INFAMOUS TRADE by Andrej Koymasky (C) 1998 - 2002 written the 20th of July, 1995 translated by the author English text kindly revised by Jer
USUAL DISCLAIMER
"INFAMOUS TRADE" is a gay story, with some parts containing graphic scenes of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion, family, opinion and so on this is not good for you, it will be better not to read this story. But if you really want, or because YOU don't care, or because you think you really want to read it, please be my welcomed guest.
SEVENTH
Yung Chem booked a suite in the hotel Piccadilly, on the eleventh floor. The hotel was built in the style of the old French castles. He registered under the name Henry Yue Luan using a passport that qualified him as a Chinese stock agent born in Taiwan but residing in Macao.
Piccadilly Hotel was clad on the outside with Portland stone, but the entrance hall was all in marble with gilded decorations on the ceiling. There was a gallery of exclusive shops and in the lobby, furnished in the Art Deco style, there was a life size statue representing a half-naked young fisherman. It was said that it portrayed an Irish youth who lived in the nineteenth century. It was the guy who built the hotel using the three hundred pounds that a diplomat of the Indies Company paid him to spend every night for a month with him. Chem found it really amusing that the young man died when a young lady asked him to become her lover -- the young and rich fisherman refused bursting in laughter and she shot him on the spot. It was said that she was sentenced to death for that.
The French restaurant of the hotel looked onto a private garden, and offered on its wine list something like thirty-one kinds of champagne and served the best smoked salmon that Chem ever tasted. His passion for the good cuisine was not just an affected behavior -- to excel in whatever activity one needs to feed himself adequately.
At six forty-three of the morning after his meeting with Rowland Preston, Chem entered the drawing room of his suite and switched on first the main light, then two bronze lamps. He was wearing a black sport track-suit trimmed in green, a green forehead band and rice straw slippers. He had a white towel around his neck.
He decided on an hour training workout in Tae Kwan Do, then he would have breakfast with Jeff Dalton and Naoki Sato. Then it would be time to think about business -- the catalogue sale of two stocks of boys. Then, the next destination was New York, last stop on the journey that had to save his life. There he would gather the major part of the money and take the American boy he had bought from Rowland.
Nearing a window covered with damask curtains, looking, twelve floors below, towards Buckingham Palace, Chem put the towel on the windowsill. Nothing was visible. Darkness and rain hid the landscape. Breathing deeply, Chem scanned the window, vigorously massaging the nape of his neck with both his thumbs. Then crossed the room nearing the Carrara marble fireplace where he put his towel. He kicked away his slippers and started an in place run, raising his knees high, while his legs moved in rhythmically jerks. He stopped five minutes later, making a few neck twists and circular movements with his legs.
He cautiously continued his stretching, allowing his muscles to stretch to their natural limits, making each movement slowly, without effort or pressure dangerous for his joints or ligaments. The physical and mental discipline of the Tae Kwan Do was demanding. But the rewards from this martial art, whose origins dated back one thousand five hundred years before, were a formidable courage and an indomitable spirit.
After moistening his face and the back of his neck, he reached the fireplace, mentally revising his plan for the day. Gathering money and deciding if he should leave what he earned from the sale in London, to Rowland, or to send the money directly to Seoul. He had to send Jeff to confirm the air tickets from London to Montreal.
He would then reach the United States from Montreal in a rented car, across the borders, avoiding the patrols and the customs agents. Chem smiled -- all roads led to that magnificent boy named Terry. At first he would be reluctant; but in his hands, in the end, he would become sweet like honey and an expert creature for recreation. For Chem's recreation, before anyone else.
That day he had to earn about four million from only two clients. One of them was a Nigerian, tall 6' 4" who, when he was not busy to scam the insurance companies, or fake credit cards and manage a travel agency on Turloe Street, was managing a chain of exclusive brothels for rich army and political men in seven African countries. The other client was an Indian who organized international marriages as a cover activity for his smuggling of gold and diamonds and who owned a chain of brothels all over India. Each hour Chem's work schedule became more hectic. He had only a few more days left to scrap together what he still missed of the twenty million he still owed to General Kim Jong. In New York, his last stop, he previewed sales that would allow him to earn at least eleven million dollars -- the auction sale could easily raise his earnings. This should take him afloat again and also give him a few million profits. In the next hours he had to have luck at his side, or else he would be dead.
The best part of all this business would be the profit that had to be around three million dollars, perhaps even more. That amount would allow him to buy more boys to send to his island. He would be free for several months to fully devote himself to the task of transforming the American boy in something perfect, sensual, erotic, lusty and faithful.
Day light was laboriously peering its way through the hotel window, when Jeff Dalton, bare-foot and wearing only a short terry cloth bathrobe, entered the drawing room. Ignoring Chem, he sat on the soft sofa and took the telephone from the small table. He ordered breakfast for three. The former mercenary was a self assured man, who didn't hesitate to freely express his thoughts. He didn't have any scruples about mocking Chem for his choice for breakfast -- boiled eggs with crumbled crackers.
"The convalescent's breakfast is on its way." He announced after he put down the telephone.
"Is Naoki awake?"
"He got up. He also opened both windows -- my dick was starting to freeze."
Chem had a single room, while the two men had to share a room. Jeff was not enthusiastic about that. He would have preferred to share it with someone he could take to his bed. Jeff and Naoki never had sex with each other. Even if they often had sex with the same boy, it was always one after the other. One only watched while the other took his fun, then swapped roles. Only three or four times did they fuck the same boy at the same time, one in his mouth and the other in the ass. The last time had been with Elton, when the master gave the boy the tribute. But while Naoki was aroused doing it in front of him, Jeff preferred to fuck alone, in private. He could feel freer to follow his fantasies and do, and make the boy do, everything he liked best.
"I have to stop at the bank to send money to my mother." Jeff said.
"You'll do it later, after you go to the Embassy. I don't like you and Naoki going around while carrying my money. I want to leave England tonight, and that means that everything has to go on according schedule."
Jeff crushed out the cigarette he had just lit: "Every time we come here, there is always shitty weather. I hate this grayish country, I hate cold, I hate cold people. If I had to live here, I'd become insane. And I prefer Latin boys, for a fuck."
Chem ended his training and dried his face. "I've heard that New York is freezing cold -- put on your warm clothing."
Jeff slipped his hands into his bathrobe pockets: "Speaking of New York, how is your friend Jacques Roux?"
Chem put his towel on the shelf: "Bad. He refuses to meet anyone except his beloved Dan. We will deal with Dan Firestone, and of course with Preston."
It's not that Jeff liked the idea of the commerce. Taking children escaping war and famine and making of them sex slaves... But he knew also people are only packs of wolves, tearing each other to pieces, and that it was unavoidable that the weaker succumbed. One had to always be in the stronger pack and overcome the others. Even if it was the puppies that lost. It was war, an unending war. Even Machiavelli, his favorite writer, said that man is a wild beast. Anyway morality was a vice that a mercenary couldn't afford. Nobody hires a soldier of fortune because he believes in God.
Jeff accepted the idea that his job forced him to do things that no minister, priest, rabbi or bonze could ever bless. What he liked best was the adrenaline rush that flowed through him at the moment of the action. It was even better than an orgasm.
Other than his fifty-eight year old widow mother, there was nothing in this world he cared for. Everything considered, not even of the buying and selling of children and boys, whose lives would only continue by satisfying one cock after another -- always better than dying of starvation or torn into pieces by a bomb. A cock can tear you into pieces only the first time... he amusedly thought.
A little after one p.m., on a day darkened by a winter storm, Young Chem, wearing a silk red gown and matching slippers, was concluding his first sale of the day in his hotel suite.
His clients were Mister and Mrs. Pokash, a friendly Indian couple. After going through the catalogues, and having chosen boys from seven different countries, they gave him the sum of two million twenty five thousand dollars in cash. Mrs. Pokash, a massive woman in her sixties with gray hair, wearing a yellow and pink sari under her crumpled raincoat, was conducting the largest part of the sale.
Her husband, a Bengali in his fifties, thin and with a permanent smile on his face, treated her with deference and limited himself to pulling out the unlit pipe from his mouth only to say: "Very well, very well."
The couple was accompanied by their two oldest sons. One wore a three piece suit. The other was in jeans and a Chicago Bear's T shirt. Chem agreed to the woman's request to allow the two boys to take part in the sale. It was important, she explained, since the two boys would soon open new branches and in the future make independent purchases of boys. They had to learn. Chem accepted. He did not want to lose business, he so desperately needed. Nothing showed in the reports about the Pokashs that had they used violence in the past, but anyway Chem asked them to come unarmed and had them searched by his men. They were clean.
While they were going through the catalogues and choosing the boys, the mother rapidly explained in Hindi to her sons the criteria of making choices from the catalog, pointing at the prices, or at details of the pictures, or translating the short descriptions. The oldest of the two sons was looking at the pictures with a greediness that Chem asked himself if it came from the perspective of future earnings or rather from his own sexual greed -- he was leaning more towards this second hypothesis; which was soon confirmed by a generous, clear swelling in the young man's fly.
They shortly discussed the prices, but as usual, Chem didn't change them even by a dollar. In the end, totaling up their order, he simply rounded down the total, giving them a small discount of four thousand dollars, which was a miserable 0.5 per cent.
Meanwhile Jeff was stalking around the room, a Taurus with silencer in his hand, a Uzi gun machine on his back and a Magnum slipped into his belt. The menacing air blowing around the man made the four Indians nervous. His eyes passed from the Pokashs, to the entrance door, to the telephone, then back to the Pokashs. Like a snake, even when he was calm, Jeff inspired an implied feeling of violence.
Naoki, sober in his dark suit and white shoes, was standing, his back towards the door, his arms crossed on his muscled chest, and he too was observing the Pokash. Contrary to Jeff, he never moved. His breathing was imperceptible. The only sound that was heard in the room was that of rain and wind against the windows.
The business concluded, after counting the money and giving to the Pokashs the pictures of the purchased boys, Chen shook hands with the members of the Pokash family and escorted them to the door. They were as anxious to leave as he was to get rid of them. In a while, the Nigerian would arrive. After Chem concluded the second sale, he would leave for America.
Once the Pokashs left, Chem felt so enthusiastic that he almost wanted to dance. He was much richer than an hour ago and this was the cause of his happiness. He looked at his Mikey Mouse watch, a souvenir of his visit to Tokyo Disneyland where he went three years ago. Twenty minutes to three. Twenty minutes before Jonathan Katsina, the huge Nigerian, made his appearance with a couple of million dollars. They were right on time with the schedule. It would be Chem to decide his own future, and not General Jong.
Jeff and Naoki finished putting the money in Chem's room, and were sitting in the drawing room, when three sharp knocks at the door were heard: "Police, open the door!"
Chem stood up from the sofa. He felt a pain in his chest, his breath became short. In the attempt to stop the sudden migraine, he pushed the palms of both his hands on his temples.
On the other side of the door, a voice said with a cockney accent: "Mister Henry Yue Lan, we know you are in your room. Open the door, please. We would like you to help us for one of our investigations, please."
Chem took a few steps forward and back. Suddenly stopping he put out a red silk handkerchief from his gown pocket and bit it. He didn't see Jeff going to the telephone, taking the receiver and listening. Next to him Naoki, silently stood up from the sofa, impassive as usual, -- looking at Chem he waited for orders.
Throwing down the receiver, Jeff said: "The line is dead. They are not the police, this is a robbery."
Chem stopped biting his handkerchief: "How can you be certain?"
Jeff slipped his Magnum into Chem's gown pocket. "How can I be sure? Because I suspect that the telephone line was cut just after you had in your hands two million dollars. Because with your reputation, the police would first aim a pistol to your temple and then talk to you..."
Chem threw a glance to the door: "And what, if you are wrong? If they really are the police?"
Jeff whispered something to Chem's ear. When the Korean heard what his man said, he called Naoki to his side while Jeff crossed the room and went into Chem's bedroom, leaving Chem to rapidly inform Naoki what to do.
"Mister Yue Lan, please, don't make things more difficult for yourself. We just want to ask you some questions."
"I'm coming, Sir. I'm coming!" Chem said.
The deferential tone of his voice was deceptive. Any sign of fear or indecision had disappeared. He coldly looked at Jeff disappearing in his bedroom, then towards the entrance. The hate he felt towards whomever was trying to cheat on him was boundless. If those policemen really were robbers, he would destroy them.
Naoki, on his side, was excited by the perspective of a fight. He felt a cold wrath emanating from Chem and he knew how explosive the man's rage could be. Chem was a generous master, but also a proud man who didn't like being insulted, menaced or cheated.
Followed at a short distance by Naoki, Chem went near the entry door. When he opened it he was showing a friendly and warm smile: "Good afternoon, Sirs. I am Henry Yue Lan. What can I do for you?"
"You can start, by moving aside and allowing us to enter. What do you think?"
The man who was talking was a massive Londoner in his thirties, with small features on a large and hearty face. He was accompanied by two younger men, faces half hidden by police helmets. All three wore dark mantles over their impeccable sea blue uniforms.
His hands slipped in his gown's pockets, Chem backed one step into the room, followed by the three policemen. The chief, the man with the hearty face, and the policeman with buck teeth, passed by Chem with indifference, controlling the room. The third man, a youth with a worried air, stopped behind Chem and Naoki.
Still showing his back to Chem, the man with the hearty face said: "I am agent Fowler. I would like to talk with you about some problems concerning your passport, if possible." And turned to face Chem and Naoki.
Chem continued to smile: "Is there something wrong? I presumed my passport is in order."
Fowler slowly turned his eyes around the room: "Before facing that matter, I think there is a third gentleman traveling with you. Do you know where is he now?"
Chem nodded with his head towards his rooms: "I think that at this moment he is taking an hot bath. He is not used to this kind of climate, I think that the bad weather wore him out."
Fowler blew into his joined hands: "I see. The weather hell out there, this time. Out there the cold could freeze the balls off a bronze monkey. Pain and pleasure, as we say, a cockney expression to mean the cold rain."
"Ah, really? I didn't know." Chem amiably said.
Fowler sighed: "You say that your friend is taking a bath. Good. I was taught that cleanliness is one of the first of virtues. Permit me to compliment you for the choice of your slippers -- red and rimmed in gold. A perfect match with your precious gown. Really elegant. Nothing to do with the clothes I was used to wear as a boy in winter. It seems that you refined people have a sense of clothing that we miss."
While the policemen at their back was giggling, the man with red hair went near Fowler and whispered something in his ear.
Fowler nodded in assent then, nodding towards the bedroom, sadly: "Agent Quillan, here, will go to the bathroom to check if your man is washing properly his ears. After that we will come to our business. Agent Quillan carry out your task."
Quillan pulled out his hands from under his mantel handling a sawed-off shotgun. Chem didn't give any hint of a reaction, his smile remained imprinted on his face.
While Quillan was going to the bedroom, Fowler said: "I am certain that you young gentlemen will not dislike remaining here with me and agent Dawson while Agent Quillan carries out his small reconnaissance looking for your friend. Dawson?"
Backing towards the fireplace, Dawson gripped his sawed-off shotgun aiming at Chem and Naoki.
"I thought that English policemen were not armed." Chem observed.
Fowler slipped his hands in his pockets: "Oh, but we are, sir. On special occasions, absolutely special, we are."
"And this is one of those special occasions?"
"I would say so, sir. Ah, now that I think to that... you'll be not mind if we search you? A formality, I am sure you'll understand..."
He requisitioned Chem's Magnum, and Naoki's Czech gun.
"What a shame, going around England armed like pirates thirsty for blood! Don't you trust in us policemen?" He put the two guns on the shelf and went next to the sofa, adding: "I don't like weapons -- it's easier shooting at themselves than to harm somebody."
Pulling off his helmet, Fowler passed the palm of his hand on his forehead, then put the helmet back on. A nice trick dressing like a cop. He had spent his last three years in jail for robbery, theft and fraud.
Patrick Quillan used the gun barrel to open the door to the bedroom. Fowler talked about million of dollars, and now they were about getting their hands on them. They three and the guy who sent them there. Quillan advanced three steps in the empty room with a king size bed, lit only by a lamp on the night stand.
Three steps, then he stopped petrified to look at the money: "Good Lord!" he whispered.
He could hear the water flowing in the bathroom at the end of the room, but his mind was blind to everything but the money. Spread out on the bed there were bundles and bundles of American dollars.
"I'm dead and in paradise. It must be so." Quillan thought.
Also Patrick Ian Quillan had had his lucky strike. He would no longer have to smuggle with the Yardies, a fucking Jamaican gang used to shoot before asking questions. And he also would no longer have to make squad with Dawson to recover the money lent by sharks who always asked them to break the knees of some poor evil as a warning to the other debtors. That rainy day in Piccadilly was the best of his young life, an existence up to then not so brilliant.
These thoughts took only a few seconds, but they were seconds while Quillan forgot the reason why he went in the room, seconds while he was distracted from his task. Reluctantly parting from the money, he turned towards the bathroom door, whose door was only half closed. The noise of the water coming from inside meant that the man in there preferred to wash in a full tub. Silk boxers on the bottom of the bed made him think about the Asiatic in gown in the other room -- it gave him the idea he was a fag, he possibly took it in his ass from his two mates. Holding tightly to his gun, Quillan drew nearer to the bathroom, self confident. He had nothing to fear from this bunch of sissies. He recalled with an amused smile when as a boy he went with his friends for queer bashing. Once, before thrashing him bloody, they also fucked the little twenty years old fag in the ass -- how was he screaming while they held him fast and screwed his ass one after the other, all six of them!
Anyway his thought was still attracted by the money on the bed -- he could pocket a bundle before going back to report to Fowler... Why not? Each one for himself, in this world. When he was at the door's threshold, he stopped near an armchair and lightly put the barrel of his gun against the door. Absorbed in his reasoning, he didn't see Jeff emerging from behind the armchair, grasping the gun's barrel with one hand and putting his Taurus with silencer against the chin strap of Quillan's helmet. Quillan froze and became stiff. The hand holding the barrel left it and rapidly twirled and Quillan fell, readily held up by Jeff who pulled his hands off the gun. He rapidly tied up the youth, as a professional, pulled off his helmet and gagged him. That one would no more be a hindrance.
From the drawing room Fowler's voice came: "Agent Quillan, would you kindly tell us what is happening there?"
Jeff broke into the room aiming his gun at Fowler's head, while with his other hand he aimed the sawed-off shotgun towards the other fake agent: "Quillan can't answer no more, he is dreaming."
Fowler seeing Jeff was startled for a moment, then said: "Kill him, Dawson!"
The man took a step away from the fireplace. He thought that at that distance he could not get a shoot at his opponent. A sawed-off shotgun is a weapon effective only at close range. He had to draw just a little closer and he would have the newcomer under fire. In the excitement of the moment he forgot Chem and Naoki, who were unharmed. He advanced another step and turned his back to the two Asiatic men. Naoki seized Dawson from behind holding his arms fast at his sides and raising him from the floor. While Dawson was screaming, Chem threw a kick straight to his solar plexus, and Dawson also wilted lifeless to the floor. Jeff, his gun still aiming at Fowler's head, advanced into the drawing room.
Chem rose his hand: "Don't shoot, I want him alive. He is the boss."
Fowler threw a glance towards the entrance: between him and the door there was only Chem.
"Fuck the bastard and you'll be free like a little bird! So much the worst for you, Yue Lan, for you and your pretty red slippers." Fowler thought.
He didn't need weapons, as that fag said not to shoot. Good, his hands would be enough to do in that little dandy fag. A couple of punches and he will change his face forever, much more as the other Asiatic was bending on the poor Dawson and was tying him with his belt.
He threw himself forward and charged at Chem who lowered as if he wanted to escape. While Chem was kicking away his slippers, Fowler with his fists closed at the level of his own shoulders, ready to dart out, hurled himself on him. Chem waited a couple of seconds then spun backwards rapidly hitting with his heel the cockney's nose.
His arms lowered, Fowler staggered backwards while a shooting pain hammered his head. Blood flew from the broken nose, his sight was blurring. His legs spread, he shook his head to clear his sight. That cursed bastard hit him with a lucky stroke. But he would slaughter him, damn, he would really slaughter him.
He again hurled himself forward with his forearms in front of his face to protect it. He saw Chem moving two steps at his right, waiting, then moving a step to his left. Fowler was now possibly a little more careful but was not impressed by the mobility of the Korean. Now he would show him that he too was skilled with the legs play -- he had been a good boxer. And he would part that yellow face from his yellow neck!
But the pain in his head didn't abandon him. He again shook his head to recover his clarity and that was the moment when Chem hit again throwing the side of his right foot into the man's thorax. The kick cut off the breath of the Englishman who felt like he had been hit by a truck. Unable to breath he fell down in panic. Turning his back to the Korean he desperately looked for an escape but Chem hit him on his spine, making him fall on his knees. Chem jumped at his side and hit him with his hand edgewise behind his left ear knocking him down and making him lose his senses.
"Nice job. But I thought you wanted him alive. I don't think his friends know who sent them." Jeff said going near Fowler and checking his heart beat on a vein of his neck.
"Well, I think he is still among us..."
"Not this one. He went to join his ancestors." Naoki said no longer trying to tie Dawson.
Chem, who showed exceptional coolness during the fight, raised his voice almost hysterically: "How did they know where we were?"
"Your presence in London is not exactly a secret. Rowland, the Pokashs, Katsina, the General Jong, Firestone... All them know you are here."
"What ever it costs, I'll find out who betrayed me and I'll make him pay. I don't want any fucked bastard going around thinking he can cheat on me. Absolutely not!"
"I bet on the Nigerian. Preston has not to move a finger to put his hands on your money -- you gave it to him."
"But if I died he would no longer have to give them back to me."
"This also is true. But if that nigger doesn't show at the appointment, then it means he is our man."
"If it is so, I will not leave England until he is dead. For the moment I have, I want to take care of agent Fowler or what ever this damn bastard's name is."
"Yes, we will make him sing, believe me. And I would like also to take care of that Quillan... he is a sexy guy. Then we can shut the mouth to both of them and leave, asking your Embassy to clean up this mess. Anybody who sent these people knows we are here. I don't like that. We have to find another hole where it's safe, and in a hurry."
"There is not two without three, this is a nature law. The story with these three fake policemen is just the first of three strokes. Two more things have still to happen, remember." Chem said in a breath.
Jeff smiled and said assuredly: "Well, it is not that there is one without three. And anyway you survived this stroke, therefore you'll survive even the others, eventually."
"Do you really think so? Do you really think I will survive also the other strokes?"
Jeff thought that if it was not so, he would have to say good bye to his money and to a really good job. But he answered: "I can't see a reason why you would not reach your aims."
Chem with a smile put his hand on the mercenary's shoulder: "Thank you friend. I have to resume my self-control, do you understand? If you want to take your fun with that Quillan, go ahead, while I take care of Fowler... You too, Naoki, if you like that Quillan..."
Jeff nodded -- of course he understood. Chem would not rest until he settled with who ever tried to cheat on him.
Naoki smiled: "No thank you, he is not my type, too manly... If you want, I can help you with Fowler..."
"Just help me to prepare Quillan, all right?" Jeff asked going towards Chem's bedroom. Naoki followed him with a smile.
Chem said: "We have just an hour. Then you two prepare the luggage while I call my Embassy telling them we have this small problem to make disappear. Jong has twenty millions of good reasons to give me his help..."
Jeff and Naoki took Quillan, still unconscious. They took him to their bedroom, on a bed, untied him, rapidly undressed him as if he was a mannequin. They lay him down on his belly on the bed and tied his wrist and ankles eagle spread, leaving him gagged. Then Naoki went back to Chem.
Jeff started to undress with a grim smile. It didn't happen often he could take his pleasure in his way, and the youth had a really nice body, smooth and manly, and a really nice little ass. But he had first to made him recover his senses, he wanted him conscious. With a moist towel he washed his face. Soon, Quillan opened his eyes with a startled expression. First of all he saw the big and stiff erect member of Jeff and widened his eyes, then became aware he was naked, tied up and gagged and had a terrified expression.
Jeff smiled even more openly, pleased: "Now we will have some fun, right boy? I will give you the fuck of your life. I will make you die for the pleasure, literally..."
Quillan moaned while Jeff mounted on top of him. The man caressed the boy, then spread something between his little firm butts. Then he impaled him. He had difficulty to penetrate inside him, not so much as Quillan was trying to wriggle away and to resist, but because that hole seemed still virgin. But after a set of wild strokes, Jeff got the better of it. Then he started to hammer in him without mercy, mistreating and wringing nipples and genitals, forcefully biting his neck and shoulders, excited by the darts and by the desperate moans of that fine body at his complete mercy.
From the other room came loud music that could not cover Fowler's screams. This also added to Jeff's excitement. He wildly rode his prisoner, with a carefree joy, he never before felt so aroused. He was pounding with all his means and all his body was covered of a veil of sweat. The violated hole was hot like a furnace, and the entire prisoner's body was trembling uncontrollably under him.
When Jeff felt he was near exploding in his orgasm, he squeezed Quillan's neck with his strong hands and he gradually tightened his hold, tightened, tightened, and while Quillan was violently jolting desperately trying to breath, Jeff unloaded deeply inside him, emitting a set of hoarse and savage roars of sheer pleasure.
CONTINUES IN CHAPTER EIGHTH
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