Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

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Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove) Page 29

by Roland Graeme


  “Where are you, senhor?”

  “In the breakfast room.”

  “And how close are you to the animal?”

  “It’s right next to me,” Sebastien claimed, exaggerating more than a little. “If it was a freaking alligator belt, I’d be wearing it by now!”

  “Then it might be a good idea not to make any sudden moves. I will be there at once.”

  The phone went dead. Sebastien slipped it back in his pocket. He and the caiman both waited—staring fixedly at each other. It did indeed have old, well-healed scars on its back and on the top of its head. It extended one front leg out in front of it, and tapped its long, curved, and very sharp claws on the floor. A good deal of time seemed to be passing. Where the hell was Estevao? Sebastien was almost afraid, now, to move his left arm enough so that he could see his Ulysse Nardin wristwatch, to determine how much time was elapsing. He began to speculate about how effective the cutlery on the table might be as a defensive weapon. Not very, he was sure!

  He’d expected Estevao to come bursting into the room, brandishing a gun, ready to fire. Instead, the valet sauntered into the breakfast room. He was equipped with his pistol, all right, but it was still holstered in his gun belt. He was carrying something wrapped in brown paper.

  “Estevao, where the fuck have you been?” Sebastien hissed. “What took you so long?”

  “I had to go to the kitchen first.”

  “The kitchen? What the hell for?”

  “For this.” Estevao unwrapped the package in his hands, and revealed a raw chicken carcass—headless and plucked, but with its legs and wings intact. It had been split neatly into two halves.

  Estevao passed behind Sebastien’s chair, then moved toward the caiman, holding up the chicken. The reptile’s head swiveled, and its eyes brightened as it followed his every movement.

  “Baltazar, you bad boy,” Estevao chastised the caiman, as though he was talking to a dog. “You know you’re not allowed inside the house.”

  “Don’t tease it, Estevao,” Sebastien pleaded. “Kill it. Draw your gun and pump the son of a bitch full of lead.”

  “Shoot Baltazar? Really, senhor. That should not be necessary. You can see for yourself—he is beginning to get old, and he is a little lame. He cannot move quickly, to catch prey. That is why he sometimes comes around, begging for a handout.”

  “And you encourage him?”

  “He is a good watchdog. He scares the rats and mice away.” Nonchalantly, Estevao stepped out onto the terrace, waving the chicken. “See? He will follow me. Ah, Baltazar, you greedy beggar, you greedy pig. You want some chicken, eh? Well, you shall not have any, until you are well away from the house, where you are supposed to be. Come on…I see you can move fast enough, when you want to.”

  The caiman ambled across the lawn in pursuit of Estevao. Sebastien followed, at a distance.

  “I suppose this is far enough,” Estevao called to Sebastien. “Now, watch this, senhor!”

  He took one half of the chicken in his free hand and tossed it high up into the air. The carcass descended back toward the ground in an arc—and Baltazar suddenly leaped up, his long, narrow jaws wide open. They snapped shut again around the meat, which disappeared. The caiman, settling back down on the lawn on all fours, gulped noisily. It didn’t really have any lips, but Sebastien would have been willing to swear he heard lips smacking.

  “Come here, senhor,” Estevao coaxed. “You can give him the rest of the chicken. Then he will know you are friendly. He will remember you.”

  Sebastien wasn’t at all sure he wanted Baltazar for a friend. But he gamely, if warily, joined Estevao on the lawn.

  “Are you sure we can outrun him, if we have to?” he asked as he took the remaining chicken half from Estevao’s hand. Baltazar’s head immediately swerved toward him.

  “I suppose it would depend on how hungry he is,” Estevao replied thoughtfully. “Go ahead, senhor. Step away from me, so he can get a good look at you, and then toss it to him.”

  Sebastien sent the meat hurtling through the air, and was treated to an instant replay of Baltazar’s jump-and-snap routine.

  “Now go away, Baltazar, that’s a good boy. Go home. That’s all you get today.” Estevao stomped his boots on the ground and waved Baltazar away, and to Sebastien’s astonishment, the caiman turned its tail toward them and began to make its slow, laborious way across the lawn, away from the house. “You see, senhor. He is quite harmless. Well, as harmless as any caiman can be.”

  “And what’s to prevent that thing from coming in through my bedroom windows and crawling into bed with me some night?” Sebastien demanded.

  Estevao gave him one of his trademark bemused, tolerant looks. “Really, senhor Sebastien. I know several residents of the fazenda who would not be adverse to sharing your bed with you…but I can assure you, Baltazar is not among them.” He looked pensive for a moment, though. “Unless, of course, you were careless enough to go to bed smelling of chicken.”

  Chapter Fourteen:

  A Chess Match

  It was ironic—Sebastien had taken for granted that he’d have to put his sex life virtually on hold, confining himself to masturbation, while he was on the fazenda. He had anticipated being surrounded by tough, aggressively heterosexual men, most of them probably not all that attractive to him, who would react in violent, macho self-defense if another male dared to make advances toward them.

  Instead, Sebastien found himself surrounded by hard, virile men, all right—many of whom he found extremely attractive. And, whatever their individual sexual orientation might be, they all seemed to have in common an openness and a friendliness toward one another that Sebastien found quite refreshing—and provocative. Perhaps he was deluding himself, but the predominantly male environment of the fazenda seemed rife with homoerotic possibilities.

  Confronted with this smorgasbord of fantasy material, Sebastien didn’t hesitate to indulge himself in some highly explicit sexual imaginings, especially when he gave Estevao a well-earned break and was alone in his huge bed at night. He already had his favorites, certain of his employees whom he particularly fancied. He amused himself with what he assumed was a harmless game—trying to decide which of the men he would most prefer to have sex with, if he could have his choice of any of them.

  He set aside Estevao, of whom he had already made a conquest, without even having had to try. He settled on a few of the younger and more handsome vaqueiros—Stênio, Miló, Uver, Oranjinho, César. Their names formed a euphonious litany of desire, running through his head.

  But the most beautiful and desirable of all the ranch hands, he was sure, was Cristiano Lapuente, the young man whose long, straight black hair and neatly trimmed black beard made him resemble—rather disconcertingly, for a sex object!—conventional pictorial images of Jesus. Sebastien found himself in thrall to Cristiano—infatuated with his eyes, his smile, the easy masculine self-confidence with which he carried himself.

  He found himself in bed one night, the sheet pushed down around his ankles, while his fingers stroked rapidly up and down his agitated cock. Through his mind flashed vivid pictures, imprinted during that day they’d gone for a nude swim in the reservoir, of what the macho young Brazilian looked like naked. Cristiano came as close to physical perfection as any man Sebastien had actually seen in the flesh, as opposed to the demigods of gay porn whom he knew only from their photos and videos. And, unlike those fantasy figures, Cristiano had the advantage of being a real acquaintance, with whom Sebastien could converse.

  In his free-ranging nocturnal thoughts, they did a lot more than just talk. He abandoned himself to Cristiano without reserve. He pictured himself lying on his back with his legs raised and wrapped around Cristiano’s narrow waist, and Cristiano leaning over him, his cock jammed up Sebastien’s ass, fucking him. Then Sebastien dared to think of another possibility, perversely inspired by the very fact that Cristiano had such a reputation as a womanizer. He envisioned an alternative sexual scenario,
equally lurid, in which the muscular cheeks of the other man’s ass parted, not unlike St. Martin’s legendary cloak. Miraculously, Cristiano’s manhole eagerly opened up for him, and Sebastien took immediate and full advantage of the lewd invitation. In his imagination, Cristiano begged to be fucked, and that pushed Sebastien over the edge. His cum spurted out, splashing onto his humping thighs and belly.

  Oh, Cristiano, he thought, in his post-orgasmic daze. You beautiful man, you. You stud. You beauty. If only…if only you were gay. If only I could have you!

  He told himself he should be ashamed of himself, for entertaining such libidinous thoughts about an employee. Especially one as competent and hard-working as Cristiano. But he wasn’t ashamed.

  On the following night, he once again felt restless after he had theoretically retired for the night, and sleep eluded him. He began to think about Cristiano…and began to think about once again giving himself some quick, self-induced relief. But then he had a better idea, and he carefully climbed down from the high, massive bed.

  Nude, he went to the door that led to Estevao’s room and tried the doorknob. The door wasn’t locked. It opened. Sebastien passed through it and found himself in a short, narrow hallway. Through an open doorway at the opposite end, he could see into Estevao’s room. It was a good-sized space, the various items of furniture only vaguely discernible in the darkness. The most prominent object was the double bed, on which Estevao was sprawled face down, asleep, with a single sheet pulled up over his lower body. Estevao, too, had a crucifix hung on the wall behind his bed—next to a large poster of a handsome, half-naked soccer star.

  Sebastien went over to the bed and touched the young man’s bare shoulder. “Estevao,” he whispered.

  The valet was awake at once. “What is it, senhor Sebastien?” he asked, his voice still groggy from sleep.

  “I…I need you. I want you,” Sebastien stammered, feeling embarrassed by his own lust.

  “Of course, senhor.” Estevao sat up, flinging the sheet aside, and put his legs over the edge of the bed. He was wearing only pajama bottoms, crisply starched white cotton.

  “Come to my room,” Sebastien pleaded. “No, wait. You do know, don’t you, Estevao—that you don’t have to, only if you want to!”

  “But I do want to.” Estevao stood up and followed Sebastien into the little connecting hallway. There, in the narrow confines, Sebastien turned back toward Estevao and embraced him.

  “I have to have you. I’m so hard,” Sebastien confessed. “I could not sleep.”

  “Calm yourself, mestre. I am here. Your Estevao is always here, to serve you.”

  “You’re so beautiful, so masculine. You’re too good for me. When I think about you, I get too excited. I can’t control myself.” Diplomatically, Sebastien didn’t tell Estevao that he’d in fact been thinking not about him, but about Cristiano.

  “You need not control yourself, mestre,” Estevao said thickly, turning his head and kissing Sebastien passionately on the lips. His hands roamed freely over his employer’s naked body, gliding over Sebastien’s sides, his chest, his thighs, his groin, his buttocks.

  Sebastien returned Estevao’s kiss, spearing his tongue into the big man’s mouth while he locked his hands behind his valet’s shoulder blades. They swayed drunkenly, their faces awash with frothing spittle as Estevao moaned deep in his throat.

  Silently, the big dark-haired ranch hand pushed Sebastien backward, through the doorway and into the semi-darkened master bedroom. The curtains were closed across the tall windows, allowing only a filtered, cloudy light to penetrate and illuminate the room. Sebastien broke away from Estevao only long enough to move around to the side of the bed. He could see Estevao watching him, in an alert and erotically charged way that left Sebastien with a burning fire in the pit of his stomach. Now that Estevao was fully awake, the same desire which was tormenting Sebastien had also taken possession of him.

  For the moment, Sebastien forgot all about other men, including Cristiano Lapuente. He now wanted his handsome young servant so badly that he could have leaped over the distance that separated them and taken him right there, on the floor beside the huge bed. But he waited, drawing out the sexual suspense, before he climbed stiff-cocked up onto the mattress and rolled over on his ass.

  His long, heavy, uncircumcised cock lay unattended for the time being, cradled between his hard-muscled legs. He squeezed his ass cheeks together teasingly, making his balls jiggle as they rode high in their elastic pouch, stirring the low-arching weight of the penis. He noted with satisfaction that Estevao was still observing him intently. The young cowhand licked his dry lips as he gazed at Sebastien’s naked body gleaming in the center of the bed sheets in the dim light.

  Sebastien returned Estevao’s gaze, and wasn’t above teasing the other man a little. He raised his hands to his flat, hairless belly and moved them gently over his naked flesh—over his chest and stomach, over his biceps and forearms, until he finally rested them over his groin. He curled his fingers around the thick, swelling meat, squeezing and stroking the flesh, while his other hand came down lower on his body and slipped between his spread thighs. It cupped his scrotum, lifting it while his thumb rubbed lightly over one ball. He moved that hand lower, and toyed with the few hairs growing backward between his thighs toward his tight, inviting asshole.

  “Don’t just stand there looking at me, Estevao,” Sebastien whispered. “Join me.”

  Estevao shivered with lust as he struggled with the drawstring at the waist of his pajama bottoms, then pushed the flimsy cotton down to his ankles and stepped out of it. His own long, meaty prong sprang out almost immediately, more than ready for action.

  A soft sigh came from Sebastien’s parted lips as he stroked his big cock. His thighs were tensing while his buttocks squeezed tight again. In his present state of fierce excitement, playing with himself felt so good that Sebastien was almost afraid he might inadvertently jack himself off to orgasm before Estevao had a chance to do anything with him. Sebastien eased up on the stroking, instead squeezing his fingers tightly against the large blue throbbing vein that ran the length of his prickshaft. Naked at last, Estevao, too, climbed onto the bed, sliding over Sebastien’s body while he grasped Sebastien’s hand and pulled it away from his prick.

  Both men let out a sigh of mutual relief and lust as their cocks dueled, rubbing together. As Estevao fell on top of Sebastien, it turned into a brief wrestling match, with Sebastien gathering the hot young Brazilian stud in his arms and struggling violently with him on the broad bed. Their mouths slid over one another, saliva mingling freely as their tongues lashed, then lapped and swirled over noses and cheeks and chins. Their arms and legs tangled together while their bellies and groins rubbed and pounded. Sebastien mumbled half-completed phrases while Estevao moved his hand down to his boss’s ass cheeks, exploring that tight, warm asshole which Sebastien had waiting in readiness for his cock.

  In a surprise move, Sebastien rolled out from under Estevao, holding him firmly in place while he knelt between his legs. He pushed the big, meaty, hairy thighs apart with both hands while he lunged forward with his mouth gaping open. He sank deeply onto the velvet firmness of Estevao’s hard-on, his tongue swirling, his lips suctioning, and finally his fingers stroking and exploring as they touched not only the cock’s shaft and the balls, but the solidly muscled inner thighs. Amused, Sebastien saw that Estevao was taken by surprise and was at a loss for a moment, although he instinctively tensed his buttocks and thrust his hips up to that hot, wet, sucking mouth. Sebastien’s hands moved from Estevao’s thighs around to his ass cheeks, gripping the muscular mounds hard, squeezing them as he tried to hold down his valet’s writhing body. Sebastien continued sucking off his servant for several minutes, before he pushed his face still lower and attacked Estevao’s ass. He licked it with his tongue, until, satisfied that he had that puckered aperture primed for action, he reached out blindly toward the nightstand, opening the drawer and groping for a condom.


  It was well over an hour later before Estevao gently disengaged himself from his master’s embrace and went back to his own bed. Sebastien had no difficulty falling asleep.

  A few days later, Sebastien had returned to the main house in the late afternoon after a consultation with Joaquin, in the office building. He was not surprised to be intercepted, in the vestibule, by Estevao. What was surprising was Estevao’s uncharacteristic state of undress. He was wearing only a pair of loose-fitting, red gym shorts. Glancing admiringly at his valet’s body, Sebastien was forcefully reminded that Estevao was, after all, an attractive and athletic young man, who at the moment looked as though he’d be right at home playing volleyball on some beach, even in the northern hemisphere.

  “I was wondering, senhor Sebastien…?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you could spare me for the next hour or two, before it will be time for you to get ready for your dinner?”

  “I imagine I could. Where are you off to? Are you going to sunbathe?”

  “I would like to join in the futebol game, on the lawn.”

  “Oh yes. Well, you run along and go right ahead.” Then a thought struck Sebastien. “Tell me, Estevao. Do you think the men would object if I were to join them, too?”

  “Oh no, senhor. They would be delighted.”

  “I haven’t really had any exercise since I came here, except for riding, and swimming, of course. The men wouldn’t feel uncomfortable having me there, or, ah, they wouldn’t feel they were under any obligation to let me win?”

  Estevao grinned at him. “Even the mestre must fend for himself, when it is a question of soccer!”

  “At last,” Sebastien said wryly. “A situation in which being the mestre of the fazenda carries no weight whatsoever? My prayers have been answered. Let me run and get changed, and then I’ll see you outside. No, wait. How are we fixed for beer, Estevao?”

  “‘Fixed,’ senhor Sebastien?” They were speaking in English, and Estevao seemed puzzled by the idiom.

 

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