's passage. It opens upon an unconventional learning situation and progresses to others involving his extended family, his interactions with other generations, his metamorphosis beyond providing eroticism-as-payback to emotional connections of deep "liveliness."

A romance of a kind no one else has written.


I invite you to view its two formats: