June

Elian’s whimpers were punctuated with hiccups as he grabbed at Duardo Cordo’s meaty, hairy forearm to try to push the man’s hand away that was pressing the fourteen-year-old boy’s cheek into the bedspread. The boy was on his belly and the forty-year-old Islamorada Key gay bar and charter boat owner was behind and on top of him—and inside him. Duardo, mercifully, was not thick or long, but he was the first, so Elian was suffering. Any resistance was futile. The man was big and strong; the boy was slight and light. Elian had struggled as the man was putting him in place, but once Cordo was inside him, Elian was undone and had the stretching, filling, and newly experienced pain to contend with.

It wasn’t entirely new, though. Elian had imagined and welcomed something like this, and he’d found and experimented with one of the dildos kept in the bar before. That’s what Cordo had found him doing on this afternoon and had decided it was time to initiate the boy who was flirting with men at the bar and put him to work on his back. It wasn’t as if Elian hadn’t shown an interest in this.

Cordo’s thrusts slowed down as he spiraled up toward a release. He was breathing heavily. The boy was near to sobbing as the man destroyed his virginity to men. A slow thrust and then another. Cordo pulled his hand away from the boy’s face, although he kept the fist of the other hand buried between Elian’s shoulder blades, holding the boy to the bed. The man grabbed a hank of long, black hair at the back of the Cuban boy’s head and yanked the boy’s head off the bed, bowing his back into Cordo’s beefy, hairy chest, as, with one, then two, thrusts, initiating a jerk and a spouting and then another, and a little cry of completion from the man, Cordo breeded the boy. Duardo was enjoying taking it raw. This was the boy’s first time. There was no danger in taking him bareback.

The virginal channel was nicely tight, but not too tight for Duardo to work it. He’d allowed as much opening opportunity as possible, taking into account that Elian had started it himself with the dildo. And he had gone slow and plowed shallow, knowing this was the boy’s first time with a man’s cock. He savored getting it bareback.

Immediately upon ejaculating, Cordo released Elian and stood up from him in the bedroom of the apartment above the gay bar at the end of East Carroll Street by the pier where Cordo’s Florida Keys charter boat was docked.

“There, it’s done now. Now you can carry through with the saucy looks you give the men. You can increase your worth to me. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Elian was panting hard and he didn’t respond to his aunt’s husband fast enough. Cordo thumped him in the head and repeated, “Answer me. That wasn’t so bad, was it? I know you’ve been wanting to do it—for men coming to the bar to lay you. Now you can do it for money. You can have half of what you earn on your back. Answer me. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No, Duardo. That wasn’t so bad,” Elian answered in a small voice as he turned onto his back. Cordo sat down on the bed beside him and glided a hand over the small but perfectly formed boy’s brown body. Elian was just one of so many boat people from Cuba who had made it to Florida. He’d come three years earlier. His parents had been in the boat with him, but neither had made it. His aunt—his mother’s sister—who had made it earlier and married Duardo Cordo in Miami—had taken the boy in. Cordo’s parents had come over in the 1980 Mariel boatlift and he subsequently was born in the States, thus becoming a naturalized citizen.

Elian’s aunt was a hairdresser in Miami and lived there rather than here in the keys because she was established and the wages were better there. They also lived apart because Cordo showed no sexual interest in her. She didn’t know or care why and had no idea that his bar in in the keys was a gay bar. The marriage benefited her because Cordo was a naturalized citizen, so she didn’t look closely into his affairs—any type of affair.

That doesn’t mean she had any idea how Duardo would use her nephew, Elian, when she sent the boy to him for the summer. She’s wanted the boy to have the experience of working with a man. She had no idea the man would put the boy under himself and other men.

Elian had been sent to help Duardo on the charter boat for the summer and had also, despite it not being legal, been serving in the bar at the dock, where he had attracted the interest of men. Cordo had seen the chance of capitalizing on that, and he had done nothing to try to curtail the boy’s interest in men. Elian was to return to his aunt at the end of August to attend school in Miami.

He would certainly be returning a totally changed boy.

“You will earn much more money now,” Duardo said, his hands working the trembling body of the young boy, who couldn’t say that he hadn’t thought about doing this or that the hands weren’t driving him crazy and making him harden up. He could see that Cordo was hardening up again too.

If he needed to, Cordo could invoke the adage about getting right back on the bicycle to get another fuck out of this, but Elian was shuddering and shimmering and moaning. He wouldn’t need to be forced. The boy was lying there, on his back, legs spread and bent, arms flung out, panting and staring at Duardo as a slave to a master—open and vulnerable. Duardo knew the boy was done now and would be good for whatever a man did to him now. Duardo would do him again now to seal the boy’s fate—getting right back on the bicycle.

“You can buy those headphones now. Isn’t that good?”

“Yes, Duardo,” Elian murmured.

“Did you like it that way?—it’s called a posición de perrito—a doggy position, in English—mounting you from behind.” Cordo’s hand moved below the boy’s pert cock and balls and he was fingering Elian’s hole, which reopened a bit from the attention. Elian moaned and instinctively raised his tail a bit.

Yes, the boy was ripe for it again.

“Duardo, please,” Elian whimpered. Cordo didn’t ask what the boy meant by the “please”—whether he wanted Cordo to stop fingering his hole or if the boy was asking to be fucked again. Since Cordo knew he was going to fuck the boy again, he saw no need to ask what the “please” meant.

“There are several positions—several ways. Pay attention here. The man will usually let you know what he wants. If he pays, you are just to give it to him how he wants it. He may ask you how you like it best, though. The other way most will like it is called a estilo misionero—missionary position in English. It’s like this.”

Elian began panting and whimpering again as Duardo, much, much bigger and heavier than the boy, held the boy’s wrists together in his strong hands, forced Elian’s arms over his head, ran his other hand between the boy’s legs, forcing his limbs to spread and bend further. The man moved into position with his knees between the boy’s thighs and put his cockhead in position.

“It’s called a estilo misionero—missionary position,” Duardo repeated. “You’ll love it this way.”

Elian cried out and arched his back as Cordo’s regained erection penetrated and started to move, forward and back, up and down, meaty butt cheeks clinching and releasing with the slow, but increasing, rhythm of the fuck.

“Oh, Duardo! Oh, DUARDO!”

“It’s better now, after the first time, isn’t it. You’re loving it now.”

“OH, DUARDO!”

Early August

Night had fallen on Friday evening on Islamorada Key and men had made their way to the gay bar at the foliage-protected end of East Carroll Street. Duardo, noticeably nervous about an important fishing charter he was taking out the next day, was taking orders and keeping order on the wide open front porch overlooking the bush-lined parking area, while Elian, too young to be serving booze but doing so anyway, was serving the tables inside.

Elian was wearing just red-silk shorts covered in sparkly sequins and flip-flops as he had done a turn of desultorily riding the pole on the small stage to recorded sound. He didn’t really know how to dance the pole well, but the bar patrons didn’t mind—he was a cute, willowy boy. That’s all they needed to get their engines revving. As he was moving about the room now, serving drinks, a man sitting at a table wrapped an arm around him as the boy passed, and Elian was doing what he could to extricate himself with smiling banter.

Duardo appeared at the door and called out, “Cop car driving in. Elian’s underage.” That’s all it took for the patron to let loose of the boy like he was just-identified poison ivy and the other men to turn from watching, having hoped they’d see the boy fucked on the table, and Elian managed to go out the back of the bar and come around to the ocean side of the building.

Two cops in uniform, one white and one black, had gotten out of the patrol cruiser and were standing in the road below the porch of the bar. They were looking around and were able to pick Elian out because of the reflection of the sequins on his shorts picked out by the flames of the lit tiki torches dotted here and there around the bar and down the length of the pier.

Saying nothing and giving no gesture, Elian slowly walked over to and onto the pier and started moving toward the charter boat tied up at the end of the long pier jutting out into the ocean. Not walking any faster than he was, the two cops followed him on the pier. When he reached the boat, Elian climbed down onto its deck and went down into the forward salon cabin. Windows in the cabin allowed flicker light from the tiki torches to enter. It was dim, but not dark. A door beyond the salon, toward the bow of the boat, led to a small berth cabin on either side and a head straight in.

Elian moved toward that door but changed his mind and decided to stand his ground in the salon. A table was bolted to the deck in the middle of the salon. Built-in benches lined the sides of the cabin against the windowed walls. They were covered with cushions over storage bins in the base of the benches.

Elian backed up against the table as the two cops climbed down into the boat well and then down the few steps descending to the forward salon and berth cabins. Once in the salon, the two separated so that Elian couldn’t see them both at once, but they remained close enough to the steps up onto deck to intercept him if he made a dash for it.

But Elian wouldn’t make a dash for it. He knew why they were here and he knew what Duardo wanted him to do for these men.

“Guess you know it’s time to pay the rent,” the white cop said, with a grin. Both he and the black cop, both of them solidly built muscle men in their late thirties, were unbuttoning their shirts and unzipping their flies. Neither one took off his equipment belt. Both were in massive erection.

There was no property rent to pay, but the use the bar was being put to—as a gay club with hookup rooms to rent and Elian and a sixteen-year-old black boy available for a fee—was outside the law, and the law on Islamorada was only willing to look the other way in exchange for favors. These two cops were the ones who collected “the rent” from Duardo’s gay bar. Other cops on the force collected it from the regular brothel at the southern end of the key.

Elian did know why they were here. This wasn’t the first time he’d paid their rent.

They didn’t waste much time getting to it. The black cop turned Elian toward the table, bent the boy over, went on his knees behind him, pulled Elian’s shorts off his legs, ate his ass out, and pulled on his cock, as the white cop went to the other end of the table and got up on it on his knees. While the black cop stood, hovered over Elian with his hands clutching the boy’s narrow hips, and fucked him in a doggy, the white cop made the boy suck his cock.

The white cop wanted to play more than the black one did. The black one just wanted to get his rocks off and, of the two, he was the one who didn’t seem to be sure of this being what they should be doing with a boy. But he did want to get his rocks off, and he had big rocks—and shaft—to get off.

When the black cop shot his load and was done, he pulled Elian up from the table, got under him on the table and put Elian, facing up, into a full Nelson arm lock, stretching the boy’s willowy torso out. The black cock spread his legs and Elian’s legs were hooked over them, which spread him wide. A panting Elian was stretched out, totally under control, open and vulnerable. Grinning, the white cop came around to in front of the other two, took his nightstick off his equipment belt, and used it like a dildo on Elian’s passage, while the boy writhed, panted, and whimpered. Luckily, the black cop had been thick enough that the nightstick didn’t tear the boy up.

When the white cop decided he wanted to use his own cock, he did so, grasping Elian’s ankles, raising and spreading the small guy’s legs, moving his cock head into position, penetrating, and fucking the boy.

This fuck went on for about ten minutes until a man in a suit who had appeared at the salon door and watched them cleared his throat and said, “Are you two about done?” and then in nearly the next breath said, “I think you two are done.”

Elian had seen the man watching the two cops fucking him for the better part of a half hour, but if the two cops had seen him, they hadn’t reacted. When he spoke, though, the fucking stopped, they released Elian, stood away from the table, and readjusted their clothing. They’d gotten their uniform shirts unbuttoned and hanging from their muscular chests and their flies open to let their erections breathe and fuck, but they hadn’t undressed otherwise.

“Yes, right, Detective Scott,” the white cop said. “Rent’s been paid now. We’ll move along. He’s all yours. Enjoy.” They left Elian sprawled out on the table, panting and whimpering. Then they both left the boat like they couldn’t get out of there fast enough and jogged back up the pier.

“You OK, son?” Jack Scott asked, reaching down and laying a hand on the naked boy’s lower back. The police detective was maybe in his mid forties. He was tall and thin, but clearly was hard-bodied. He was better looking than either of the two cops had been and appeared more in command of himself and the situation than either of those two were.

“Yes, sir,” Elian said, his eyes downcast, clearly automatically saying that because that was what the police detective wanted to hear.

“Well, then, I guess we better get on with it,” Scott said, as he unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off his back, and started unbuckling his pants. “We’re sure to be under observation, so it has to look good. You know I’m only doing this because—”

“No, it’s OK. I like going with you,” Elian said. And that was the truth. He did like going with the handsome police detective. He’d done before. The detective had come to the bar before—not as a detective. He had taken Elian upstairs before. He had been gentle and attentive with the boy, but he had fucked him.

Naked now, Scott picked the boy up in his arms, carried him through the door to the berth cabins, picked the one with a window toward the pier, and laid the boy down on the berth built into the hull of the boat. Elian spread and bent his legs, placing his feet flat on the surface of the berth, and used his feet as leverage to raise and roll up his pelvis. Scott knelt between the boy’s thighs, ran an arm under Elian’s waist to raise his hips more, and put his erection in position.

Elian panted and groaned as the cock penetrated, moved up inside him, and began to plow him in slow, deep slides that increased in speed and intensity as they ascended to a release.