This story is fiction. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. It's copyrighted 2020 by The Jordan Project, all rights reserved outside of Nifty. The reader comes first, so I welcome feedback. Please take some time to provide it to JordanProject@protonmail.com. What works? What doesn't work?
Style Note: My goal was not simply to write a gay BDSM tale, but to write a story that succeeds as fiction. To that end, I think credibility in plot, scenes, and characters is critical, and that takes words. Lots of them. Reader, your patience will be rewarded. You will find plenty of kinky fun here. I suggest reading all the way through, and then returning to your favorite parts later.
Synopsis: We follow the saga of young Jason, the arrogant and spoiled son of a rich American businessman, busted for running drugs in a tropical dictatorship, where he comes to learn his place.
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CENTRAL AMERICAN DRUG BUST - Chapter 1
As they bumped and jerked down the rough path calling itself a road, Cindy Blanchard pondered how they'd come to find themselves shackled and blindfolded in the back of a military vehicle driven by soldiers who had swiftly plucked them off the street.
The resident civilians in the Central American country saw it all, but they knew better than to be seen looking. Only at the end of the 20-minute ride did she have an idea where they were. The soldiers pulled up in front of the farmhouse and handed them over, speaking only a few words of Spanish as they did so, before vanishing back dwn the same rutted trail.
Both she and her boyfriend were fools. They'd trusted the people they met, none more so than the two friendly locals and two Americans they had met during their year off of college. When they were inside, and their blindfolds were removed, she recognized the Men who had been screwing her in this house for the past couple of months. She knew who they were, and now she knew what they were: two local paramilitary police, and two American Marines, all in uniform.
Jason Whittle was rich, or more to the point his father was rich beyond measure. He'd made a fortune in the Central American cigar and sugar trades, and had for a time had served as an ambassador. A child of the Great Depression who'd worked himself up from hard-scrabble roots, he'd produced a spoiled, arrogant son. His girl also came from money, enough to have overridden common sense.
"Don't get involved in drugs," Jason's father had warned when they discussed his idea of taking a year off and immersing themselves in the Central American small-town culture. "Son, that country is plagued by traffickers, and as ambassador I helped set up their anti-drug units. Trust me, you don't want to mess with that."
Jason played along, promising his father that they would avoid the traffickers or even consuming drugs, while laughing inwardly. He'd been there during the ambassadorship and heard his father's unending stream of insults, made in private, about how the country's leaders were corrupt, cruel, and terminally incompetent. People who can't even run the municipal sewer system were going to catch them with drugs?
But that's exactly what happened a month and a half earlier. After a weekend at the farm house he had succumbed to their methods of persuasion, and agreed to set up his girlfriend. They'd been drawn into the smuggling operation slowly and carefully, starting by taking small amounts of cocaine back to Philadelphia. This would be a major arrest, all for show.
The game was as cynical as games get. The Americans were naive but rich, and there was money in pretending to join their crusade. That's how the local authorities viewed it as they protected the traffickers while throwing the Americans enough fish to secure more anti-drug money for their untraceable bank accounts. Jason and Cindy were the perfect patsies, suspecting nothing until it was too late.
"We need to straighten this out," said one of the Americans, a tall and beefy Marine with a square jaw, a cleft chin, and a blond crew cut, wearing camouflage pants and matching hat with captain's insignia, along with black boots and a skin-tight green T-shirt. "But not until we have a drink to take the edge off."
A half-hour later, once Jason was fast asleep on the couch, immobilized by the dose of the knock-out drug mixed with his tequila, two more Men entered the room, dressed in suits and carrying briefcases.
"I am Charles Henderson, from the embassy, and this is Frank O'Keefe, your lawyer," one of them said to Cindy. "You will be indicted for trafficking, and then you will have a choice to make. You can plead guilty and sign this confidentiality agreement, and get a 5-year sentence. Or you can go to trial and get life."
She was stunned, and asked the lawyer, her voice and eyes pleading for a way out.
"I'm afraid that it's an iron-clad case," he said. "I advise you to take the deal. And don't even think of breaking the agreement, because you can be retried and sentenced to life."
Seeing no deliverance, she accepted and signed the papers.
"We'll be back tomorrow afternoon to get you," Henderson said. "You made the right choice in a difficult situation, and I hope you will learn something."
"What about Jason?" she asked.
"Don't worry about him," the Man replied. "You will get your chance to say goodbye, but that part of your life is over. Put him in the rear-view mirror and be glad that it won't be a whole lot worse for you."
"We can still have one more night, chica," one of her captors said, grinning like a wolf. The tall, handsome military Man, muscular with jet-black hair and swarthy Castillian Spanish features denoting his descent from long-ago aristocrats was the leader of the group in the house. He smiled and reached over to brush one of her nipples through her tight nylon blouse. She smiled back, excited by the familiar touch and awaiting his specialty with her, eating her pussy until she moaned in ecstasy.
After he had warmed her up, the Castillian and the others – one after another, and sometimes more than one – screwed her in every hole. For the rest of the night, and into the early morning, they repeated it, each of them cumming two or three times before they finally collapsed, their desires satiated.
The next morning, Jason awoke from a deep, drug-induced sleep on a living room couch, and wandered through the house looking for Cindy and the others. He heard voices from above and climbed the stairs. He followed the voices to a bedroom where he found the Castillian screwing his girlfriend while she sucking on the blond Marine's dick. Another Central American miliary man and another American Marine stood naked and hard, waiting their turns.
"There's coffee in the kitchen, gringo," the Castillian said, a wide smile on his face and contempt in his voice. "Go get yourself some coffee and relax. We'll be down in an hour."
God damn whore, he fumed to himself as he left. It wasn't much of a surprise, but he didn't like it one bit.
"Your papi is the one who set you up," the Castillian said to her when the six of them gathered together downstairs. "We only told him to offer up someone, and it didn't matter who. He chose you, chica."
In shock and anger, she exploded at the revelation.
"How could you do this to me?!" she shouted, her voice a whine and a bitter accusation. "Jason, how could you do it to anyone?"
"Let me answer that," the Castillian said, rising from his seat next to her on the couch to insert a videotape into a VCR sitting below a television set. He hit a couple buttons on the remote control, and the tape rolled, showing her servicing the Castillian and others.
"Your sweet gringo saw this and he wasn't happy at all," the Castillian said. "It's why he picked you, but it's not why he agreed to work with us. That's for the next tape."
He rose again as Jason struggled for breath, knowing what would come next. The video showed him on his back on a bed, getting screwed by the same Castillian who had fucked his girlfriend, and sucking the same dick she had sucked.
"Deeper, papi!" he said in broken Spanish on the tape. "Si senor!"
"He took time to get used to my size, chica, just like you did," he said to her, as he lazily brushed his hand against her nipple again. She found it irresistible, and responded by putting her hand between the Man's legs and squeezing his erection through the pants of his crisp uniform while she smirked at Jason.
"I should have known you were a faggot," she said, now laughing sarcastically as the tape continued and showed him on his knees in front of the two Americans, both of their stiff dicks in his mouth.
In fact, he had not been queer, at least until the Castillian and the others had made him an offer he could do nothing other than accept. It was humiliating in a number of ways, starting with his revulsion at the maricons in the town, whose taverns were gathering places for the expatriate backpackers of the area.
Their disdain of homosexuals was one of the bonds between he and Cindy. A past boyfriend had been one, and she felt used, while he had been disgusted by the passes he had gotten from them. Jason was lean but muscular, with longish, dirty blond dredlocks and a close-cropped beard. He took great care in his seemingly casual grooming, and projected a punkish, vaguely combative, and somewhat attactive masculinity typical of a college-aged American adventure seeker spreading his wings in the tropics.
As a high school wrestler, he'd been approached by homosexuals, and despised their attention. When a young American propositioned him in the bathroom at one of the bars, he told Cindy, who mentioned it to one of the Men who was later on the first videotape. Three days later, the bruised queer emerged from one of the local hospitals with a limp and an arm in a sling, and was escorted to the airport by local police.
Later, they laughed about it along with the four who they regarded as their friends.
"I don't know why any faggot would come all the way down here to suck dick," Jason said after a few shots of the local mezcal, the potent liquor made from cactus juice. "That one's god damn lucky he's not dead."
Jason was shocked when they first played the tape of them screwing her, and even more so when he learned that they weren't just friendly but were authorities. His father's warning came back to him, and he was afraid because the Men knew everything about their cocaine smuggling. The irony was that it wasn't even serious, but something they'd done as more of a thrill game than anything else, not needing the money. His fear deepened a few days later when he received a rare international call from his father.
"You and Cindy are in deep trouble," he said. "The American policy has changed. We no longer rescue the punks who go down there and run drugs. Even if I wanted to help you, I can't. Good luck, son, because you will need it."
Jason was aware of the rampant cruelty in that country, having seen scores of photographs of atrocities while growing up. Every few years, there'd be a revolution, followed by a crackdown, bloody and brutal. But nothing prepared him for what the Castillian introduced him to at the farmhouse: a castrated young American expatriate, missing not just his testicles but also his penis, replaced with a hole for urination.
"This one didn't believe me," the Castillian said as the naked kid stared at the floor. "You are going to be our maricon no matter what, just like this one is. Whether you keep what you have will depend on how well you behave."
He was instructed to say nothing to Cindy, to act as if nothing had changed. They'd keep meeting at their usual tavern, and he'd find out later what it entailed. One night, while she was in the bathroom, the Castillian ordered Jason to show up at a different place the next night, and that's when he was taken to the farmhouse where the second tape was recorded.
He was under their thumb, and he knew it. So did they, then and now in the living room.
"Come here and suck on my dick that your chica has made so hard," the Castillian said, his voice teasing and taunting. "Show your chica just how good the gringo maricon can be for the right Man."
Jason followed the order, docile and mortified as the Castillian smiled and spread his legs, and told him to get to work. As he unbuckled his belt, the Man pointed downward and spoke to Cindy.
"See how interested he is in la pija grande?" he said. "The maricon can't get enough of, how do you say it, my big dick."
She panted while the Castillian played with both her nipples, and laughed derisively at Jason as he sucked the Man's dick and slid his hand on the long, stiff tool to increase the feeling.
"It is unfortunate that you will be going to an American jail, my young puta," the Castillian said to her. "I think you Americans have a phrase for it: Life isn't fair? But at least you have met real Men and at least you have seen that your boyfriend is not who you thought he was."
When the Castillian came in Jason's mouth, the military Man rose from the couch to make room for the blond American Marine, who had taken off everything. He was tall and wide, his cut dick erect and sticking eight or nine inches straight out, a crooked grin on his face. The Castillian had moved in back of the couch and was playing with the girl's nipples as the blond Marine moved into position and spoke to Jason.
"Get around back and lick my balls while I screw her," he said. "After I shoot into her, lick the cum out of her and get her off while you do it."
It was one thing to be cuckolded on tape, but now Jason was directly participating in his humiliation and it was almost unbearable. As he complied with the order, he pondered how far he had fallen, from near the top to close to the very bottom.
The country's culture was highly traditional and patriarchal, resting on assumptions and relationship that had not changed since the Spaniards conquered the natives hundreds of years earlier.
There were Men and women, and their roles were fixed. As long as a Man was discreet, he was all but expected to screw outside of his marriage, while a woman would be exclusive unless she wanted to be known as a puta, a whore. The assumptions surrounding homosexuals were even worse: they were maricons or putos or jotos, considered weak and beneath contempt for their addiction to la pija grande, the almighty hardon.
A Man could screw them and not be considered homosexual so long as he was not the recipient. Even those who were obviously gay – an Americanism not common in that country – were expected to pretend otherwise, while deferring to Men who would tease them in public. They walked a knife edge, expected to take the contempt. In practical reality, a maricon would hope to find a powerful Man and trade sexual favors for protection.
There in the living room, it was open and explicit, and Jason trembled in shame as he licked the Marine's balls, and then the semen out of Cindy's cunt while he brought her to another orgasm. He'd prided himself on his pussy-eating skill, but there was only degradation as he licked a superior Man's semen out of her as they both laughed.
The second Marine took his place. Standing six feet tall with a wide torso, a thin waist, and longish brown hair. He was undercover, his beard, hair, and Latino features enabling him to project the illusion that he was in the country by way of visiting relatives. He had a long, thick erection and big, tight balls that bulged against his shorts.
"Take off my underwear, faggot," he said, his voice a mocking chuckle. "Same as what you did for Tom, except you're gonna lick the shaft too."
Then it was time for Pedro the Blatino, as he was called, a gigantic Man descended from the several hundred Caribbean sugar plantation slaves freed in the 1700s on the condition that they move away.
The backbone of police and paramilitary forces, the "blatinos" were widely feared for their ruthlessness. Pedro had another asset typical of his heritage: a freakishly enormous uncut dick, nearly a foot long and as thick as a beer can. Jason had taken it before, and knew was was next, as the Castillian retrieved a wide bar with shackles on each side, and a pair of handcuffs hanging from the middle. His ankles were fastened first, and his hands were guided underneath his knees and fastened together.
Pedro eased his way inside with a wide, malevolent, and triumphant smile, while the Castillian held the bar with one hand and brushed Jason's nipples with the other. Along with the stimulation of his prostate, his 6-inch dick became erect, causing the Man on top of him to grin and go deeper. He picked up the pace, and soon was hammering away, chuckling all the while.
"I give the puta what she needs," he said, splitting Jason apart and causing him to moan and grimace in agony. "Look at how the gringa puta smiles. Listen to the sound of her pleasure."