International Manwhore – Part 10

Everyone in this story is 18+

The debrief was set for the same yacht, still bobbing in international waters where the Mediterranean stretched endless and blue, the sun dipping low, painting the deck gold. The air carried salt and a faint whiff of diesel, stinging my nose as I stood in the cramped cabin, the same one where Marcus had turned my world upside down hours ago. My suit clung to my skin, sweat prickling from nerves, not heat. The memory of Marcus—his tight heat, those bruising kisses—lingered like a bad hangover. Now I had to watch it on tape with Asher, Marcus, and two Evans and Patel, like some perverted film class. My stomach churned. This was worse than any walk of shame.

Asher sprawled in a chair by the polished wood table, aviators pushed up, green eyes glinting with mischief. Marcus leaned against the wall, hazel eyes catching mine with that almost-wink, his smirk softer now but still infuriating. Evans and Patel, the grim-faced specialists, sat with tablets, faces blank as if they reviewed sex tapes daily. The encrypted camera from earlier sat on the table, wired to a screen, its red light off but still menacing.

Asher kicked things off, voice dripping with amusement. “Alright, Tucker, time to dissect your Oscar-worthy performance. Let’s see if you’re ready to charm Adrien or if we’re sending you back to blowjob school.”

I snorted, crossing my arms, trying to hide the flush creeping up my neck. “Hilarious. Can we skip the part where I relive my worst life choices?”

Marcus chuckled, low and warm, his smirk twitching. “Worst? You seemed pretty… invested, cowboy.”

I shot him a glare, heart thudding. “It’s a job, Livingstone. Don’t get cocky.”

Evans tapped his tablet, voice flat. “Focus. The tape’s for training, not ego. We need you convincing as a bisexual playboy. Adrien’s sharp—he’ll smell hesitation a mile off.”

Patel nodded, cueing the video. The screen flickered to life, and there Marcus was—kneeling on the bed, ass up, face down, me behind him. His face burned, the cabin suddenly suddenly too small, the air thick with leather and salt. The camera caught every angle—my hands gripping the sheets, Marcus’s fingers spreading lube, his body a sculpted arc of muscle and smooth skin. The wet squirt of the tube sounded louder on tape, his fingers probing, stretching, clinical at first.

Asher leaned forward, smirking. “Solid start, Tucker. You look like you’re at the dentist, but Marcus is selling it. Note the control—slow, deliberate. You need that with Adrien.”

I rolled my eyes, pulse racing. “Yeah, because I’m dying to reenact this.”

The video shifted—me thrusting, mechanical, the slap of skin rhythmic, Marcus’s gasps mixing with my grunts. The camera zoomed on his hips, rounded and tight, clenching around me, my cock buried deep. It was clinical, detached, but the heat was still undeniable, my body responding despite my brain’s protests. On screen, I pushed deeper, Marcus’s low moans filling the speakers, the bed creaking with the yacht’s sway.

Patel paused the tape, pointing. “Here’s where you loosen up. Good instinct. But you’re too stiff—posture’s rigid. Adrien needs confidence, not a guy fighting himself.”

I bristled, voice sharp. “I wasn’t fighting. It’s not my thing, okay? I’m straight.”

Marcus’s smirk widened, eyes twinkling. “Sure, cowboy. But I think you got way better.”

Asher laughed, leaning back. “He’s got you there. Look at that thrust—natural talent. Maybe you’re bi-curious after all.”

I flipped him off, face scorching. “Fuck you, Asher. I’m not curious about shit. It’s a job.”

Evans ignored the banter, fast-forwarding to the missionary shift. The screen showed Marcus flipping onto his back, legs spreading, his chiseled chest glistening, abs flexing, cock hard and leaking against his stomach. I pushed in, the angle deeper, his moans sharper, my hands gripping his thighs. The camera caught my face—jaw clenched, eyes locked on his, a hungry edge I didn’t recognize. The kisses started, lips crashing, tongues sliding, my hands tangling in his hair, bodies grinding in sweat-slick rhythm.

Asher whistled. “Well, damn, Tucker. That’s some passion. You sure you’re not into this?”

I groaned, rubbing my face. “It felt… familiar, okay? Like with a girl. That’s why it worked. Just mechanics.”

Marcus chuckled, his gaze lingering with that almost-wink. “Familiar? You kissed me like you meant it. Adrien’ll eat that up.”

Patel nodded, scribbling notes. “The kissing’s good—sells the playboy vibe. But you hesitated here.” He pointed to the screen, where my thrusts faltered, frustration clear. “You struggled to finish. Why?”

I shifted, uncomfortable, the memory of that block burning. “The condom. It was… weird. Didn’t feel right.”

Evans raised an eyebrow. “And removing it?”

The tape rolled—me peeling off the latex, my cock glistening, veins pulsing, pushing back in raw. The sensation flashed back: hot, slick, Marcus’s tight heat gripping me bare, his legs pulling me deeper. The screen showed my face contorting, kisses bruising, thrusts pounding, the bed thumping against the wall. Sounds flooded the cabin—wet smacks, my growls, Marcus’s moans, the creak of wood matching the waves outside. The climax hit, my body tensing, jets pulsing deep inside him, his own cum shot arcing across his abs.

Marcus smirked, voice low. “You didn’t struggle after that. Sold it like a pro.”

I flushed, heart pounding. “Yeah, well, it felt like a girl. That’s all.”

Asher grinned, relentless. “Sure, manwhore. But that raw finish? Adrien’s type. Keep that energy.”

Evans paused the tape, face stern. “You’ve got the mechanics down, but the hesitation’s a problem. Adrien needs confidence—eye contact, swagger, no second-guessing. Practice the gadgets tomorrow; you’ll need them for covert messaging. We’re still working on your Apollo invite, but this—” he gestured to the screen “—proves you can pull it off.”

As the team packed up, Marcus’s hazel eyes caught mine again, that smirk lingering, and I shoved down the heat in my gut. Just a job, just a fluke. I was Bryson Tucker, international superspy, not some bi-curious fuck-up. I’d nail Adrien and walk away clean.

Just then, Patel’s phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with Leona’s name. He stepped away, voice low. “Yes, ma’am… still struggling with the invite… security’s a nightmare…”

He hung up, face grim. “Leona says we’re hitting walls with The Apollo. Adrien’s guest list is locked tight.”

Asher’s smirk widened, leaning back with a glint in his eye. “I know who to call.”

I froze, gut twisting. That smirk meant something—or someone—big. A fixer? An ex? Some shady contact? I didn’t know, but it felt like another layer of this fucked-up mission piling on. “Who?” I demanded, voice sharper than I meant.

Asher just winked, standing. “You’ll see, manwhore. Get some sleep—you’ll need it.”