Malta Sting

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


The strains of a smokey melodic man’s voice singing “Deep Purple,” backed by a piano, spilled out onto a narrow, stone-paved street, not much more than an alley, in the old city section of Valetta, Malta. The ancient buildings, one directly abutting the next, here were faced with stone as well, with balconies here and there on the second and third floors, some jutting out nearly half way over the street below. The street meandered and moved up an incline. It opened out onto yet another stone-paved street not much wider than it was but that permitted cars to park half way up the narrow walk in front of buildings with shop facades.

Kirk Golding, nearly twenty, small, blond, delicate looking, more beautiful than handsome, sat at a pink baby grand piano on a low platform at one end of a half-basement room five buildings into the narrow street. A ten-seat bar was set into the wall behind him. The bartender behind the bar appeared to be a blowsy blonde woman–but wasn’t. The waiter was tall and thin, with long, slicked-up black hair and a pimply face. He was dressed in a semblance of a tuxedo and was leaning against the bar, with little to do, as the men in the room seemed more interested in making each other than in having their drinks refilled.

There were six tables, two chairs each, strung around a small dance floor at the street side of the room and, on the wall opposite the bar, a staircase going up, its stairs facing the entrance from the street, which was tucked under a stone porch to the entrance of the upper levels.

Two couples of men, one young in jeans and tight T-shirt and one middle aged in a suit, sat at separate tables. A couple, both men, were swaying against each other, cheek to cheek, on the small dance floor more or less in the rhythm of the music, although dancing wasn’t really what was on their minds. A young man, in jeans and pulling his T-shirt over his head, already moving into what he hoped would be a quick trick, was preceding a middle-aged man in a suit up the staircase. The man in the suit, had his hand high up the young man’s thigh.

Both the piano playing and the singing were quite good, as they should be, as Kirk was a graduate of the Julliard school of music. Anyone listening would get the impression that Kirk was trained to play far more demanding music than this.

The song shifted to “Misty,” as two men entered the bar from the street. The men on the stairs were already on their way to the rooms above, where the middle-aged man would shortly be mounting the younger man. All of the other men in the room, except Kirk, who was concentrating on his music, looked up briefly and surreptitiously to view and assess the newly arriving men in terms of arousal or the need for flight. Both men perhaps were in their forties, both with Middle Eastern features. One was obviously more important than the other. His suit was of finest quality, although a bit awkwardly worn as if he was more accustomed to wearing an Arab robe, and his fingers glittered from a collection of gold rings. The other man obviously was subservient to the first.

The two apparently didn’t raise any alarms, as the patrons already in the bar returned to focusing on each other. They were disturbed again, though, when the first man, rather too loudly for the atmosphere in the room said, in English but in a thick accent hinting of British and something else, more like Arabic, “Is that him then?”

“Yes, excellency,” the other man answered in more subdued tones. He was cringing a bit as if it was very important that he get this right.

“Very nice,” the first man said and the other one noticeably relaxed. The waiter came forward to show them to one of the vacant tables by the front window, but the more subservient man waved him away as the first man marched to the table closest to the piano and settled there. The couple at the table in the front corner continued to give passing glances at the newly arrived pair, but everyone else, including the piano player, went back to what they were doing as the waiter took drink orders from the newly arrived patrons.

Kirk segued into “Begin the Beguine,” and the first man, now identified as Samir, as the second man had used that name to break attention away from Kirk to obtain the first man’s drink preference, leaned forward, following Kirk’s hand movements on the piano with his eyes. He clearly was a piano aficionado. He just as clearly was taken with the young, blond pianist and singer.

A young man who had been sitting at the far end of the bar, yet another rent-boy who knew his way up the stairs and who was there to serve the patrons, slithered off his stool and approached Samir by the piano. The other man waved him away, though, and tossing his shoulder in a pout, the rent-boy returned to his station at the far end of the bar.

The piano player reached some sort of refreshment break, because, although he didn’t leave the piano, the waiter produced a drink for him without him asking, and he took his hands off the keys to take a sip. He also reached for a cigarette case and lighter that were laying beside a tip jar on istanbul travesti the ledge above the keyboard–perhaps to make clear that there was a tip jar there. As he fiddled with the cigarette case, extracting and lighting up a smoke, his fingers caressed the tip jar for a moment, a clear signal that Samir, at least, picked up on. If the patron was there to appreciate the music, he needed to show his appreciation. He rose, took some money out of his wallet, moved to the piano, and dropped the money in the tip jar.

“Thank you,” Kirk said in English.

“Ah, you’re American,” Samir said.

“No, Canadian,” Kirk said, flashing a smile.

“You play and sing very well. Have you trained?”

“Yes, the Ottawa Conservatory of Music,” Kirk said. “I thought I could put a good use to the training as I traveled Europe on my gap year.”

“Gap year? What is a gap year?”

“It’s a year off from college one takes to broaden their experience in travel.”

“You have wanted to broaden your experience,” Samir said, touching Kirk’s forearm lightly with his fingers.

“Yes,” Kirk said, looking down at the fingers brushing his arm but making no move away from them. “My musical experience.”

“There are other experiences worthy of broadening the man said.”

“I am aware of that,” Kirk answered. This was the sort of bar where this was foreplay. And Kirk wouldn’t be employed to play here if he wasn’t on offer for a price.

“You’re traveling Europe and the Mediterranean alone during this gap year?”

“Yes, all alone.”

“Not with a girlfriend?”

Kirk laughed. “There’s no girlfriend.”

“A boyfriend then, perhaps?”

“Is there a song you’d like me to play for you?” Kirk said rather than answering the question. “You seemed to like the type of song I was playing.”

“I like everything about you,” Samir said. “What do you think of me?”

Kirk paused to give the man a good look. He knew what this was, what was being expected from him. Serving the patrons came with having a job in a bar like this. The man, in fact, was handsome, although he had a dangerous look about him, and he certainly was fit for his age. He wasn’t European. Maybe from somewhere in the Middle East? There was an air of command and cruelty about him. “You look just fine. You’re a handsome man,” Kirk said. He was still fiddling with his cigarette case.

“You really shouldn’t smoke,” Samir said, putting his hand on Kirk’s shoulder. Kirk left it there. “It’s not good for your singing, I don’t think. It would be a pity for you to lose your talent.”

“Perhaps I have other talents I can fall back on.”

“I can clearly see that. You’re a beautiful young man. So blond–and young.”

“Unfortunately, I have several bad habits,” Kirk said. “I guess I’m just a bad boy.” The signaling was obvious, and Samir smiled.

“You asked if I would like you to play a song for me. Do you know ‘Embraceable You’?”

“Certainly,” Kirk answered. “You were watching my hands on the piano as I played. I can scoot over and you can sit on the bench beside me. You’ll get a closer look.”

“That will be very nice,” Samir said. He sat close to Kirk on the piano bench, and as Kirk returned the cigarette case to the piano ledge and began playing and singing softly, the older man’s arm went around the singer’s back and his hand palmed the younger man’s hip. Kirk trembled a bit but left the hand there.

“Beautifully done,” Samir murmured when Kirk finished. “You have such fine hands. I appreciate a young man with fine hands like yours–and the blond hair. Do you ever let it down?” Kirk’s hair was held in back in a clip that pulled it up in a loose bun at the back.

“Yes, sometimes… when I’m going to bed,” the young man answered.

“When you go to bed alone?”

“Not always.”

“Do you mind if I let it down now?… Not that we’re going to bed now.”

“We’re not?” Kirk asked, looking directly at the man and smiling. Samir smiled back, but before he could say anything, Kirk said, “Of course you can let it down if you like. Is there another song you’d like for me to play?”

“Do you know the theme song from the movie Doctor Zhivago?–the one played during that long train journey in the snow, I think. I love the old, atmospheric songs.”

“Yes, that would certainly be more dramatic that what I’ve been playing. But I do know the song and will play it. Do you want it played softly or hard? It can be quite made to sound quite dramatic–very Russian.”

Kirk’s hair had come down and Samir was stroking it. He put his mouth up to the young man’s ear and said, “Such silky hair. Can you take it hard? If so, that’s what I prefer.”

“Yes, I can,” the young man answered, both of them knew they weren’t talking about music now.

Samir looked up at the staircase. “There are rooms up those stairs?”

“Yes,” Kirk said.

“If I wanted to make arrangements…?”

“You’d speak and deal with the bartender.”

“All in good time. Please play the dramatic version of the song.” He put his lips close to Kirk’s ear and said, “Play music to fuck istanbul travestileri by.” Kirk started playing but gave a startled grunt and had to start over again because Samir nipped at his earlobe before moving his head back.

“You said you were a bad boy. For what you do or what you let be done?”

“I like a bit of manhandling.”

“Have you done it with a bit of pain?”

“Yes,” Kirk answered.

“That can enhance the pleasure and the satisfaction.”

“Yes,” Kirk responded. As he continued playing, the older man pulled a wallet out, extracted a wad of cash–far too much for it to be misunderstood that it was in appreciation for the music–and dropped it into the tip jar.

“I tried to say that arrangements are made with the bartender,” Kirk said. “I’m sorry if you misunderstood.”

“I believe the one who has to do the work deserves much of the reward, especially if the work is taxing, which it will be. The bartender deserves attention as well. I am well aware of how arrangements are made here.”

Kirk noticeably trembled at this remark. The man took Kirk’s near hand off the keyboard, grunting his surprise and appreciation that the young man could maintain the melody with one hand, and placed it on his basket to let the young man know Samir was hard and hung. He then released Kirk’s hand, which went back to the keyboard, striking a chord that wasn’t connected with anything from the Doctor Zhivago movie.

“To be clear, you will mount those stairs over there with me, take me to one of the rooms above us, spread your legs for me, and give me whatever I want.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Kirk said.

“Do you know what fisting is? I had heard that you perhaps–“


“And you are not saying ‘no’?”

“I am not saying no.”

Almost simultaneously, the couple at the front corner table abruptly stood, pushed their table over, and the older of them pulled out a whistle and blew it.

The blowsy blonde bartender propelled himself from behind the bar and grabbed Samir’s arm. “Quick, through that door there. There’s a passage to get beyond here.” The man who had come in with Samir joined them, as the other patrons in the room frantically milled about, not knowing where to go. Kirk took the money out of the tip jar, pocketed it and his cigarette case and lighter, and remained seated, waiting for whatever was to happen. Within short order, men in uniform were pouring into the bar.

Twenty minutes later Samir al-Tariq and the pimp who had brought him to the bar were sitting in the back of a chauffeured black Mercedes across from the alley opening and watching the employees and patrons of the gay piano bar, including Kirk Golding, being hauled out of the alley, in handcuffs, and placed in the back of paddy wagons.

“Find out where they take that delicious young man and how much the bail will be,” Samir said to the pimp before directing the chauffeur to drive off.

* * * *

“It’s not here. I had a lot of money with me when I was brought in here. It’s not here. Where is it?” Kirk was standing at the discharge window at the Valette jail. He was holding his cigarette case and lighter in his hand, but he obviously wasn’t getting any of the money back he’d slipped in his pocket from his tip jar at the gay piano bar as the raid was coming down.

“I don’t know anything about any money… sir,” the policeman on the other side of the window said. To him, Kirk was just another young rent-boy coming in from a foreign country to mislead the men of Malta who otherwise wouldn’t be misled, as if they wouldn’t find what they wanted from local boys if they couldn’t get it from foreigners. “And if there was money, I’m sure it would have been confiscated.”

“Confiscated? Why? Those were my tips for playing the piano. Not for anything else.”

“Money from prostitution is contraband here in Malta. That was a lot of money for piano playing tips… sir.”

“So, you do know there was money. I want to see–“

“Let’s just leave. There’s more money from where that came from. Let’s not make a scene over it.” The voice came from the waiting room beyond. Kirk recognized the voice. He turned, and, sure enough, the handsome Arab from the bar was standing there in the waiting room door.

“You? You’re the one who covered my bail?” Kirk asked, turning to Samir al-Tariq.

“Yes, Samir as-Balik at your service. And not just your bail. This is the Mediterranean. For a bit more, there’s no charge at all. You never were here.” The man hadn’t given Kirk is real name. Not here, not in the center of police authority on the island.

“Why? Why would you do that for me?” Kirk asked as he drew closer to the man, who put a possessive hand on his forearm. He looked down at the hand and then up into Samir’s face. “So, that’s how it is?” he said.

“That’s how it is. You owe me. That money you say the police have taken was my money. I paid for you and didn’t receive what I was paying for. You are mine until I’ve received my money’s worth, which now includes the money paid to get you free from jail travesti istanbul and prosecution. You obviously were willing–and able–to give me what I wanted at the bar before the raid. I would like to receive satisfaction before they bring you in again. Surely we don’t have to dance around all of this again.”

Kirk was about to retort, but then Samir changed the subject. “But look at you. Have you been beaten overnight?” He clearly was upset that Kirk’s face–and quite probably other areas of him–had been bloodied.


“By the police?”

“Yes. But they put me in a common pen. I was mishandled there too.”

“And molested?”

“Yes. What did you think?”

“Under the circumstances I would have to think whether or not you enjoyed it.” Kirk didn’t respond to that. When he didn’t, Samir said, “Come on, then. The car is outside.”

“I don’t think I have anywhere to go,” Kirk said. “I had a room at the bar, but I don’t think they’ll let me back there. I’m sure the police have shut it down.”

“You’ll come with me, of course. We have unfinished business. I have a piano at my villa.”

“Of course, we do–and you do,” Kirk said, as the Arab guided him out of the jail building and helped him into the back of the chauffeured black Mercedes.

When he realized that the car was taking them out of the capital and north along the coast, Kirk turned to the Arab. Samir hadn’t touched him. Not even when they entered the car.

“Do you want me to do something now, here in the car?” he asked.

“What?” Samir asked, his voice hard, exhibiting a bit of distaste.

“I’ve been fucked in the backseat of a car before–and given blow jobs there. You say I owe you. Do you want me to start showing my gratitude for you bailing me out now?” Kirk released the band at the back of his head and let his blond curls descend to his shoulders. “You said you liked to have my hair down.”

“Certainly not. Not that we won’t have our time. I have plans for you. And put your hair back up, please. You’ve been beaten–and assaulted. I was drawn by your perfection, your purity. You’ve been defiled. And you are a mess–dirty and you smell. You smell of other men.”

“So, you don’t want me at all?”

“I didn’t say that. Thirty days. You must heal and become pure again. You will stay with me at my villa. We will have our time. I will use you, but not until you are pure again. And then I will use you hard.”

“And I won’t be pure then–after you’ve used me hard?”

“After that, it won’t matter.”

Kirk turned his head away, moving to pin his hair up again, and looking at the seaside cliffs of the rough Malta coastline sliding by. Samir al-Tariq, calling himself Samir as-Balik now, most likely thought Kirk turned so he, Samir, couldn’t see the fear in the young man’s face, but Kirk did it because he couldn’t help from giving a small smile. The most difficult part of this had been surmounted. The approach had been elaborate, but for this mark, that had been necessary. He had been successfully elusive for over a decade. He was clever as a fox and well protected. That didn’t mean there weren’t flaws in his makeup–and Kirk’s employers had found one: Kirk.

* * * *

Kirk was taken to a walled compound on the coast, with stairs down the cliff to a sandy beach of a cove below. The compound was guarded, and, although Kirk was told he could go down to the beach, barriers were pointed out to him that not only provided physical separation, but, he was told, some of the area was mined as well. The villa itself was luxurious and did indeed have a grand piano that Kirk was urged to play for Samir nearly every afternoon and evening as well as a terrace overlooking the sea and a swimming pool. But beyond that, the compound was a military fortification.

Kirk wasn’t surprised.

For thirty days he was permitted to heal and to return his body to the perfection of a young, innocent-looking blond almost boy. He roamed within the confines defined to him, doing as he pleased, wearing what he wished, or nothing at all, to develop his tan, although Samir urged him not to become too brown.

“I want a golden blond. And I want your freshness and innocence.”

Samir acted as if Kirk could regain them–that he could become a virgin for Samir to glory in and defile, as he pleased–or at least close enough that Samir could think of him as a young virgin when he finally covered him. He didn’t try to talk the Arab out of the notion that Kirk would peel back time in experience and age.

As soon as they returned to the villa, Samir reverted to his Arab comfort. He eschewed Western clothes and took to wearing the traditional pristine white thawb, with the Arab headdress, when he was receiving guests. Otherwise, Samir spent considerable time at the pool, in a Speedo or less. He had no embarrassment about Kirk seeing him naked, and he had no reason to be reticent about that. The man probably was past forty, but he was muscular and very fit and sexy looking. Pock marks down his side and on one of his thighs that could be from healed bullet wounds lent an air of mystery to him. And he was hung. Having sex with him wasn’t any part of Kirk’s worry about being a virtual prisoner here, becoming some form of “pure” to ultimately provide pleasure to the man, who obviously had a fetish for small, young-looking, handsome blond men.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir yanıt yazın