Kas 15, 2023 // By:admin // No Comment
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The Colombian thug Arillano Galindo was rubbing his head dry with one towel, with another one wrapped around his waist, as he stepped from the bathroom into his sea view room at Cartagena’s resort Caribe Hotel, when he was caught up short. Standing inside the closed door to the corridor was the waiter he had just been flirting with down at the hotel pool.
He’d actually been assessing the young man as possibly part of the package he planned to deliver to the docks of New Orleans in two week’s time—fresh ass for the male bordellos across the southern states of America. The young man was standing there, in a vest over his naked chest and short shorts—the uniform of the pool service—and holding a tray with a champagne bottle, a single glass, and a fruit plate on it. He was a Mestizo, highly valued in the trade, small of stature, almost boyish, dusky complexion but with blond-tipped hair and blue eyes. And he had the smile of a knowing flirt. Galindo probably wouldn’t even have to whip him into shape if he took him to New Orleans.
“Compliments of the hotel management,” the young waiter said with a smile. He moved to his right and put the tray down on the side of the dresser and then came back to the door, smiled, and said, “Anything else I can do for you, sir? Anything at all?”
Manuel was flat on his back on the carpeted floor, turning his head back and forth, crying out at the invasion, and digging his fists into the carpet pile. He was mouthing off like this was his first time, but Galindo wasn’t buying that and he was feeding his ass fast and deep—and Manuel was taking him in, stretching to accommodate him without apparent trouble. Manuel’s butt was raised on three pillows from the bed; one of his legs rose up Galindo’s chest, and Galindo held the other one out to the side with a fist wrapped around his ankle. Galindo was on his knees between Manuel’s legs and raising and lowering his body in rhythm as his cock moved in and out, in and out inside Manuel’s tight hole—at an ever faster, deeper pace.
Manuel groaned and moaned and slowly pulled on his own cock, as Galindo muttered what a nice, sweet, tight ass he had, murmuring that he should see the world, that his talents should be shared—and thinking to himself that, yes, this young, boyishly handsome waiter would command top dollar in the male bordellos of New Orleans. Maybe, he was thinking, he should consider pimping some of these guys himself and letting them keep more of the take. Galindo’s share of the market at this point was not-fully-willing, expendable asses. It was almost a shame to throw someone as good at bottoming as Manuel was into that short-term pool. Almost. Manuel would return top dollar anyway—almost as much as if he was a virgin.
Galindo was even more pleased a half an hour later, when he had Manuel’s belly up against the wall of the shower, under a cascade of water, and the little Mestizo was able to go with a power fuck. Galindo had to be careful with the small ones, like Manuel. He was built like a heavy-weight prize fighter, with the brutalized face to match, and he sometimes lost control at the height of a fuck. He could get rough, and he could crush the smaller ones under him in the heat of lust. But doing it like this was OK. Holding Manuel by his waist and raising him up and down on his cock, and Manuel making all of the sounds of full-satisfaction taking that the marks like to hear. He didn’t just lay there and take it; he moved his hips and touched his taker with his hands, and murmured his love for the cock and what it was doing to him.
Afterward, as they were stretched İstanbul Escort out on the bed and Galindo was enjoying Manuel’s lips with his and the little berry-brown body, lithe and boy-like, with his gliding hands, Galindo whispered to him, “Are you free for the weekend? I have a very private island. I can make it worth your while.”
“Yes, I think I would like that—if, of course, your pocketbook is of the same generous size as other parts of you.”
“Well, I could be very, very generous. If you can show me that you can suck cock as well as you ride it.”
Manuel then showed him that he, indeed, could suck cock very, very well.
* * * *
The speedboat was skimming across the water, the beach resort coastline of Cartagena receding behind them and an islet dead ahead. The waves were choppy and white capped, and the two men were breaking off from what they had been doing to look up at the sky. Arillano Galindo was sitting in the seat behind the wheel, his bathing trunks around his ankles and Manuel sitting on his cock, his hands trapping Galindo’s wrists, as the older man steered the boat, and his ass rising and falling in Galindo’s lap.
“I don’t like the looks of the sky,” Galindo muttered. “We’ll make the island, but not with much time to crank up the boat in the boathouse. If we lose the boat, we’re stranded for a couple of days.”
“Stranded,” Manuel exclaimed. “How big is this island we’re going to anyway?” Manuel wasn’t at all worried about the black clouds scuttling across the sky or the sudden picking up of the breeze and drop in temperature, or the whitecaps on the waves. This had been one of the riskier aspects of all this. The timing had been very touchy, and the primary plan required the hurricane that had been building off the coast of Cuba to be making an appearance here either later today or tomorrow. It now looked like tonight was going to be the night.
“It’s small. Only has one house on it,” Galindo said. “I own the whole island. I’ll have you all to myself.” He took one hand off the wheel and pulled Manuel in close in his lap and gave him a deep kiss in the hollow of his neck.
“If your island is small, it’s the only thing about you that’s small,” Manuel whispered, and he wiggled his butt and was rewarded with a groan from Galindo as his cock touched all sides of Manual’s undulating channel walls.
And once again the international trafficker in illegal flesh, Arillano Galindo, blessed his good fortune at having added Manuel to his collection at the last moment for delivery to the New Orleans auction house. Of course Manuel didn’t know yet that he was going to be sold into the underworld of male brothels. And as long as Manuel was giving him a good time, Galindo wasn’t going to tell the nice little piece of ass what was what. He’d have Manuel on the ship and sailing across the Caribbean before he had any idea what was in store for him.
“There, there. Up ahead. Do you see it? Isle de Turto. And it’s all mine.”
“Where? Oh, that? It [i]is[/i] small,” Manuel said. He was doing his best acting to convey the impression that he’d never seen the island before—although he had. He knew practically every inch of the island and the house on it now.
“Shall we take a spin around it and see it from all sides?” Galindo offered. “It would only take a couple of minutes. The storm should hold off that long.”
“No, I don’t think so. I think I want to see your bedroom first.” It was the best Manuel could do on the fly. A trip to the other side of the island might have proved embarrassing İstanbul Escort Bayan to the fishing boat he knew was anchored just off the island over there. But the remark worked. Galindo revved up the engine and headed straight for the dock and boathouse.
Manuel thought the house was the perfect set up, and while Galindo was cranking the speedboat up out of the water in the boathouse, Manuel went on ahead, saying he wanted to look around the island a bit. He found the package he was looking for hidden behind a concrete vase at the edge of the stone terrace behind the house. He had its precious contents stashed away in his backpack well before Galindo came up the steps from the boathouse.
And as Manuel had requested, he was shown Galindo’s bedroom first, and the wrist restraints in the headboard, and Galindo’s ready cock, and the passage to paradise.
* * * *
Manuel woke in the middle of the night, encased in Galindo’s arms, and in an instant he was fully awake to wariness at the sounds he was hearing—the whistling of the wind, raindrops smattering against the window shutters, and the beating of a loose shutter on a window frame. “Showtime” was the word running through his brain and he nudged Galindo—enough for the thug to wake up but not enough for him to think Manuel had purposely awakened him.
“The hurricane is here,” Galindo murmured, half awake. But he became alert to the sounds of the storm quickly and sat up in bed. “It is time for me to show you the storm cellar.”
The two rolled off the bed at opposite sides and reached for their clothes.
“Hurry, this way,” Galindo muttered. Already the wind was howling rather than whistling.
“Just a second,” Manuel answered. “I want my backpack.”
They barely had made it into the store cellar under the house when the generator gave out and they heard sounds of the tin roofing giving way.
They were on a mattress on the floor, and Manuel clung to Galindo in fear of the night and the storm, and Galindo embraced him and comforted him. Manuel let his little hands roam around on Galindo’s body, and they soon drifted into a slow fuck. As Galindo was at the point of ejaculation, the world caved in on him. Something hit him on the head, which stunned him, and something stabbed him in the thigh, which blacked him out.
Manuel dropped the length of wood he’d used to stun Galindo, put the syringe he’d used to put Galindo out for several hours back into his backpack, extracted a flashlight from his backpack, and went to the cellar door and let in the much bedraggled team of U.S. intelligence technical experts.
The hurricane was passing by, but it didn’t give them any help in their difficult task. Still, they were miracle workers and they had trained for this. They had brought all of the supplies they needed, and the team had every move planned down to the second. The first thing they did was turn the generator back on that they’d cut off themselves.
While they worked, Manuel, with pleasure, bloodied up the Colombian flesh-peddling thug’s head more than he originally had and then bandaged it with his torn undershirt.
As the team was pulling out, layering a mass of splintered timbering in their wake, the last of them, the team leader, whispered to Manuel, “You sure you know what we need? We need to know where it is and where it’s going.”
Manuel nodded. His thoughts had been concentrated on that for days. They were simple questions, but the answers were worth all of the effort they were putting in to get them.
By the time Galindo Escort İstanbul came too, but woozily so from his head wound—although more so from the drugs Manuel had shot into his thigh once more—the cellar had been transformed into a collapsed building trapping the two of them in a small, but manageable air pocket, with no access to an exit. The timbers were stacked precariously to leave the impression that if someone started trying to move any of them, the whole lot would come down on his head.
“Where, what?” Galindo moaned as he came closer to the surface of consciousness.
“The hurricane collapsed the house on us,” Manuel said. “You got hit in the head by a falling timber. We’re alive, but we’re trapped. I don’t think it would be a good idea to try to move any of this debris.”
“Alive but trapped,” Galindo muttered and drifted off again.
He woke again in an hour, as the drug Manuel had shot into him was wearing off. There was enough still in him to make him confused, however, and Manuel was prepared to keep him in that state as long as he could.
“Where? Oh, yes, trapped in the cellar,” he muttered. “How long?”
“You’ve been out for a day—through a night,” Manuel said.
“Water. Thirsty,” Galindo whispered.
“We don’t have any,” Manuel said. He put a sob into his voice, made himself sound like he was sinking in despair. “We’re trapped . . . on an uninhabited island, under a collapsed house. Can’t get out. We’re going to die in here.”
“No. We’re not,” Galindo muttered. “A night you say? We can hold out. Ship. Ship will be here tomorrow.”
“A ship?” Manuel asked. “What ship?”
“They know I should be here; they’ll see the house collapsed and will get us out. They can’t sell the cargo without me. All those people will be useless to them. I’m the only one with the contacts in New Orleans and the way to get illegals in.”
“People? Cargo? What ship? Where is it coming from? Where is it going?”
Galindo started to drift off again, and Manuel patted him on the cheek, a bit hard, actually. “Please, daddy, stay awake. I’m scared. What ship? I don’t understand.”
Galindo took Manuel in his arms and started to rock him back and forth. “Shush now, don’t worry. It will be here tomorrow. Picking up cargo down the Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama coast. Sex flesh from all through the region. Love that in the south. Nice brown Hispanic ass—some fresh. New Orleans. Have it all set up.”
“You’re just trying to keep me from giving up, daddy. We’ve been here so long. I’m thirsty and hungry. We’re going to die here. What ship, daddy? What ship.”
“Shhh, shh, the Grego II. Wouldn’t go by without finding me. Wouldn’t do them any good in New Orleans.”
“Oh, daddy,” Manuel wailed—as he jabbed Galindo’s thigh with the needle again and Galindo drifted off to lala land.
Manuel extricated himself from Galindo’s embrace, reached into his backpack. took out a mobile phone, and punched in a number. “It’s the Grego II, coming from Panama and headed to New Orleans for a sex slave trade auction. He expects it here on Tuesday. Now get me the hell out of here.”
It had all happened in an eight-hour period from hurricane damage set up, to Manuel getting the information they needed from Galindo, to breaking the staged set in the cellar of a perfectly sturdy house and bundling Galindo onto the fishing boat on the other side of the island. They called in other teams to intercept the Grego II before it left Panamanian waters, the Panamanians being much more cooperative in these matters than the Colombians were.
As Manuel climbed aboard the fishing boat, he looked up at the sky, at the black cloud scuttling away from them up toward the Nicaraguan coast. He said a little thanks to Mother Nature for cooperating. Plan B for this operation would have been much, much more complicated and risky.
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