This is a continuing work of homosexual fiction. If you are offended by such or it is illegal to view it in you area please go no further. This is fictional and any similarity to anyone living or dead was unintentional. Dante
Rio The D'Yarro district was not somewhere tourists went. In fact the local authorities were known to arrest stray tourists here, just to get them out of this district of dark, crumbling colonial buildings on narrow streets. My "safe" house was an apartment located just off a square called the Plaza D Angelico, place of Angels. The old fountain in the center had long ago been commandeered by the locals for a laundry and sometime bath. The irregular cobbles had sickly pale green weeds sprouting in "out of the way" corners. My dark hair and coloring, a present from my Italian ancestors, and my flawless Portuguese allowed me to disappear into the anonymous inhabitants of this place. The locals asked no questions of each other in this corner of Rio. To them I was just another man with no name, and a potential for violence. The corporation has used the apartment for several years now; it provides a great listening post and the poor and violent neighborhood provides excellent cover for our monitoring of certain drug smuggling operations. I had been here for two months now, and the strain of the killing field was getting to me.
I am in the desert and the smoke from the burning oil wells stings my eyes and I hear my buddy, Eric's, breath next to me as we look through our night vision goggles and try to get a fix on the Iraqi bunker. Suddenly a firefight erupts and all you see is muzzle flashes. The shooting stops and all I hear is the silent scream in my mind as my buddy lays dying at my feet.
"The Norse believed to die in battle got you a ticket to this really cool place called Valhalla, man, think there's anything to it?" My buddy whispers and is gone.
"Requiest en Pacem, " I pray through the tears.
Rio and the assignment. The late evening sun pours through the dirty French doors and into the main room of the apartment. The old tattered drapes let in as much light as they keep out. At sometime in the distant past the high ceiling chamber had been some Grandee's French styled salon but it was now the kitchen and living/dining room and in one corner the rooms classical proportions had been high jacked to accommodate a bathroom. The paint was peeling off the high style plaster cornices and the old parquet flooring was warped with the tropical heat that peaked at sunset and made you feel you were swimming in a bowl of warm consommé. The night is coming and with it, the next moves in this chess game of intrigue. I was using my penchant for men as a tool in this game on the killing field.
I lit a cigarette and through the holes in the drapes I watched a thin young man unhook his tattered jeans in the doorway of the house opposite. He fished his rather large uncircumcised dick out of his pants and began to enjoy a long piss. He stroked his dick slowly as the yellow liquid made wet stains on the stucco of the old doorway. Rio certainly wasn't the USA in more ways than one. I could feel my dick stir with awakening desire. He looked up at my window and I paused, made eye contact and let the tatters fall back into place. The twilight of the tropics has set in, I wasn't expected for several hours. "Might as well have some fun while I wait", I thought.
I quietly slipped out the apartment door and down the creaking steps to the main door of this old townhouse.
I stepped out into the fading sunlight on the street; took the last puff of my smoke, threw the butt into the gutter and looked toward the house where the young man had been. He was leaning against the ornate stucco of the door opening and raised his chin at me when he saw me. I replied in the same manner, lightly cupping my crotch, and stepped back into the door but left it open. Pausing at the foot of the steps to make sure he had followed I ascended the stairs and paused at the door of the apartment.
He came up behind me and whispered in Portuguese, "You got some liquor?" His voice was husky with desire, not sexual desire but the desire to get a fix for his addiction. He is an alcoholic and will do anything for drinks. Rio's full of these people men and women, varying in age from children to adults. They didn't live much past 30, if the drink didn't get them, they were swept away by poor nutrition and some contagion that the government did nothing about. My companion was about 18. I hadn't seen him before, but his type is common.
I smiled in answer and opened the door and held it for him to go through. I asked him in Portuguese if he knew what I wanted, and he replied that he was mine as long as the liquor held out. We both laughed. He in nervous anticipation of the unknown and I at the tragedy of this man, who with a bath and some clean clothes would have been incredibly handsome. Like the wildebeest on the savanna, he is meat for the predator. He had classic Latin features, high forehead and a sharp nose with fine chiseled lips. His eyes were blue. Most Americans think Latinos have brown eyes, and most do, but in Brazil there are some blue eyed people. Tradition holds they are nearly pure Portuguese, others think they are descended from German immigrants. I imagine he is some lost Colonial Grandee with a family lineage stretching back to the house of Braganza, the apartment is once again a 17th century copy of a French Hotel in the Rue St. Anne and I wonder what his body would feel like in satin. He reaches for the liquor bottle, grasps it by the neck, twists off the lid and tips the bottle to his mouth.
The Fiery local whisky is only for him and his type. On the killing fields you can't take that risk. He is facing me, gulping down mouthfuls of the potent drink.
"Passion is the only thing I feel..." I quote Flaubert to him in French, but he isn't listening. I reach out and gently push against his chest and he backs up and sits on the kitchen table. After three gulps he is less tense, the liquor is making his face flush. He spread his arms so that I can run my hands over his chest. The dirty, ragged T-shirt revealing his hard nipples. He laughs again and points at the outline of my hardening dick visible through the tight jeans I wear. "Your snake is coiled to strike the mouse." He says. I laugh also and point at his nipples. He sits the bottle down only long enough to remove his T-shirt and then takes another long drink.
"You like doing this?" I ask, as I lightly touch his thin chest and let my hand slip toward his stomach, which is covered with black hair.
"Only if there is no woman around to stuff it in." He laughs, then quotes a local saying. "The man who pays the band, gets to name the dance, eh?"
I reach for the waistband of his pants and he stands up, taking another long pull on the bottle. Once again his beautiful body is revealed, the dark mat of his pubic hair and the long semi erect dick. His foreskin overhangs the head some and you can distinctly see its outline under the foreskin. His balls are loose and hanging low. He steps out of the pants, he is wearing no underwear, and sits back down on the table. I reach out and start feeling his rod, playing with the foreskin rolling it back and forth; I stick my finger under his foreskin. He is starting to get hard. I am lost in the heat of passion and my erection aches, longing for this Latin American whore. I run my fingers through the hair in his crotch, it is inky black and wiry.
I slowly lower my jeans and he reaches out and roughly starts to jack me off. I moan in pleasure. He isn't really into what he is doing, it allows him to continue to drink, but this isn't what I want. I reach into a bag on the table and remove a condom. He sees it and slowly lies back on the table propping his feet on two chairs. His big dick is hard now and the tip of the head is visibly protruding out from under the foreskin, precum leeks onto the hair that covers his stomach. I slowly lube a finger and explore his warm hole. He grunts as my finger enters him, I can tell that he's done this before because he relaxes too easily. I slowly unroll the condom on myself and replace my finger with my dick. I slowly enter his warm tightness and feel his thighs against my waist; the dark hair that covers them brushes me softly. I quickly develop a rhythm and He responds by reaching between us and lifting his dick so it is against my stomach as I thrust into him. He is moaning and whispering to himself, I can't make out what he is saying and don't care now. I withdraw from him slowly and remove the condom. He already knows what to do and slowly takes me into his mouth I'm on the edge and his mouth puts me over. I start to cum and it is the release of the violent darkness that I live in. I relax and he lets me go. He sits up and takes another pull from the nearly empty bottle. He is slowly jacking his dick. The foreskin easily glides over the purple head. I bend down and take him into my mouth. I hear him moan softly. I once again let my finger slip into his hole and massage his prostate as I slowly suck his dick. I hear his breath catch and feel his cum fill my mouth, I smell his stale male scent as I drink his jiz.
He takes the last of the liquor from the bottle and I pull my jeans up. After many fumbled attempts he gets his pants on and staggers to his feet, he is very drunk. Just as well. I slip the needle of the hypodermic into his shoulder and he slumps over. "Alas, poor Yorrick, I knew him well." I murmured the line from Shakespeare and laugh. He's not injured, just asleep and will be that way for a few hours. The medication will; in combination with the liquor, effectively erase his memory of the events and more importantly, the location of our little encounter.
I stuff his shirt in his back pocket and arrange him on the sagging sofa that is in one end of the room and serves as seat and bed. Then take a leisurely shower and dress in dark jeans and T-shirt. Night has fallen and the tropical darkness is complete.
I light one of the, bitterly strong, local cigarettes and watch the whorls of smoke waft up and disappear into the darkness near the ceiling.
Eric looks at me from across the mess hall table his blonde Nordic ancestors clearly present in his pale blonde hair and eyelashes. His steel blue eyes look at me with covert love. "I've been reading a book by some dude in China, think it was a long time ago." He said, and continued "Anyway he said something about a Lion and I thought of you, man."
"Who hath drawn the circuit of the Predator?" My mind calls me back to business.
I put the whore over my shoulder and silently slip down the empty back stairs and out into the old walled garden, which is now a deserted garbage dump. I pick my way through the bougainvillea that has claimed the remains of the wall and effectively hides the little gateway. I carry his limp snoring weight down the pitch-black alley and across the next plaza, which has no light. A few blocks latter I leave him in the doorway of a burned out house. He is safe, he has nothing of value to take, and his body is for sale. I lightly kiss his lips tasting the liquor that is his undoing, and disappear into the darkness that calls me. "Goodnight, sweet prince, and Angels sing thee to thy rest." In Portuguese I quote Shakespeare again to his unconscious form in the darkness.
"He that has mastered his desires, doth draw the circuit." My mind whispered.