International Manwhore – Part 9

Everyone in this story is 18+

The Mediterranean sun hammered the deck of a sleek yacht bobbing just outside French territorial waters, the horizon a haze of blue and heat. Salt and diesel stung my nose, cutting through the jasmine cologne I’d swiped from my suite. I stood in a tailored suit, secret pockets stuffed with Fred’s cursed gadgets, sweat soaking my collar. Asher and two MI6 hardasses—Evans and Patel—had met me in Nice, whisking me onto this boat for Leona’s “intensive training.” Two days to morph me into a fake bi playboy for Adrien’s The Apollo party. My gut churned. All of this made my palms slick, my heart thudding like a bassline. I was straight—women, curves, easy hookups. This was a job, but the thought of crossing that line had me pacing the deck.

Asher, lounging against the railing in aviators, had grilled me all morning on seduction—posture, eye contact, that knee-touch crap from London. Evans and Patel ran me through gadget drills, but the real “exam” loomed, and they were tight-lipped about it. My nerves screamed. Another Jules? Some random dude? I could barely handle Marcus’s smirks in London, let alone this.

◆◆◆

The cabin door swung open, and speaking of, Marcus Livingstone stepped out, sharp jaw cutting the sunlight, hazel eyes glinting with that familiar almost-wink. My throat tightened. Marcus? The fucking tailor? His snug vest hugged a frame that screamed runway—lean muscle, broad shoulders, dark hair swept back like he’d planned every strand. He smirked, sauntering closer, and I knew I was in deep shit.

“Surprise, cowboy,” he said, voice smooth as the sea, cedar and spice cologne hitting me like a wave. “MI6 consultant, not just a tailor. They thought we had… chemistry.”

I barked a laugh, panic bubbling. “Chemistry? You literally measured my balls and smirked. That’s not chemistry, that’s a HR violation.”

He chuckled, stepping into my space, eyes locking on mine with a teasing glint. “They had another guy lined up, but I volunteered. You’re welcome. Besides, HR violations can be fun.”

I rubbed my face, heart jackhammering.

Marcus’s smirk deepened, his gaze flicking down my body. “You need to go all the way to sell it to Adrien. No half-measures.”

My stomach plummeted. “All the way? I can’t do this!”

He leaned against the cabin door, arms crossed, vest pulling tight over his pecs. “It’s training, Tucker. Mechanics, not emotions. Nail this, and Adrien’s a breeze.”

Marcus gestured inside. “Let’s do this.”

The cabin was tight, polished wood panels catching the dim light, a single bed with crisp white sheets dominating the space. Linen and sea salt scented the air, the yacht’s gentle rock creaking the floor. A tripod camera blinked red in the corner, wired to a secure tablet. “Encrypted,” Marcus said, catching my scowl. “For your eyes only. Safe, private. No leaks, guaranteed.”

I swallowed, pulse racing. “What if I can’t get hard?”

He smirked, pulling a blue pill from his pocket. “Viagra, if you need a boost. No judgment.”

I flushed, shaking my head. But as he peeled off his vest, revealing a chiseled chest—smooth skin, tight pecs, a faint trail of dark hair leading down—I felt a traitor’s rush, my cock swelling hard in my briefs without any help. Embarrassment burned my cheeks. Straight guys don’t get hard for dudes. It was the adrenaline, the stakes, not him.

Marcus noticed, his smirk widening, eyes crinkling with that almost-wink. “Well, damn, cowboy. More than ready.”

“Shut up,” I snapped, voice shaky. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He nodded, voice dropping to a clinical clip. “Strip. We’ll start mechanical—ass up, face down. No eye contact, no chatter. Like a procedure.”

I yanked off my suit, fabric rustling, leaving me in boxer briefs. Marcus watched, gaze steady, no smirk this time. I dropped the briefs, my cock springing free with a smack, rock-hard and throbbing, the air cool against it. Marcus climbed onto the bed, kneeling on all fours, face buried in the pillow, ass up, exposed.

I moved behind Marcus, my hands on his hips, steadying. The sheets were soft, cool under my knees, the cabin’s wood creaking with the yacht’s sway.  “Lube,” he said, matter-of-fact, the slick squirt of that tube loud in the quiet. His fingers spread it, cool and slippery, circling his right hole with precise pressure, probing to relax the muscle. The sensation was clinical, invasive, his touch methodical—sliding in, stretching, scissoring to open him up. He worked slow, fingers curling to hit a spot that made his breath hitch, a low gasp escaping. “Breathe,” he said, voice calm.

He withdrew, I rolled a condom onto me with a snap, the latex tight around my shaft. I coated it with more lube, the wet glide loud, then positioned myself—him, ass up, face down, hips high, his body a sculpted arc of muscle and smooth skin, rounded cheeks parted, inviting. I gripped his hips, hands shaking, guiding my tip to his opening, the pressure heavy and unyielding at first. I pushed slow but steady, the tight heat engulfing me, a vise that burned at first, making me grit my teeth, knuckles white on his hips. He exhaled, body yielding, and I slid deeper, inch by inch, until my hips pressed flush against his ass.

The first thrusts were mechanical, steady, the slap of skin rhythmic, his body clenching around me, hot and snug. Sounds filled the cabin—wet slides, my grunts, his controlled breaths, the bed’s creak matching the yacht’s rock. The taste of salt lingered on my lips from biting them, lube’s clean tang mixing with sweat. It was a job, just training, my mind insisted. But the sensation—tight, warm, gripping—felt shockingly familiar, just like fucking a girl, the way his body moved, yielded, pulled me in. The realization hit hard, my cock throbbing even harder if possible, confusion tangling with the friction.

“Keep going,” Marcus said, voice steady, hands gripping the sheets. I thrust deeper, pace quickening, the slap louder, his ass bouncing with each drive. His body was honestly perfect—lean, muscled, skin glistening with sweat, hips curving like a underwear model’s, tight hole milking me with every stroke. The camera’s red light blinked, capturing it all, and I wondered what I looked like—cock buried deep, hips grinding, a straight guy doing the unthinkable.

The mechanics faded, heat taking over. I pushed harder, chasing the build, his gasps sharper now, fingers clawing the sheets. “Flip over,” I said, voice rough, surprising myself. He rolled onto his back, legs spreading, hazel eyes locking on mine with that almost-wink, now softer, inviting. His chest heaved, pecs tight, abs flexing, a faint sheen of sweat making him glow. His cock, hard and slim, bobbed against his stomach, leaking clear beads, and I ignored it, pretending it wasn’t there, focusing on his wet and sloppy hole.

Marcus then flipped around and I surprised myself by pushing back in, missionary now, the angle deeper, hitting that spot that made him arch, a low moan escaping. His legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer, bodies pressed tight, his skin hot against mine, sweat slicking our chests. I thrust harder, the bed thumping, wood creaking louder than the waves outside.

His hands roamed my back, nails digging in, and I leaned down, lips brushing his—firm, warm, tasting of mint and salt, a faint bite of cedar from his skin. Then it happened, I kissed him, deep and hungry, tongues sliding, battling, my hands tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer. The passion ignited, thrusts turning frantic, bodies grinding, his ass clenching tighter, milking me with every drive.

The build was relentless, pressure coiling low, but climax stayed elusive, like chasing a shadow. I panted, hips faltering, frustration burning. “Fuck, I can’t…”

Marcus’s hand cupped my jaw, eyes steady through the haze. “Ditch the condom. Feels better. We’re both tested—ass to mouth, several times over.”

I hesitated, then pulled out, peeling off the latex, my cock glistening in the dim light, veins pulsing. I pushed back in, raw, the sensation sharper, hotter, his tight heat gripping me bare, no barrier, just skin on skin. The slide was slicker, deeper, his body pulling me in, legs tightening around me. I kissed him harder, lips bruising, teeth clashing, hands roaming his chest, pinching his nipples, tracing the V of his hips. His moans grew louder, breathy, mixing with my growls, the cabin a symphony of wet smacks, thumping wood, and pounding waves.

I drove deeper, faster, his ass clenching, body arching under me, cock leaking against his abs. My hands gripped his thighs, spreading them wider, thrusts pounding, sweat dripping from my brow onto his chest. The pressure built to a breaking point, everything snapping, and I exploded deep inside him, thick jets pulsing out of my cockhead, filling him in searing waves that left me trembling, gasping, vision blurring as the intensity drained me. His body pulsed beneath, his own cock hosing his stomach, untouched, in messy arcs.

I collapsed beside him, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling, sweat cooling on my skin. Marcus chuckled, wiping his brow, voice rough. “Fucking hell, cowboy. You’ll sell it to Adrien.”

I laughed, weak, chest still pounding. It felt like a girl—the tight grip, the heat, the yield. That’s why it worked, why I came so hard. I was straight, just crushing the mission. The camera blinked off, and I shoved down the memory of his lips, the way I’d kissed him, liked it…