Busman’s HolidayBusman’s Holiday


I was cruising down the South King’s Highway, through Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, from the airport to my hotel, the Royal Garden Resort Oceanfront, on the beach in Garden City near the Indian Wells Golf Club and maybe driving a bit faster than the speed limit. But I’d been given a passion red Nissan 370Z convertible sports car at the rental, and I rarely got to drive in New York City. There wasn’t much traffic on the road anyway.

I was told that the hotel wasn’t the best, but it provided me with a one-bedroom condo with ocean beach frontage and I wouldn’t be spending much time there anyway. I wasn’t going to be all that busy with the job, but this was the beach. I’d rarely been to an ocean beach. I was from Colorado and even after ending up in New York City as a male model, I’d found most of my out-of-town work to be at snow ski resorts, as I had been an Olympic Team skier. That’s where my face and build mostly fit in my line of work. But when a chance had come up for a busman’s holiday to a southern beach–a little bit of work and time for fun–I’d grabbed the opportunity.

I had the radio on pretty loud, as did most of the other fine-looking cars gliding down the road, some of them keeping pace with me for the companionship and some with drivers as good-looking as I was, even some who were flirting with me. Having both women and men pay attention to me wasn’t something that was strange for me. I don’t know how long the siren had been going behind me before I noticed it. It wasn’t a cop car; it was a cop motorcycle. I glided over into a parking area in front of a store with soaped-over windows and the motorcycle pulled in too. A burly cop, all tricked out in cop gear, climbed off the cycle and slowly walked up to the side of the car. The top was down, so there was no need to open up for him.

What I could see of him behind the reflective-lens sunglasses was both all hunky Marine style and business. He was muscular on top, tapering down to a narrower waist that was supporting a tool belt with a complete collection of cop gear hanging off it, teasing me to try the tired “Is that I big gun I see you packing?” joke. His tight navy-blue trousers descended down from a full basket to shiny black boots.

As he approached the car, I said, “Sorry, officer. Officer Brand, is it?” I was looking at the name tag on his heavily muscular chest. “Was I driving too fast? I’ve just come from the airport and haven’t seen a speed sign yet. I thought I was going with the pace of the traffic.”

“So, this isn’t your car?” he asked.

“It’s a rental. I’ve just flown in from New York.”

“City? License and registration, please.”

“Yes, New York City.” I handed him the documents. I wasn’t afraid the license wouldn’t pass, even though it was fake. My employers used only the best forgers and I’d been Ken Taylor for some time when I was on the job–quite successfully. Even those who somehow had dredged up how closely I looked like the former Olympic skier Kevin Tyler were willing to be convinced I wasn’t him.

“It says here you’re twenty-two.”

“That’s right, officer.”

“You don’t look that old. That’s one reason I stopped you. You didn’t look old enough to own a sweet ride like this.”

“I’m old enough, but not rich enough,” I said, giving him a model’s smile. “It’s a rental. My agency rented it for me. They take good care of their boys.” Yes, I was flirting and beginning to open up to him, in case he was interested. He’d taken his sunglasses off to read my license and he was one handsome dude–a rough rider type. Rugged features. The smile he’d given back to me indicated he might be a player. I enjoyed being ridden by his type. He put a gloved hand on my shoulder, which advanced this possibility. Rather than shirking away, I looked up at him and batted my long eyelashes.

“Your agency? What sort of agency would that be?” he asked.

Here we go, I thought. It was fish or cut bait time. “I’m a male model. I work for an escort agency in New York.”

“An escort agency?” he said.

“Yes. Escorting men,” I answered.

He smiled again and the hand on my shoulder slid down the front of my shirt. I wasn’t wearing an undershirt and the silky material of my white shirt lay on my chest in a way that my puffy nipples tented the shirt and showed that I had silver bars pierced there. His gloved fingers easily found my left nipple and rested there, flicking the silver bar through my shirt material. That I had the piercing and didn’t pull away from him told him everything he needed to know about me, even if I hadn’t openly said it.

We were declaring our interest in each other right out here on the side of the street with cars gliding by and everything.

“There were a couple of other reasons I stopped you–other than that you were going seven miles over the speed limit.”

“What other reasons, and is seven miles really bad, officer? I thought I was going with the flow.”

“Not too bad, but I could ticket you for it. And, yes, I can be pretty bad. One of the reasons is that this is a bad-ass car. I haven’t seen the inside of one of these 370Z babies before.”

“Feel almanbahis free to take a look, officer. Feel free to do whatever you want.” I flashed him “the” smile.

He leaned into the car and his hand slid down to my crotch. I spread my legs and pushed my basket up into his gloved hand.

“Anything you want, officer,” I said.

He took his time looking over the dash board. But he eventually straightened up and stood beside the car. He didn’t move on to doing anything else, though.

“What was the other reason you stopped me, Officer?” I asked, my voice breathy.

“I’d been following you for a while before I stopped you. There are some known homos cruising the King’s Highway this afternoon. You seemed to be sharing looks with them and I haven’t seen you out on the street before. So, I was wondering–“

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes to what?” he asked, something between a smile and a smirk on his face.

“Yes to anything you want,” I answered. “I’ve said that already. I’m good to go with whatever you want.”

“You don’t want to negotiate over ticket or no ticket?”

“No. If you want anything you can have it. No conditions.”

“You got a hotel?”

“Yes, the Royal Garden Resort in Garden City. On the beach. That’s where I was headed now.”

“I’ll follow you and meet you there. No ticket this time.”

“Just one question, officer?”


“Do you always keep your gloves on?”

“When requested.”


He fucked me on the bed in my one-bedroom condo–or, I guess you could say I rode him on the bed and then he fucked me on the floor and on the bed. He kept his gloves on but little else. His name was Rob and he had, indeed, been in the Marines and now, which was obvious, worked out at a gym much of his free time. He didn’t have a steady boyfriend. He usually picked guys up at the gym, took them somewhere, and fucked them. He didn’t often do the same guy twice. It all sounded casual and nonthreatening, in terms of relationship if not in how his guys got treated physically. I found it exciting and arousing. He was quite the big bruiser.

We didn’t get beyond that in introductions before we got hot and heavy, he explored every inch of me with his gloved hands and got his cock sucked, I got my ass eaten out, I rode him on the bed in a wild cowboy, and then he fucked me silly. As a male whore, it took a special cock for me to really feel it. He had a special cock. I really felt it.

Everything else was special too. In addition to the gloves, he kept his equipment belt, including his holster, tied to his naked, meaty thigh, and his black boots on, as I straddled his pelvis, impaled myself on his monster cock, and rode him like we were in a rodeo.

Rob was an in-control guy, though. He put up with that for a while, but then, he took over, eventually got mounted on my hips, with me on my knees and elbows, and rode me down to collapsing on the bed, leaving me completely used up, after saying he needed to get back on his cycle and on the street before his lieutenant missed him–leaving me flat on my belly, my head and an arm dangling over the side of the bed, my eyes crossed and looking down at a spent condom on the floor, thick as a slug with cum, and my mouth blowing bubbles.

I didn’t usually get a young, virile, hung power top like Rob. When he’d taken over he’d treated me like the whore I was. I didn’t want to give up control, so I spun away from him, rolled off the bed, and started for the bathroom. But he lunged out, grabbing me and taking both of us onto the floor at the foot of the bed. I struggled, but he was too heavy and powerful for me, putting an arm under my belly and holding me there on all fours as he mounted me on top, penetrated me, and fucked me into moaning submission.

When I’d gone docile for him, he moved me onto the bed, pinning me to the bed with the weight of his body, putting me into a painful arm lock, an arm shoved high up my back, with one hand and burying the fingers of his other hand into the curly blond-highlighted hair on the back of my head and arching me cruelly up into his chest. He stood on the floor at the end of the bed, using the strength of his powerful legs to thrust brutally in long, hard, rapid strikes into the center of me, lifting my body off the bed, making me cry out and jerk and writhe with each powerful, exhausting thrust. He was a cop and he was serving my arrest warrant–softening me up and subduing me so I wouldn’t give him any trouble going into the cell. It wasn’t often that I felt totally fucked after a John was finished with me. Rob, the bodybuilder cop, totally fucked me.

“That’s how you do whore,” he growled after he was done. I was so well done I didn’t disagree.

Rob was what was making this a busman’s holiday–a busman going on a bus tour during his holiday from work. Rob wasn’t what I was here for. I’d been given an assignment with a lot of down time, where I could be doing something new and different with my time. Thus far I was doing the same thing I did on my job–just not for pay.

It was just as well he left. I would have liked almanbahis giriş him to stay all night and put me into the hospital, but I had a job to do. I was here to party for pay, and that started this evening. I needed some recovery time after being ridden by the motorcycle cop.

* * * *

The house I was going to at 4:00 that afternoon and then again later in the evening wasn’t far from my hotel. It was one of those soaring wooden beach mansions wedged into a premium, postage-sized lot directly on Surfside Beach. The house fronted on North Ocean Boulevard and was set back from the road far enough for ten slanted parking places, five per side, to lead into a short green space dominated by a two-sided staircase up to the second level. The house, with forty feet of lot width, consisted of four stories above a garage on each side with a deep, open undercroft space under the back of the house opening onto the stone terrace and oval swimming pool. The first story was expendable in case a hurricane sent water up to North Ocean Boulevard, which had happened on occasion. Over four thousand square feet of house, with the second, entry level being all common living space, the two stories above that had three bedrooms, each, two smaller bedrooms on the front and a larger one overlooking the ocean, each with bath. The top story, with the views and the most inviting for parties, was were the entertaining was done.

I didn’t know if Salvatore Siglioni owned the house or had rented it for this business weekend. I had no interest in knowing. Nor did I know what Siglioni’s business interests were–what he hoped to accomplish this weekend in that vein. I was told I didn’t want to or need to know–just that there would be armed bodyguards and to consider them as statutes. They probably wouldn’t vacate the room while Siglioni or anyone else he designated was fucking me. I had only been rented for the weekend, but the agency made clear that, for what Siglioni paid, I should consider myself owned for the weekend–by one and all.

I was told that Siglioni was gay and a top and that several of his associates were as well and that there would be gay tops among tonight’s investor’s party and tomorrow’s business meeting at the Indian Wells Golf Course during a tournament. Siglioni would identify who I was to go with and be screwed by. I was owned for the weekend. He wanted to sample the goods himself, though, which was why I was driving into the ten-space forecourt of the beach house on Surfside Beach. A black Cadillac limo was sitting, nose out, in the garage to the right and a black Escalade was filling the other garage. A navy-blue Mustang convertible, top down, was parked in the nearest slanted space to the house on the right. I parked the Nissan 370Z on the left, closed the top, and started to climb the stairs to the second floor. I didn’t get that far, though. A young guy–but a few years older than I was–dark, well-built, sure of himself, came around the left side of the building, He’d obviously recently come from the pool as he was in a Speedo and drops of water on his cut torso picked up the reflection from the sun. With a body like his, he had every apparent reason to be full of confidence. He called out to me, “You the guy from the New York Agency?”

A more muscular, older, mean-looking thug in a black suit, even in the heat of the Myrtle Beach afternoon, and with a gun holster under his left armpit, was tagging along behind the younger, sultry guy.

“That’s me. Ken Taylor from the New York agency. Are you Salvatore Siglioni?”

The young man laughed. “Not a chance. I’m his nephew, Guido. He’s around this way, in back. Follow me.”

I followed Guido and the goon followed me. What must be Salvatore Siglioni was on a massage table, face down, receiving a massage from a personal trainer-looking black guy in the lanai under the back half of the house, overlooking the pool terrace and the ocean beyond. Siglioni was a big guy, with an all-over tan, but he was olive skinned anyway. He was hirsute, with black curly hair. He was a muscular, powerfully built man with a beer belly and, from my first view of him, a bulbous buttocks, covered in a down of black hair, as were his shoulder blades. There were a couple of scars on his back and on his right thigh. They looked like old bullet wounds. He was billiard-ball bald, but he had bushy black, laced with gray, eyebrows and piercing black eyes. He gave the impression of being able to assess a man immediately to determine whether to do business with him or shoot him–and then to follow up without hesitation or remorse.

Another black-suited, unsmiling goon, cradling a machine gun, stood off to the side by the stairs up into the house.

Mercifully, I got that Siglioni’s assessment of me was that he was going to do business with me–and that that would include eating me up and fucking the shit out of me.

“So, you’re from New York?” he said, his voice gruff and with a foreign accent I couldn’t locate. But then I was terrible with accents and I didn’t try them myself, letting my Oxford BBC English origins come forth. Men seemed to like that almanbahis yeni giriş accent.

“Yes sir,” I answered.

“Well, strip down and walk around a bit. I want to see what I’m buying.” I did so, and walked a red carpet that led from the stairs up into the house out to the pool terrace like it was a fashion runway.

“You good at fucking? You take a cock well?” he asked. All the time he asked, the masseur was kneading his back muscles.

“I’m from a full-service agency,” I said.

“Go take a swim in the pool with Guido here. Guido, fuck him on the side of the pool where I can see it.”

“With pleasure,” Guido said, giving a big smile and stripping off his Speedo.

We swam a few laps in the pool before he pulled me into his chest in the center of the pool, and took my lips with his and reached down on frotted our cocks together. I climbed his hips as a hand went around my waist and fingers found and entered my hole. He sat on the side of the pool, where Siglioni could watch me suck Guido’s cock into an erection with standing in the pool and bent over him. And then Guido put me on my back at the edge of the pool, lifted my left ankle to his shoulder, and turned me a bit, so that the older man could see the entry and pumping of the cock, while the young guy barebacked me to an ejaculation.

“OK, Siglioni called out when Guido was done. You know how to give a massage, New York?”

“I’ve been trained in that, yes,” I said, as I came up on my feet by the pool and Guido pushed off into the water to swim laps again.

“You take over here, with me, then,” Siglioni said, waving the masseur away. He turned over onto his back as I approached. He was in full, thick erection. He didn’t really want me to continue with the massage. He obviously wanted me to ride the cock. I did, after a few perfunctory squeezes of his muscles to do the massage “pretend.” After a bit of this, I climbed up on the table, positioned myself over his pelvis, and reached under and put the bulb of his shaft in the entrance to my hole. He grunted and snorted as he took my waist between two strong, calloused hands and I took the cock inside me. I gave him a cowboy ride to his coming and he expressed satisfaction with the ride.

Afterward, Guido took me up to the fourth floor and showed me into one of the smaller bedrooms on the front of the house. “This is where you’ll bring anyone this evening Sal says he wants you to. This will be your room. There will be two girls in the bedrooms under here on the third floor. Understand?”

I said I did and then he pushed me down on my back on the bed, grabbed my ankles, raised and spread my legs, moved in between my thighs, and thrust inside me and fucked me in a missionary. I gave him a good ride. He was a good rider and I also knew that he’d report my expertise back to his uncle. He was, in fact, very good, and young and vigorous. He filled me and pumped me at an off beat that had me jerking and groaning and working double time to merge with him. Eventually, we got together on the rhythm, though, and fucked like a well-oiled sex machine.

The suitcase I’d brought with me was already in the room, and when Guido left, I showered and dressed and let myself out of the house. It was 5:30. I’d have to be back for the party at 9:00. I drove back to the Royal Garden Resort, pulled on a Speedo, went down to the ocean, and swam out as far as I could before exhaustion slowed me to a stop. Then I swam back. I looked at the beach as I was swimming back and I saw the cop, Rob Brand, on a run on the beach, wearing just athletic shorts and sneakers. He looked awfully good. He paused on the beach in front of the Royal Garden and looked up at the façade of the hotel–looking high enough that I think he was picking out the balcony to my rental condo. He ran in place, but didn’t pause long before he resumed his run.

I wanted to call out to him from the ocean–I had a couple of hours to kill–but he wouldn’t have been able to hear me over the roar of the surf.

It was arousing to think he’d come back looking for me. He’d been something special in my business.

* * * *

I had a six-man/six cocks/six jack off evening at Salvatore Siglioni’s Surfside Beach house. That’s how I report my escort service jobs–how many men, how many cocks I had had to sheath, not just blow, and how many of their ejaculations. My ejaculations didn’t count in the report, but I tried to enjoy myself, and despite the mafia atmosphere, I managed to get off during all of the couplings.

This evening apparently was an investors and staff party. It went on mostly in the top-floor entertainment area of the Surfside Beach house, which included an open-roof verandah overlooking the ocean. There were maybe forty people there, mostly men. The men were divided between rich-looking middle-aged guys and younger and middle-aged ruffians. The latter were probably staff for Siglioni and were getting their reward this evening for the loyalty they showed the patriarch. Most of the sexual business was going to the two call girls who were there, but I got my share of attention. My johns that night were unevenly divided–two to investors and four to Salvatore and his crew, with the investors taking priority and coming earlier in the evening and the crew playing cleanup and reward for services as the party wore down.

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