“You are so sweet, Estevao,” Sebastien murmured, his voice already thick with drowsiness. “You are so fucking sweet!”
The last thing that registered in his consciousness, before deep sleep claimed him, was the touch of Estevao’s lips on his face and throat, kissing him.
Chapter Thirteen:
Master and Servant
In the morning, when he came into the bedroom and woke Sebastien up, Estevao was his usual briskly efficient self, as though nothing out of the ordinary had taken place between master and servant the night before.
“Bom dia, senhor. Here is your coffee. And Ignacia thought you might enjoy this pastry. It is filled with a fruit called bacuri. Did you sleep well?”
“I slept very well. I must’ve been quite tired—quite worn out—before my head finally hit the pillow last night.”
Estevao permitted himself the ghost of a smile. “I am glad to hear that you rested well.”
“Estevao, I really think we might violate protocol just a little, so to speak…by giving each other a good-morning kiss.”
“As you wish, senhor.” Estevao leaned over the bed and, taking care not to upset the items on the bed tray, gave Sebastien a very impassioned kiss indeed, full on the lips. “You need your shave, senhor,” he declared when they had broken the kiss. “Your beard stubble scratches. We will try a different aftershave cream, today. You should find it soothing.”
“Whatever you say, boss. I place myself in your capable hands. I have no will of my own.”
“You are pleased to joke, mestre. But you will see,” Estevao said serenely. “I know best.”
And that—somewhat to Sebastien’s surprise, and definitely to his relief—was that. There was no awkwardness between him and Estevao whatsoever. It was as though the two of them were old fuck buddies, who amused themselves by being rather formal toward one another, whenever they were not actually in bed together. When they did have sex together, the barrier of polite reserve that usually stood between employer and employee crumbled instantly. In the days and nights that followed, Estevao made it perfectly clear, mostly through his body language, without needing to say it in words that he was at Sebastien’s sexual disposal, any time his master wanted him, at any hour of the day or night. And Sebastien did not hesitate to take advantage of the fact, to the two men’s intense mutual pleasure.
“We should perhaps lock the doors, mestre,” was all that Estevao suggested one afternoon when Sebastien grabbed him and pulled him toward the bed. “This is the time of the day when the maids sometimes come to tidy your room.”
“We will have to get a couple of Do Not Disturb signs to hang on the door knobs, such as they have in hotels,” Sebastien said.
“What an excellent suggestion, senhor.”
And, within twenty-four hours, Estevao produced two such signs, which he had one of the men make from scratch in the fazenda’s machine shop. The signs were neatly formed from thin pieces of scrap wood, stenciled with the warning in both English and Portuguese, and coated with a protective layer of varnish.
Estevao was quite candid during their subsequent conversations.
Of course he had been in love with Gilberto Leon, in the way that a young man often develops a crush on an older man—even though nothing remotely sexual had transpired between the two of them, except in Estevao’s imagination. He had found it sexually exciting to serve senhor Gilberto, just as he now found it sexually exciting to serve his nephew. He had vented his frustration by forming liaisons with many of the men who worked on the fazenda, even at a young age. None of the participants found anything particularly immoral, or even remarkable, in such arrangements—they were a convenience. Women were in short supply on the fazenda, and most of them were eminently respectable. And seducing a girl from one of the surrounding small towns or other ranches in the neighborhood, though a possibility, always carried with it the risk of pregnancy, or of arousing the ire of her protective male relatives. Of course senhor Gilberto had known about his valet’s promiscuity—Estevao kept nothing from his guardian and employer. If anything, senhor Gilberto had been not only tolerant, but amused.
“He would say to me, ‘Amuse yourself while you can, Estevao, because some day you will fall in love with one person, and then you will care for no one else.’”
“Good advice,” Sebastien said. “I gather this one person, the first real love of your life, has yet to make his appearance?”
“I do not know, senhor Sebastien. Perhaps I am already a little in love with you.”
“Don’t be silly, Estevao. We are good friends, and we can have a lot of fun together, but some day—just as my uncle predicted—you will meet a Brazilian man, preferably one your own age, and you will fall in love with him.”
“You are not so very much older than I am, senhor Sebastien.”
“True. But let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. Be a good boy, Estevao.”
“How very odd you should say that, senhor Sebastien. Senhor Gilberto would often say the same thing to me.”
“Yes, but did you heed him? Were you a good boy?”
Estevao grinned. “I was myself, senhor. More than that I cannot promise to be.”
Estevao, his employer soon found out, was anything but shy, and he was a good conversationalist. Sebastien found his talk amusing, and enlightening.
Like all Brazilian males, Estevao was obsessed with soccer. He told Sebastien which of the professional athletes he found especially suitable as fantasy sex objects.
But Estevao was also interested in celebrities of another sort, namely porn actors. Rio de Janiero, of course, had a thriving gay adult video industry. Estevao, however, was more impressed by those Brazilian performers who had attained escape velocity and were active in Europe and the United States.
Viewing porn DVDs had given Estevao some peculiar notions about norte-americano culture. He was surprised and disappointed, for example, to find out that Sebastien did not live in Manhattan in a spacious one-level house surrounded by palm trees, with a swimming pool well stocked with a supply of blond, blue-eyed, sun-bronzed twinks. Sebastien did his best to explain to his valet that there was quite a difference between New York City and California, or Florida.
But one thing Estevao had definitely learned from his video viewing was how to satisfy another man in bed. His lovemaking, unselfish and energetic, inevitably left Sebastien feeling exhausted, but satisfied and even strangely exhilarated. Even after a long day devoted to various nonsexual exertions, both outdoors and inside the main house, it took very little to persuade the master and his servant to begin fooling around with each other. The master bedroom became the scene of deboche after deboche, usually late at night when the other residents of the fazenda were presumably using their own beds for sleep, to rest up for the next day’s work activities.
Sometimes Sebastien and Estevao couldn’t bring themselves to wait until after sunset, but indulged in sex play during the daylight hours, with the master bedroom’s doors locked from within and the Do Not Disturb signs posted on their outer knobs.
Estevao had given senhora Beatriz and the other house servants strict instructions. The mestre, he told them, frequently felt the need to take a restorative midday nap, usually during the hottest part of the afternoon. At such times, when the signs were displayed on the door knobs, senhor Sebastien was not to be disturbed for any reason. Not even if the rains caused the flood waters to rise high enough to threaten the house!
The artisans who had designed and constructed the massive bed in Sebastien’s bedroom, and the Portuguese aristocrats and wealthy self-made landowners who had slept in it over the years, would no doubt be horrified by some of the activities taking place in it now. Or perhaps some of the previous occupants would not be so shocked, after all. Estevao matter-of-factly told Sebastien that, back in the colonial days, it was taken for granted that the mestre of a fazenda fucked his slave boys, or his other male servants, if he was so inclined. For all practical purposes, the men h
ad no choice in the matter—they were there to serve their master, without question or complaint.
“As I am here to serve you,” Estevao declared, in that subtly defiant way he had that admitted of no argument.
The four columns that formed the bedposts and supported the ceiling of the bed were massive, and Sebastien quickly learned to put them to good use. For the first time in his life, he experimented with a little light bondage. One night, at Estevao’s urging, he had the valet lie belly-down on the bed, and Sebastien used four lengths of rawhide to bind Estevao’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts. The sight of Estevao, naked and spread-eagle on the mattress, with his glorious young butt fully exposed and vulnerable, would have been enough to bring out the top man in anyone.
Sebastien stretched out on top of the other man and fucked him with savage, possessive glee. Being restrained and barely able to move under Sebastien seemed to inflame Estevao with lust. He clenched his glutes and his sphincter with crushing force, providing Sebastien with an exceptionally tight ass to fuck. The continual stream of dirty talk that escaped from Estevao’s lips during the act was an additional source of erotic agitation.
“Fuck your dirty little slave boy, mestre,” was among Estevao’s milder comments. “Pretend that you bought me in the slave market and brought me back here in shackles. Use me for your pleasure. Use my hole. Fuck it! Fuck it hard! Rape me—oh, hurt me with your big, hard cock! Fuck my Mulatto ass with your thick white cock!”
The implied Political Incorrectness only seemed to make Sebastien fuck harder, and climax harder.
It was evident to Sebastien that he had seriously underestimated the extent to which urban sexual sophistication had penetrated to this part of rural Brazil. Penetration being the operative word, indeed! They repeated the bondage-spiced sex play, and improved upon it, on several subsequent occasions.
Estevao was equally forthcoming about some of his other proclivities, including his mild fetish for other men’s underwear and socks. He’d gotten the idea, of course, from watching a porno DVD in which such fetishism was prominently featured in one scene. He confessed to Sebastien that, inspired by what he’d seen, he sometimes conducted the homosexual equivalent of a panty raid—entering the bunkhouse surreptitiously to “borrow” one or more items of dirty laundry from the laundry bins. After using these items to jack off, he always laundered them, then returned them to the bunkhouse’s laundry room, just as stealthily—so he insisted that no real harm was done. If he could identify some particular garment as belonging to one of the men he especially lusted after, so much the better. So far, he boasted, his greatest prize had been a ruinously threadbare and sweat-sodden jockstrap belonging to Oranjinho, which that strapping young cowboy wore while lifting weights in his spare time. Estevao had masturbated himself into a frenzy for three nights in a row, each time with the pungent pouch of the athletic supporter draped over his face, before he reluctantly decided he’d better not press his luck. He washed and returned it, much to Oranjinho’s relief—the muscular young cowpuncher had assumed his jockstrap had somehow gotten lost.
Sebastien gave his valet a stern lecture about the impropriety of such thefts of other men’s personal property. “From now, Estevao,” he suggested, “I think you really should confine your…ah…shall we say, your pre-laundry activities to my own things. Which you’re always welcome to borrow and make use of, as long as you take good care of them and put them back after you’re done,” he added graciously.
Estevao confided to his employer that he was hardly the only man on the fazenda who enjoyed either an occasional homosexual adventure, or an ongoing relationship with one or more other men. And he did not hesitate to name names—for example, Stênio, Edu, and Reymundo, three of the other young ranch hands, were inseparable, on and off the job. Estevao described them, not without a touch of malice, as the Three Brazilian Musketeers. They shared a room in the bunkhouse, and, according to Estevao, shared their bodies with one another as well.
Sebastien was a bit dubious, at first. “I’ve been inside the bunkhouse, Estevao, and the living arrangements in there don’t exactly seem conducive to privacy.”
Estevao was amused by the mestre’s naiveté. The ranch hands expected their coworkers to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear toward any such activities taking place in their proximity. And sex acts, he told Sebastien, did not necessarily take place in the men’s sleeping quarters, in the bunkhouse. There were several places in the main compound of the fazenda where privacy could be found, especially after regular business hours, when the buildings in question tended to be deserted for the evening, and overnight. Those of the men who enjoyed homosexual pleasures all knew about these trysting spots. Stênio, Edu, and Reymundo, for example, sometimes preferred the added privacy of one of the storage sheds, to which they had obtained a duplicate key. They had even equipped it with an old mattress, which they kept hidden away when it was not in use. Estevao volunteered the further information that none of the three men really considered himself to be gay. Gay sex was a convenience, an outlet for their physical urges that served a need until such time as they had saved enough money to start thinking about getting married and setting up individual households.
They sometimes allowed Estevao to join them, and on these occasions they allowed him to service them with his hands, his mouth, and his ass. In the height of passion, when all three members of the trio were aroused beyond the point of no return, they might deign to give one another hand jobs, or even go down on each other. Nor was it unheard of for them to get so turned on that they began to take turns fucking one another up the ass. But, to hear them talk, they were definitely not gay!
Estevao was philosophical about the whole issue. “Not every man,” he told Sebastien serenely, “is as comfortable with himself—and with his desires—as you and I.”
“It’s the two of us against the world, eh, Estevao?” Sebastien joked. “It’s our duty to proselytize and spread the word, I suppose. Set an example for the rest to follow.”
“Precisely, senhor.”
Sebastien was intrigued by what he had been told. “So at least three of your fellow cowboys are in love with one another,” he remarked, in English. “Whether they want to admit it, or not. They are involved in a ménage.”
“A ménage, senhor Sebastien? We do not have that word in Portuguese. We would call it a familia or an arranjo da casa. Or simply a threesome, a trio,” he added, with a sly smile. “A trio which becomes a quatro, when I am invited to join in.”
Sebastien made a point of checking out Stênio, Edu, and Reymundo in person as soon as the opportunity presented itself. All three cowhands were exceptionally good-looking, utterly masculine-looking and -acting young studs, who swaggered about as they worked, but doffed their hats and addressed Sebastien with the utmost respect when he interrupted their labors and engaged them in casual conversation. Edu was perhaps a bit bow-legged, Sebastien noticed, but he assumed this was the result of so much horseback riding—and not a by-product of all the occasional anal sex that the lad and his buddies indulged in together during their spare time.
Incredible, Sebastien thought to himself. I wonder if Tio Gil knew about half the things that go on here? He must have...he was no fool. I bet very little got past him. Was he that tolerant, or did he just turn a blind eye as long as nothing got in the way of the work? Sebastien decided he would do well to turn a blind eye, too, on the principle of, “If it’s not broken, don’t fix it.”
On the subject of Cristiano Lapuente, Estevao was now equally forthcoming. Their intimate relationship had begun when they were both adolescent boys, sharing the same bed. It was only natural that hormones, and curiosity, had led them to experiment with each other’s bodies. Cristiano didn’t seem to take it too seriously—he had used Estevao then, and continued to use Estevao now, as a convenience, whenever he wasn’t involved with some woman. And Estevao, as Sebastien now knew, enjoyed being used.
“Has Cristiano had other male lovers?” Sebasti
en asked.
“A few. None as good as I am, of course,” Estevao boasted shamelessly.
Life on the fazenda followed a routine, but was certainly not dull. And, every now and then, there was a surprise in store for the new mestre.
Sebastien was alone in the breakfast room, enjoying his breakfast, one hot morning. The French windows, as usual, were wide open, to let in as much fresh air as possible. Sebastien was buttering a roll when he heard an odd rustling sound from the terrace. After a moment, it was repeated.
It must be birds, he assumed. He often saw them, on the lawn, searching for worms and insects, or fluttering about on the terrace. Occasionally, they even perched amid the plants in the large flowerpots which were spaced along the terraces at regular intervals.
And then he heard, closer to him, a peculiar snuffling noise. Something seemed to be right there in the room with him, and whatever it was, it was breathing audibly. Sebastien glanced to his right—and saw, crawling slowly across the floor, between the table and the wall, a large grayish-brown reptile, with a knobby hide and a narrow, long head. Two bright, jewel-like eyes peered unblinking at him. Then the creature opened its jaws in a silent yawn, baring its rows of saw-like teeth.
Sebastien froze. The reptile closed its mouth again, but continued to stare up at him.
He remembered that he had his cell phone in his trouser pocket. Slowly, almost afraid to move his arm, he pulled the phone out and punched in Estevao’s number.
“Senhor?”
“Estevao, there’s an alligator in the house!”
“There are no alligators here, senhor,” Estevao said, with his usual maddening sang-froid. “Perhaps you mean a caiman?”
“Damn it, Estevao, whatever the hell you want to call it—it’s got a mouthful of big teeth, and it’s looking at me like I was lunch!”
“It must be Baltazar. Does its hide have many scars on it?”
“Baltazar? This thing has a name?”
Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove) Page 28