The young, muscular Spanish sailor from off the Oceana cruise ship docked over at the Porto Da Praia had me up against the wall in the corridor running behind the stage at Marco’s Bar on the beach in Praia, the capital of the Cape Verde islands. He was nearly twice as big as I was, and, as I was fourteen, he was nearly twice as old too. He wasn’t necessarily twice as mature and experienced, though. My body might only be that of a small-stature fourteen-year-old, but I had seen and experienced enough in that year of what one man can and will do to another for sexual pleasure to have become an adult.

It was a saving grace that I took my sexual pleasures as a yielding submissive to men.

I had been just in a red satin bikini and a red bow tie, having just come off the pole on the stage. Marco’s Bar specialized in boys on the poles. Men wanting fourteen-year-old boys, which was the age of consent in Cape Verde, flocked to bars like this. The bikini, which tied at the hips, though, now was untied and off me, the Spaniard’s wad of 500-escudo notes, the equivalent of two hundred American dollar bills, fluttering to the floor with the bikini. The sailor was fully clothed in an athletic mesh T and jeans, but his fly was open and flared. He’d already crowned himself with a rubber and we both knew where this was headed. I’d named a price and he’d met it. Canned music was blaring from the barroom beyond the beaded-curtain covered doorway twenty feet up the corridor. It was late and the crowd of men in the bar, men only, had thinned out.

I was going to be fucked against a cinderblock wall.

The Spanish hunk, ugly as sin but magnificently muscular and thus sufficiently arousing in the dimly lit hallway, was plastered against me on the rough-texture wall, one hand buried in my shoulder-length blond hair and the other stroking me off as we kissed and he sucked on my throat, my carotid artery throbbing on his tongue. I’d gone on my knee to him before he’d rolled the rubber on.

I would have been no match for him, being a small fourteen, if I was struggling against him, trying to prevent him from taking what he wanted from me, but I wasn’t struggling. This is how I made most of the money I contributed as my share to the group I traveled with.

I jerked and groaned as his hand left my cock and moved under my balls, his fingers searching for, finding, and penetrating my hole.

“¿Vas a abrirme ese agujero, muchacho—Are you going to open that tight hole up for me, boy?” he muttered. I didn’t answer, wanting to leave him with the impression that it would be a chore, because that’s why a lot of these men went with fourteen-year-old boys—for the pleasure of forcing them open and stretching them as the boy writhed under them and begged for mercy that wasn’t given. I was well used, though. I started off seeming tight for the first fuck of the night. But, yes, I’d open right up for him.

Rocking on the fingers, I murmured, “Yes, yes, fuck me.” His thick erection was poking at my thighs. The hand in my hair left there and moved down my body and to the small of my back. He was strong and was lifting me up the wall with that hand. He had to lift me off my feet to put me in position to mount me. He was more than eight inches taller than I was. I solved the issue for him by using my dancer’s flexibility. I raised my legs, hooking my ankles on his shoulders and pointing my toes at the ceiling. The Spaniard liked that and grunted his approval and appreciation. It put me fully under his control. He paused to turn this way and that to kiss my thighs. His other hand left my dilating passage and moved to my left buttock, helping the other hand move me up the wall and jutting my pelvis out toward him, putting me in position for easy penetration

“Ahora, Ahora!—Now, now!” I begged, knowing that was what he wanted to hear and in recognition of the wad of escudo bills scattered on the corridor floor—and wanting to get this over in time for my next go on the pole.

Expecting his cock, I felt the fingers of his right hand at my hole instead. He moved three of them inside me. I clutched at his bulging biceps as I felt the fingers flexing and moving a few inches deeper. He was anxious about whether he could get the channel of a small guy like me open enough for him. A shadow fell across the light coming in through the door down the corridor into the barroom and I started to turn my head toward there, but then I yelped and arched my head, looking up at the ceiling, as I felt the fingers sink inside me, not quite up to the knuckles, and move: in and out, in and out. He was fingerfucking me.

“¿Vas a poder llevarme? Tienes que llevarme o quiero mi escudo de vuelta—Are you going to be able to take me? You have to take me or I want my money back.”

“Sí, sí—I can take you. Put your cock in me,” I answered, but it was his fingers, not his cock, he had stuffed in me.

Shit, is he going to try to dry fist me, I wondered. I tensed up—not just from fear but from shimmering anticipation as well. I was the adventurous, “let’s go to the edge” type. If I hadn’t been, I wouldn’t be here in this corridor, being fucked by a Spanish sailor. I’d been doubled before, so I thought I could take it. But taking it dry? Many big men like him, who wanted to fuck the small boys got off on the listening to the boy suffer. Maybe the Spaniard had paid to hear me suffer.

But the fingers pulled out and he was raising and pulling my pelvis forward with the hand on my back and positioning his cock head at my hole. I flinched and gasped as he entered me, breaching the sphincter with the mushroom cap. Nearly every hard cock penetration was a gasper no matter how big or little it was. I stretched to accommodate him as a couple of inches of the shaft followed, accustomed to doing so for men as impatient as he was to be inside me.

“Fuck, you’re huge,” I muttered, knowing it was what he wanted to hear, but not really lying when I said it. “Joder, eres enorme,” I repeated in Spanish in case his English wasn’t too good. He was pressing in more forcefully than I was being able to open to him.

“Dame tu agujero,” he growled and then repeated it in English, “Give me your hole, baby,” in case I didn’t understand the Spanish.”

“Take it. Fuck me,” I answered.

And then he was in, fully saddled, and was beginning to pump me. The big-cocked Spaniard had conquered the American boy’s channel. He had worried if I could take him needlessly, but I said nothing. I knew he’d picked me for the challenge of getting it inside me. He pumped me, slow at first and then faster and faster. His embrace was steel. I wasn’t going anywhere until he was finished. It was all about his need now. I was good with that. I’d earned the escudo notes scattered on the floor now, no matter whether he could keep it up from here and fire off or not.

“Sí, sí, nena—Yes, yes, baby. Fuck me, work me,” I murmured, grasping his shoulder blades and pressing my fingers in. I lowered my legs and hooked my knees on his hips, rocking my hips against his thrusts, but doing no more than that, now just a vessel for his needy erection, letting him get his rocks off on a yielding fourteen-year-old boy. I made the sounds of suffering that I knew he wanted to hear. His face remained pressed into my throat. He was snuffling and snorting, concentrating on his rutting inside me.

“Yes, baby, yes. Just like that,” I murmured. “Work me; punish me.” I wanted to suffer now, to feel the pain-pleasure of being fucked by a man, to be taxed, to make the sex worth it, to take a big cock pumping me hard.

I sensed again that we were being watched and heard the rustling of the beads in the curtain covering the door into the barroom. I saw a figure there, silhouetted in the brighter light coming from the bar. The man was tall, slender, and muscular—powerful and dangerous looking. I’d seen him lounging against the bar, watching me and drinking beer, while I’d been dancing the pole.

I was part of a group of fourteen-year-old boys wandering around Europe through countries where that was the age of consent: Germany, Austria, Italy, Hungary, mainly. We moved from gay bar to gay bar, specializing in offering the services of young teen boys, dancing the poles and taking the patrons’ cocks for money. We were variety—here today and gone next week; no strings. We’d landed in Cape Verde the previous week, looking for a bit of tropical beach for a change, and were bunking at the Hotel Oasis Praiamar and working the island for what we could get out of it before moving on, probably to back to Germany, the most lucrative of our playgrounds. We hadn’t decided yet—or the man who controlled us hadn’t decided yet.

I had been attracted to the man at the bar. He wasn’t like most of the other guys in Marco’s. He was calmer, seemingly more self-assured. He wasn’t young, maybe in his forties. He was hard-bodied, steely eyed, with a buzz cut that could have some gray in it, and an intricate sleeve tattoo on his right arm that I could see, because his white T-shirt, fitting his bulging pecs like a glove, was gauzy. The tattoo in swirls of blue and black moved up the arm and back down onto the chest to cover his right pec.

He had watched me with slitted eyes the whole time I was dancing. Now, leaning into the side of the doorframe at the entrance into the barroom, with one hand extending down to and loosely cupping his crotch, he was watching the Spanish hunk fuck me against the wall. I had no idea how long he’d been there. I’d sensed a presence since I had thought the Spanish was going to fist me.

Keeping my eyes on the guy in the doorway, strands of beading draping down on his body, I moved my hands down to the Spaniard’s buttocks, pushing the jeans down off the flesh of his cheeks and grasping and squeezing them, holding him to me as he pumped me and murmuring, “Yes, baby, you’re doing me good. Just like that. Give me your cum.” I said it loud enough for the guy in the doorway to hear it. I wanted him to be part of this. I wanted him to whip his dick out and to stroke it as the Spaniard was fucking me—for the three of us to be getting it off together. I wanted to know how much of a man he was, how big his cock was, how big it could get in its want for me. Men went with a boy my age to get a tight hole. I went with men to get a big cock. I wanted him to want me as much as the Spanish guy wanted me. I wanted to feel it; I wanted the man in the doorway to come to us, for the Spaniard to share me with him, for the man to be cruel to me.

The Spaniard was going into overdrive, holding me tight, banging me hard, bouncing me off the wall. Hanging on for dear life, I cried out, “Get it, GET IT, FUCKIN’ GET IT! Blast me!”

He did and loosened his grasp. I’d moved a hand to between us and beat myself off, shooting my load up his belly onto his T-shirt right before he released, giving him a souvenir to show his friends on the ship. He brought his lips to mine and we kissed, me lying comfortably in his embrace now. He was whispering to me in Spanish. I didn’t know what he was saying but it probably was about having a second load.

I only had time to look over his shoulder to see that the guy in the doorway was gone before the Spaniard’s cock was coming alive again, his grip on me was strengthening, his hips were moving, and he was banging me again. He did, indeed, have a second load, and he wanted to get his money’s worth. I was fully dilated to his need now, and he slid free and easy inside me, reaching deeper than he had before. My channel wall muscles grabbed at the shaft and shimmered over it, giving him a real good time. His free-gliding cock was giving me a pretty good time too. His load stretched the bulb of the rubber. He hadn’t unloaded in a while. He’d probably been at sea too long and didn’t have a fuck buddy on board the cruise ship.

When I came out of the back corridor and looked around, I didn’t see the other guy. It was nearly my time to get back on the pole, though, for the few guys hanging on this late in the night, so I didn’t have time to think about any guys other than those swaying before the stage with their tongues hanging out and their hands getting a touch or a feel as they stuffed bills into the waist string of my red satin string bikini.

When I did think of a guy fucking me, though, it wasn’t of the Spaniard who gave me two full loads in the bulb of the condom. It was of the rough-looking guy in the doorway, backlit by the light from the bar, draped with strings of beads and with his hand on his crotch but not taking his shaft out and stroking it for me let alone fucking me.

I didn’t get away from the bar until after 2:00 a.m. I wasn’t exactly a celebrity there. I had to help clean up before I could leave. I left alone, which I didn’t do every night. But I left with over $500 in U.S.-equivalent earnings in various currencies, more than enough to have done my share of the group’s work that day. Another couple of days of this, a day of rest and recreation on the island’s beaches, and then we’d be off to the next venue. I didn’t have transportation to the resort where we were staying, but it was only about six blocks away on the road running along the beach. I could walk it. No problem.

As I was walking away from the light cast by the string of lights around the eaves of the outside porch of the bar, I heard a soft voice, barely audible over the sound of the surf from the nearby beach.

“It’s cold.” It was spoken in English. American English.

“No, it’s not,” I called back, tossing the comment over my shoulder flippantly. I wasn’t all that surprised. The shy ones who wanted to use me after closing sometimes waited outside so no one but me saw them. “This isn’t fucking Iceland,” I said. “I’ve been to Iceland and this isn’t it.”

The man laughed. “This is what’s cold,” he said, and I turned to look at him. He was standing just inside the shadows, the light from the bar picking him out in silhouette just as it had when he was standing in the doorway at the beaded curtain in the bar. He was holding up a six pack of beer. “Come down onto the beach with me,” he said. “You’re an American, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So am I. Come down to the beach with me, baby.”

He was looking tall and slim and muscular. He had a good square-jawed face. Ramrod-straight military bearing. His smile was assured. He had a backpack hanging off his arm. His T was off now, slung over his shoulder, showing off a magnificent chest and the swirl of the tattoo on his right breast and going up and down his right arm. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. His jeans were slung low on his waist, showing the curve under his flat belly on each side pointing to the goods as they disappeared below the waistband. The curls of his reddish-brown pubic hair peeked out of the waistband where it dipped lowest. He was sexy as hell to anyone who melted to a fit older man, which I did. I went hard just seeing him standing there casually, smiling at me in his “he’ll go with me; he’ll let me manhandle him” disarmingly way.

I was a male whore; I wasn’t afraid of a man looking for sex, especially not a hunk like this man was. “Lead on,” I said.

He picked a hollow in the sand, below a sand dune near to the water, but beyond the danger of a tidal reach. We could see the lights from the buildings across the road at the top of the beach, mostly security lights on the corners of eaves. Most everyone was asleep in the dark in the houses at this time. And even the last bar of the night along this stretch, Marco’s, was closed down. Other illumination came from the reflection of the full moon on the water of the sea. It was nighttime dark, but not fully dark here on the sand, the particles of white sand almost luminous in this light.

He took two beach towels out of his backpack and laid them side by side on the sand. At his gesture I sat down on one and he came down on the other, right beside me. He handed me a beer. We drank two of them each while we chatted, guardedly, about each other and how we came to be in Cape Verde, not exactly on any major travel routes, and how old we each were, but not at such reserve that we weren’t comfortable with the conversation.

He leaned into me as we talked, had an arm around my shoulder as we talked more, and then ran his hands over me under my T-shirt and then down the front of my shorts under the waistband and we kissed. I might as well have been naked. I soon would be. He was big; I was small. I felt overwhelmed by his size and strength, and by the sense of his domination. I knew he was going to fuck me there on the sand. That was OK with me.

We sat there for several minutes, his hand down my shorts, playing with me and sexing me up, both of us listening to my heavy breathing and his low humming. I don’t know if he always hummed in foreplay and sex, but he was doing it now. It was a contented “I’ve got this” hum. It was calming and gave me a “he’s got this” feeling. I could just go with the flow and let him take what he wanted when he wanted it.

I was in the mood for him to be cruel in sex. I wanted him to take me roughly, to dominate and control me, to fuck me hard. I wanted him to be built like a bull.

My wish was granted. When there was no more talking, he took me to hell and to heaven.

We went into heavy kissing and petting, in a close embrace, me reclining back and him hovering over me from the side, an arm around my back, holding my torso a bit off the sand, and the other fondling and undressing me as we kissed. He stripped off my T-shirt, shorts, and red satin string bikini, me yielding completely to his touch. I was naked and fully vulnerable to him. I felt his hands gliding everywhere on my body. He didn’t strip down any more than he already had. I sighed inside his hard-bodied embrace.