In the Ring

by James Lear

  “Good for you, Oz.”

  “So, when can we start training?”

  He looked so eager to please, and I was still hard, so I said “Well, I’ve been looking at my timetable, and it says I’m free to use the facilities till five o’clock. That gives us a couple of hours.”

  “For real? You’re going to train me now?”

  “Sure, why not? Let’s see what you’re made of.” We were walking back along the glass-walled corridor by the side of the gym.

  I took him through a basic half-hour fitness test: ten minutes on the treadmill, fast enough to get him breathless and sweaty, then a mini-circuit of chin-ups, push-ups, planks, and burpees. He was in great shape; more interestingly, he obeyed every command without question, always trying to do a little more than was asked of him. I kept it businesslike; we weren’t alone in the gym, and there were plenty of people watching the new trainer. Oz loved the attention; obviously this marked his new status within VaughanCorp. When I was finished, I held Oz’s wrist and checked his pulse against the clock on the wall. “Now I’m going to take you somewhere quiet,” I whispered, “and you’re going to suck my dick for me.”

  He looked at me with those big brown eyes, sweat running down his face, and I swear his pulse quickened. “Okay, Greg. Sure. Yeah.” He picked up his towel and was halfway out of the gym before I’d taken a step. Eager—or just obedient? There was something about the ease with which Vaughan’s boys—Oz, Kieran, Jackson—could be seduced that was making me suspicious. I may have a high opinion of my own sexual attractiveness—there aren’t many men out there who can resist Dan Stagg’s dick once it’s pointing in their direction—but these were hot young athletes who could be fucking people of their own age, not someone twenty years their senior.

  In a while, if things went according to plan, I would know more. I had a tracking device inside Kieran, and soon I’d get one into Oz. It could only be a matter of time before I had sufficient access to Tom Jackson’s holes to get him bugged as well.

  Then, it was up to the Global Positioning System, and some backroom boys down in London, to supply me with the data about where these boys were going. I’d work out the rest.

  Oz was waiting for me at the door to the changing rooms. Was he seriously intending to have sex in here? It wasn’t particularly busy, but there were people coming and going, presumably not all of them interested in seeing me shove my dick into Oz’s handsome face.

  “Do you want me to have a shower first?”

  “I don’t care. You’re going to need one afterwards anyway.”

  “Oh, right. Well, shall we just, you know, go ahead and . . .”

  “Lead the way.”

  He was more than eager; he was organized. Consulting my tastes. Putting the customer first.

  “There’s a sauna that’s pretty quiet.”

  “Where else?”

  “Disabled toilet.”

  “I don’t want to fuck you in a toilet.”

  “Or we could go through to one of the private rooms.”

  That’s what I was waiting for. “Sounds nice. I’ve never been to a gym with private rooms.”

  “They’re for Mr. Vaughan’s special guests. He gave me a key.” He showed me a swipe card he’d been keeping in his pocket. “Look.”

  “Show me the way.”

  Oz led me through a door that looked like a cupboard, along a short passage to another door that he opened with the keycard. Inside it was a room about twelve feet by ten, big enough for a large leather divan, a couple of chairs, and a hand basin mounted in a black wood cupboard unit. In other words, a fuckroom from a very upmarket sex club. The floor was carpeted, the lighting subdued, the walls painted dark red.

  “Very nice,” I said. “You entertain a lot of clients in here?”

  “I’ve never actually been inside one of these rooms before. It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Perfect. Now take your fucking clothes off. Don’t be shy. I’ve seen it before, remember?”

  He was naked within ten seconds, hard dick standing up against his furry belly. I put my hands on his ass, pulled him towards me, and kissed him hard on the mouth. His knees buckled, and he kissed me back with equal force. These boys aren’t getting enough love, I thought. They’re getting fucked plenty, but that’s it. No affection. Strange that a heartless bastard like me should be talking about love, but as an operational strategy it had its uses. A hard cock gets you a certain amount of loyalty, but if you show love to the love-starved, you have a slave for life. That’s how cult leaders get started.

  “Now you’re going to show me if you can suck cock as well as the stuff you do in the gym. Think of it as part of your training. You’re in charge. This”—I squeezed my hard dick through my pants—“is all yours.”

  Oz wasted no time. He dropped to his knees, got one hand inside my waistband, and hauled my cock out. His lips encircled the head and started moving down. By the time he’d reached the thickest point of my shaft, about half way, I’d decided he was good. By the time his lips were disappearing into my bush, I’d decided he was excellent. Plenty of practice. Almost professional.

  “Good boy,” I murmured, rubbing a hand over his brush-cut black hair. “Suck your daddy’s dick. Come on. Make me feel good.” He looked up at me with those big brown eyes, his brow furrowed, and came right up to the head again, teasing the ridge of my glans with his lips, tickling me underneath the pisshole with his tongue.

  “Now look,” I said, “we have a bed, and we have privacy. Do you have to be anywhere?”

  He let go of my cock. “Not for a while,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Okay. Let’s enjoy ourselves.” I pulled off my shirts and pants. “Lie down.”

  He threw himself on to the divan, bouncing a little, and I straddled his thighs, letting my balls drop down on to his stiff prick. In that position, I could run my hands over his firm, hairy torso and pinch the nipples that were sticking up through the fur. Oz squirmed, but I had him pinned. I shuffled further up his stomach and chest till my dick was resting on his dimpled chin. He opened his mouth, pulled his head forward with one hand, and let me fuck his mouth.

  He didn’t even gag.

  Okay, let’s see if his ass is as good as his mouth.

  “There are condoms in the cupboard,” he said.

  “It’s okay. I prefer to use my own.”

  “You brought some?”

  “Of course. I’ve been wanting to get inside you ever since I saw you.”

  “Oh, Greg. Fuck me, man. Please. I mean, fuck me because you really like me.”

  “Of course I fucking like you. Do you like me?”

  “I . . . I really . . .” He was preventing himself from saying “I love you,” but the point was made.

  “I thought maybe you were doing this because Vaughan told you to.”

  He said nothing, and didn’t look me in the eye.

  “It’s okay. I’m happy either way.”

  “I owe him so much. And he’s been very good to me.”

  “Yeah, right.” I could just imagine Vaughan’s technique: find young men with no career prospects, low self-esteem, and a small amount of talent, establish yourself as a kind of despotic father figure, and they’ll do anything you tell them to do. What was Oz’s story? Why was he so desperate to follow orders? I’d find out, after I fucked him.

  I rubbered up, took a fingerful of lube and pushed it deep into Oz’s beautiful asshole, taking care to lodge the tracking device as far up as I could. A good fucking would just push it deeper; that was the theory, anyway. I’d soon find out if it worked.

  He took it beautifully, from the rear, on his side, on his back and, finally, on top of me, working himself to an orgasm that sprayed all over my chest and even hit me on the face. I scooped it up and put my fingers in Oz’s mouth, forcing him to taste his own jizz as I shot my load deep inside his guts.

  He kept me inside him for as long as he could, then reluctantly
climbed off. We were both sticky and sweaty, and the leather covers of the divan were going to need a good hosing down; presumably Vaughan had staff for these jobs. Perhaps Oz would be back in there with a mop and bucket later on. For now, we lay together, feeling the jizz drying in our body hair, sticking us together like Velcro. He curled up against me, seeking warmth, his head on my shoulder. I caressed his face, kissed him on the forehead. Bet he didn’t get that from Vaughan and his associates.

  We shifted around a bit, and I felt something digging into my thigh; Oz was hard again. I reached around, took hold of him, and stroked him gently while our tongues joined inside our mouths. He came quickly, groaning as if in pain.

  Oh, to be young again. I was only just beginning to get hard before it was all over.

  “You okay?”

  He snuggled in closer, reluctant for this to be over. “Yeah.”

  “Come on.” I sat up. “We’d better get out of here. They’ll be wondering what we’re up to.”

  “I suppose so.” We pulled apart, the sticky hairs on our bodies pulling painfully. “I wish we could stay like this, Greg.”

  “Me too.” I took hold of my cock, hard again now. “I want to fuck you again.”

  “You can! I mean, I don’t know if I can come again, but I’ll take it . . .”

  “That’s okay, Oz. Let’s keep it for another day. When you get some time off, maybe you could come over to my place for the weekend.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Of course I fucking mean it. What does it look like?”

  He was on his knees sucking me again before I had time to object. I let him feed for a while, then stood up.

  “That’s enough for now. Come on. Let’s hit the showers.”

  “Please, let me . . . ”

  “Cool it.” I spoke firmly. Oz looked as if he might cry. I took him by the shoulders. “It’s all right, buddy. I’m not going to disappear. I’m here for you.” You and Kieran, I should have said, but I could only concentrate on one at a time. Although two at a time . . . the thought was not unwelcome. Oz and Kieran fighting over my dick. Could be arranged. “I think you need someone to look after you, Oz.”

  He shrugged, and wiped his hands on a towel. “I’m okay.”

  “No you’re not.”

  He put the towel over his face. He was crying, but I wasn’t going to draw attention to it.

  “Never let them see you’re upset. Greg Cooper’s First Law. Okay? I’m here now. I’m going to look after you.”

  “For real?”

  “For real.” And at the time, I meant it. But looking after Oz was going to be more difficult than I expected. And a lot more dangerous.

  07

  Keeping in touch with MI6 was a simple matter; I emailed them from my phone on a secure, encrypted server, and they acknowledged receipt. As soon as I got back to my apartment, I submitted the serial numbers of the tracking devices, and a code name for each of the subjects. These were chosen from a list of randomly-generated words, so that I was not tempted to give them nicknames reflecting identifiable characteristics. The email read:

  1400021 WARDROBE

  1400022 PANOPLY

  Completely incomprehensible if intercepted. Trackers 1400021 and 1400022 were currently lodged deep inside the rectums of Kieran (Wardrobe) and Oz (Panoply), and for as long they stayed there they would give us some insight into the workings of the Vaughan operation. Perhaps we were barking up the wrong tree, and Wardrobe and Panoply would spend their time at home or in the pub or at girlfriends’ houses. But I doubted that.

  The acknowledgement came back, carefully designed to look like spam, and quickly deleted.

  It was seven o’clock in the evening. I lay on the bed, dozed for a while, and then read through the documents Jackson had given me.

  A plastic document wallet contained a printed spreadsheet headed CALENDAR. My name was peppered throughout the squares, thoughtfully highlighted in yellow, with the words “training session,” “physio,” “staff development,” “interview.”

  I was going to be busy, it seemed, even if this was a probationary period.

  And shit! Today, 8:00 p.m., “interview.”

  It was 1950 already. I was out of the house and running up the road in less than a minute. I arrived at City Fitness out of breath and five minutes late.

  Another flawless Eastern European receptionist buzzed me through.

  The man who met me on the other side was obviously not one of Vaughan’s chosen companions. He was older than me, well into his fifties, about five foot six, overweight, with poor posture and gray hair badly in need of cutting. He was wearing a shapeless beige fleece, baggy combat pants, and dirty trainers. He had a camera slung around his neck.

  “Greg Cooper? I’m Bill Brett. You’ve probably heard of me.”

  I shook his hand; the nails were dirty, and too long. “Sorry, I’ve not been here for long. Good to meet you, Bill.”

  “The photographer.” He added a note of interrogation, as if by jogging my memory he’d help me to recognize his reputation.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He scowled. “Well, as you’ll soon find out, I’m one of the most sought-after camera artists around at the moment. My work appears on websites all over the world.”

  “That’s great, Bill.” I couldn’t think of anything to say. “I love photography.”

  This didn’t satisfy him. “So you’re Mr. Vaughan’s new discovery, are you?” He looked me up and down. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

  Maybe the fact that I could snap your cervical vertebrae with one blow? Maybe the fact that at least three of Vaughan’s boys want this dick? “Neither do I,” I said. “Now, what are we here for? It says ‘interview’ on my calendar.”

  “Oh, you looked at the calendar, did you? I was beginning to wonder.”

  “Sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”

  “Mr. Vaughan expects punctuality and professionalism.”

  I said nothing.

  “Come on, then.” He bustled off down the corridor and up the stairs. I hadn’t explored the upper levels of City Fitness yet. “We’re in the studio.” Studio? What kind of operation was this? “They’re waiting for us.”

  “Who?”

  Brett stopped and turned. “Seriously? Has nobody briefed you?”

  “I think that’s probably your job.”

  He was about to say something rude, but the look on my face stopped him. “Okay, okay. Every couple of weeks we interview new guys who come to us through the website. They’re looking for experience as personal trainers or boxers or whatever. We assess their abilities and explain some of the opportunities that we can offer them.”

  “And what’s the camera for?”

  “Mr. Vaughan runs a highly successful elite modelling agency.”

  “What kind of modelling?”

  “Fitness, mostly. Some of the boys get into fashion and lifestyle.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “Yes.” He looked me in the eye, trying to figure out how much I knew. “So our job is to talk to them, discuss their ambitions, and take a few test shots. I pride myself on being able to spot raw talent.”

  “Good for you.”

  The studio was a large, airy room with mirrors at one end and windows all down one side. At one time it must have been used for exercise classes; now it was full of photographic junk, tripods, lights, backdrops. At one end, sitting together like nervous schoolchildren waiting for the headmaster, were three young men.

  “Good evening, good evening, I’m Bill Brett, great to meet you.” Brett briskly shook their hands and busied himself with technical matters. He made no attempt to introduce me.

  The candidates looked exactly like the kind of guys who join the military—young, restless, directionless. No self-respect, no respect for others. Military discipline soon deals with that; perhaps that’s what Vaughan wanted me to inject into his boys, as well as my penis.

  “Do you have y
our CVs?” I barked.

  They looked at their shoes.

  “Have you submitted your CVs?”

  “Yeah,” said one of them, a tall, long-limbed black guy, “I sent mine on email.”

  “And you two?”

  They made noises that I interpreted as “yes.”

  “Lesson number one. When you’re going for an interview, you take a copy of the paperwork with you, in case, like today, you’re asked for it. Lesson number two. You stand up straight when you meet your potential employer, you look him in the eye, and you speak in an intelligible manner. Understand?”

  There was some shuffling of feet and glancing around. These boys were even more useless than the recruits I’m used to dealing with. But all of them were good-looking. That, I assume, is why they’d been called in. But what else did they have in common? Why, out of the thousands of young men out there desperate to break into sport, modelling, the big time, had Vaughan chosen these three?

  “While Mr. Brett gets set up over there, I’m going to ask you a few questions.” I pulled up a chair. “Please, sit down. So, names first of all. From left to right. Go.”

  “Joshua,” said the black guy.

  “Jared,” said the next one, who was Asian.

  “Dakota,” mumbled the third, who was white. Something for all tastes, I thought. Clever Vaughan.

  “What?”

  “Dakota.” He sounded angry and defensive. “All right?”

  “Is it real?”

  “Yes. My mum’s idea.”

  “It’s a perfectly good native American name. And a great aircraft as well. Dakota. Okay, I’m Greg Cooper. I work with Mr. Vaughan.”

  Brett scowled. I think he expected me to sit in the corner and keep quiet while he processed the boys. As far as I was concerned, he was just the photographer. It’s always a good idea to take control early. Makes reprisals harder.

  “I guess you’re all involved in combat sports in some way?”

  Joshua and Dakota nodded. Jared glanced around, looking frightened.

  “Go on.”

  “I’m . . . I don’t . . . I mean, I play football really.”

  “To what level?”