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Spy? The man at the lectern was saying that my father had been an intelligence agent. I knew what an intelligence agent was. It was a spy. And I’d never even suspected that my father had been one of those. I figured he’d been something more than just a sportsman and dilettante, but I hadn’t given that much thought to it. Both of my parents had been flitting off someplace or other most of the time—and rarely together. I just hadn’t given it a thought. Someone’s funeral was sort of a bad time to learn that he had been a spy—especially when that someone was your father.

I guess that went part way to explain how and why he had been murdered in Tunis.

I looked around the cold interior of the large stone church in downtown Wilmington, Delaware. No one else seemed surprised that the man at the lectern, a distinguished English appearing and speaking, gentleman, a trim man in his early fifties, was talking of my father as a sacrificing public servant who had traveled into the jaws of danger again and again all over the world to serve and protect the United States.

There was a brief moment when I had the surreal feeling that I’d walked into the wrong funeral.

My mother, sitting beside me on the front pew of the church, didn’t look surprised, certainly. She didn’t look all that proud or grief-stricken either. She looked more distracted and separated from it all. It was probably a good defense mechanism in this instance. I don’t think she loved my father, but she certainly liked him well enough. I don’t think she loved any of the men I’d seen her with. But she used them all happily enough.

A spy was he? My attention was taken again by the man at the lectern, who seemed to be talking directly to me. The name “Griffin”—my father’s name—had arrested my attention. It was my name too, although I went by Grif to distinguish the two. Not that my dad and I had needed to be distinguished between often. We had rarely been in the same room together over the course of my life. I thought over the presents he used to bring home to me, realizing now that they weren’t the usual stateside fare. They were always something foreign and exotic. But, whereas I had been based in the Wilmington area as I grew up, my parents always seemed to be at one of their other houses in some other country.

And now I lived nearly full time in New Haven anyway, at Yale University, where I stuffed my nonacademic life with water sports—making sure that there was rowing or yachting or something that kept me from coming home for the summers to Wilmington, Delaware. I had grown tired of the attention and groveling in Wilmington where my mother, as a Dupont, was a natural center of attention—when she wasn’t flitting off to Florida or California or Europe herself.

I supposed I’d have to stick around now for a couple of weeks—until the fawning crowd thinned out. My mother wouldn’t like to do the “mourning family” routine anymore than I would, but she was a Dupont. She knew her duties in the social circles here. They certainly were fawning over us at the service. Both my mother and me. Because of my own proclivities, I could separate the men on their preferences. Most were paying court to my mother—and I wondered how soon my father’s official place would be taken up by another man. With her Dupont billions, I doubted it would be long. Not that my mother needed to have a husband to have her itches scratched. Then there were the few men who kept their eyes on me. I knew what they wanted.

The man at the lectern was looking at me in that way. Well, let him. I didn’t mind that sort of attention. Thinking of my father and Tunis made me think of my life at Yale. Another mystery solved, perhaps. My father had guided me into the area of international relations studies. My own interests were in swimming and boating, but I wasn’t so dumb I didn’t realize that I needed to major in more than that at Yale. I had fallen into the international area studies as suggested, without even giving a thought to how it fit into what my father was doing in life. And looking at my mother and how she was drifting into another world to survive this tedious funeral service, I did that too.

My thoughts went back to Yale. To the private tutoring session I was having with my South Asian studies professor shortly before being called home because my father had been murdered somewhere in Northern Africa. I hadn’t even looked Tunisia up on the map yet. My studies were geared more to East and South Asia.

Professor Gupta and I were both sitting lotus style on a platform bed in his house, me sitting, facing the tall, thin, well- although spare-muscled, berry-brown Indian’s chest. Sitting bare torso to bare torso with him, on his crossed legs, my heels pressing into his buttocks, while, at his murmured instructions I moved my channel, forward and back, revolving, on his thin but snake-long upward-curved cock. He was holding me with his hands under my arm pits, I was leaning forward, our foreheads touching, illegal bahis my eyes caught with his. His eyes were so expressive. They held mine in thrall. He was a handsome man, but I had not expected in my wildest dreams that we’d ever be positioned thus.

I entered South Asian studies with an aversion to everything having to do with the Indian subcontinent. I much preferred Chinese studies. I thought of Indians—the Indians of the subcontinent—as weak and weak minded and irritatingly obsequious. I didn’t like their philosophies or their willingness just to put up with and bend to natural calamity and conditions.

And yet, here I was, sitting on the cock of a wiry, middle-aged Indian man, a man with mesmerizing eyes, and long, thin fingers that made me sizzle at his touch, and a long, thin, snake-like cock that had invaded far up into my ass canal, the bulb pressing and rubbing against my sensitive inner walls, making love to me deep inside and causing the muscles of my walls to contract and expand and shimmer to his touch.

Gupta pushed my torso away from him and down toward the foot of the platform bed, where his handholds under my arm pits were replaced by those of Khurana, his younger, meatier assistant. Gupta’s hands went to gripping my waist and pulling me back and forth, deeper onto his cock, then not as deep, and then deeper again.

Khurana released his grip under my armpit at one side to untie the knot on his dhoti, the white cotton skirt draped around his loins. As his hand returned to its prior position, the dhoti drifted to his dark-brown feet and my head lowered over the foot of the bed. Crouching a bit, Khurana presented a plump, already-hard cock, and I took it in my mouth. Just opening to it, making a wide O shape, with my tongue flattening to the floor of my mouth, giving it a good angle for Khurana’s cock to invade along my tongue and into my throat. And to slowly move in and out.

He leaned his torso over mine, and took my cock in his mouth as well, as I fought not to gag as deeply as his cock was penetrating into my throat.

Showing admirable control, neither of them came before I did. When I had, in Khurana’s throat, he withdrew. Gupta moved his hands up my sides and drew my torso up to his. He didn’t stop in the position we’d started in, though. He continued lowering his back onto the surface of the platform bed, pulling my buttocks up with him.

Khurana moved up the bed on his knees, behind us, and I felt him positioning his cock head at my hole, still pierced by Gupta’s long, thin snake of a cock. I groaned and squirmed as Khurana’s cock entered me, on top of Gupta’s. My squirming helped to seat his cock inside me, though. His arms embraced my torso and arched it up into his chest. Gupta’s hands already were fanned on my pecs. Khurana’s palms covered Gupta’s hands.

And then Khurana began to plow me, his cockhead moving ever deeper inside me along the top of Gupta’s throbbing cock, sinking toward, but with little chance of success to sink deep enough kiss Gupta’s cockhead with his own.{Reword}

“And so, it’s with the greatest appreciation and affection that we commend a worthy Brother Griffin to his maker.”

The name brought me back into the church. The distinguished-looking man was coming down from the lectern and the strains of “Amazing Grace” were rising from the organ. The man had his eyes firmly planted on me all the time he was returning to his pew on the other side of the aisle from where my mother and I were seated

And then in a flurry—an excruciating length of time for a flurry—the service was winding down and we were exiting the front doors of the church behind the coffin that was being carried down the stone stairs and into the back of the black hearse.

Already the man—Henry Holden, I’d been told when we were introduced in the family room before the service—was there at my mother’s side, guiding her with a big mitt on her elbow. He was an oversized, muscular, florid-complexioned, red-headed man. Ruggedly handsome. My mother seemed impressed with his attentions. My mother was easily impressed by hunky man flesh.

And at my other side now, joining me where we had been stopped on the front steps of the church while they loaded the coffin into the back of the hearse, appeared the man from behind the lectern.

“My name is Tyler, Tyler Weston,” he murmured to me, as he leaned into me. “I was your father’s supervisor. Please accept my sincere condolences.”

What I thought was more sincere was the hand he had placed possessively on the small of my back, his fingers pressing down at the top of my butt crack. I sensed that we both were thinking that he was just inches from the rim of my asshole. He was as handsome up close as he had been at the distant lectern. He was elegantly and expensively dressed, the handsome face with graying sideburns on a precisely cut head of dark hair. Tall and lean. His voice was smooth and had a slight hint of the British in illegal bahis siteleri it, which my professors at Yale liked to affect as well. Quite the smooth character. And his eyes boring into mine, seemingly trying to convey so much more than his words did.

“Your father was a valuable asset to the nation’s work,” he murmured. “Here is my card—giving my home address and telephone number. Please take it, and don’t hesitate to call upon me for any solace or comfort I can give you.”

For the briefest moment his middle finger descendent further down my crack, positioning itself at my entrance, veiled only by the material of my trousers and briefs. I clearly understood what solace and comfort he was offering.

And then, appearing very polite and proper, he glided away from me so that we could move to the limousine idling behind the hearse. its back door now closed. The word “comfort” and the expression in Weston’s eyes remained with me for the rest of the grueling afternoon under the hot sun at the cemetery on the banks of the Christiana River. It lingered as the limousine drove back into the city for the reception at the Dupont Hotel.

* * * *

I pulled the Westsail 32, the largest of the family sailboats I could handle by myself, up to the dock, tied it up, jumped over the gunwale onto the dock, and climbed the stairs rising up the bluff of our summer property, Clifftop, at the top of the Chesapeake Bay near Elkton, Maryland. As I rose to the top of the stairs I paused to watch Toby pulling weeds in the border gardens surrounding the dining room of the house, which was all windows on three sides and jutted out toward the edge of the cliff.

My mother had lasted only three days at the Wilmington house, receiving visitors who hardly knew what my father had looked like feigning their grief. That didn’t mean that it wasn’t good of them to come. And they missed out on my father. He had the blond, perennially hunky good looks of a movie star. That, of course, was why my mother had married him. All of the money was on her side of the family, which was balanced quite well with his looks, Yale pedigree, and casual elegance on polo ground and in concert hall alike.

We had moved a world away to Clifftop, while still being almost in the outskirts of Wilmington. We hadn’t lost everyone buzzing around us in Wilmington, either. Henry Holden was here too, and there was no pretense that he and mother weren’t sharing the master bedroom. There was just one bedroom between theirs and mine in a wing that jutted out from the central rooms on the opposite side from the dining room and kitchen wing.

I loved this house and was glad we’d come here—even beyond the move having put us on the water, where I could sail out into the bay by myself and be alone with my thoughts. The thoughts now included the death—the murder—of my father. I had just accepted it before as something that would befall a rich tourist traveling to out-of-way exotic places. But now, knowing he was a spy, murder took on a whole new meaning for me. I wondered if he was traveling in Tunisia as a tourist or on assignment. I couldn’t help mulling that over in my mind.

My mother and Holden were on the screened porch at the center of the house, overlooking the bay. The house had originally been built as a rambling Victorian board-and-batten wood building, painted tree-trunk brown, with soaring ceilings and exposed beams inside and hulking stone fireplaces. The central living room rose two stories and there was a library loft at the bay end with two stories of large screened porches off that end. The upper screened porch was designed as a summer sleeping porch, and I had often used it that way. On the right at the entrance into the living room, a hallway went off that led to three bedrooms, the large master bedroom at the end, on the bay side of the wing.

Each bedroom had its own bath. Off to the left of the living room was the dining room jutting out at an angle toward the bay and always sunny and cheery because of the windows on all three sides. On the land side of the dining room were the large kitchen, pantry, and laundry. A staircase in the pantry led up to two small servants rooms above and a shared bath. We had no live-in servants here now. Just Tania, the black cook; her son, Toby, who did the gardening; and a handyman, Seth. Tania and Toby lived inland on the road to Elkton. Seth, who served as handyman and chauffeur, as needed, lived over the detached three-car garage across the parking area from the main entrance.

All smaller, less formal, less staffed than any of our other homes—which was why it was my favorite. It was the only house of ours I wanted to have, not the least because of the long dock below the bluff with the boathouse and the collection of sailboats.

My gaze moved away from Toby, a muscular black beauty some five years older than I am, who, only in shorts, moved with grace and glistening muscles in the flower bed, to the first-floor canlı bahis siteleri screened porch. Having seen me shift my eyes to them, my mother and Hal—as she called him—moved farther away from each other on a rattan glider. They were only shadows on the porch to me, though, so the adjustment seemed needless. I heard them in the master bedroom in the night. I knew he was giving her a good fucking. She and her men hadn’t surprised me for some years. She had made little pretense of covering it when my father was away, and the two of them seemed so distant from each other when they were together that I’d given up caring years ago.

I turned my eyes back on Toby, who had seen me now and had stood up straight, full frontal to me, looking at me under hooded eyes, and licking his puffy lips. Toby was another reason why I loved coming to Clifftop. His hand went to his crotch, promising a good time to be had later.

I turned, with a sigh, and moved to the door into the screened porch. I didn’t want to appear inhospitable. I really didn’t give a fuck that my mother was being poked again only three days after my father’s funeral. And Hal was great to look at anyway.

“We thought it was late enough to start the gin and tonics,” my mother said cheerily, as I entered the screened porch. “Help yourself.”

I went over to the bar, poured myself a drink, and sat down in one of the rattan armchairs across from the glider. My mother was in a diaphanous something or other and Hal was just in tennis shorts. My mother had that “just been satisfied” glow about her, and Hal, leaning over with legs spread wide and elbows on knees, had that “it’s already mine” look about him. I had news for him, though. This house was already legally encumbered as mine, and I didn’t care what other booty he made off with before my mother dropped him.

“Was the sailing good, honey?” my mother asked.

“Yes, very good,” I answered.

“That’s not a small boat,” Hal said. “You sure you can handle it all by yourself?”

“I’ve been doing so since junior high,” I answered. “Yes, I can handle it.”

“As big as you can manage, I guess,” Hal said. He was giving me “that” look. I gave him a second look now, with the possibility that he swung both ways. I liked what I saw. He was as old as my father had been. But big. Not fat big. Big boned, tall, broad shouldered, heavily muscled big. And a bit hairy. It was a reddish-blond hairy, though—wavy on his head, five-O’clock shadow on his face, and curly on his chest and belly, arms, and legs. His skin was ruddy, glowing with health and freckles. He wore one of those hulky Rolex watches and a thick gold chain around his neck, with an ancient-looking coin in a gold setting that nestled between massive, bulging pecs, with plump, taut nipples.

A vision of him holding me against one of the posts of the screened porch, with my legs hooked on his hips and my mouth sucking on that medallion as he thrust a massive cock up inside me again and again flashed through my brain.

“As big a one as I can manage,” I answered, my eyes going to his crotch. If this was an invitation of any sort, I was game.

Seeing me do that—my mother’s attention altogether lost on a loose thread on her silky wrap—Hal moved a hand to his basket and cupped what was inside, straining his equipment against the material of the shorts, showing me that what he had there was as massive as I had fantasized it would be.

There was no question. He wanted me—and there was less of a question that he knew I would let him have me.

“Hal has been bugging me about making use of the tennis court, Grif,” I realized my mother was babbling. The tennis court was on the back side of the three-car garage opposite from the entrance into the house. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for anyone coming out here to console me to find me on the tennis court, and I need to drive into town for a couple of hours this afternoon anyway. Perhaps you could . . .”

“I’d be happy to play with him, mother,” I answered, lifting my gaze from Hal’s crotch, still cupped in his meaty paw, to his eyes and his smiling mouth.

Message conveyed.

“And perhaps you’ll give me a ride on your sailboat someday,” Hal said. “I’ll admit that I’m not fond of the water in anything larger than a water glass and never learned to swim.”

“I’ll be happy to give you a ride,” I answered, straight faced.

Why should mother have all of the fun?

We played shirtless and in full, obvious erection. Hal called out that the winner could have his way with the loser, and I just shrugged, knowing that I was a near-pro tennis player. He was good, but I was better.

Our match—really only one set, because we both were keyed up, was being observed. Toby had come around the side of the garage and sat in a lawn chair, watching us. As evidence that our arousal play didn’t fool Toby, he had his nine incher out and was stroking it as he watched us.

At the net post afterward, Hal pulled me into his sweaty body; brought my mouth to his for a deep kiss; ran his hand down my bare torso, under the waistband of my tennis shorts; and grabbed my erect cock.

“It didn’t matter who won, did it?” I whispered.

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