International Manwhore – Part 7

Everyone in this story is 18+

I paced the suite at The Echelon, the Thames reflecting London outside like it was laughing at my nerves. The room smelled of polish and nervous energy, my sweat was souring the vibe. Leona’s cryptic text had landed an hour ago: Expect a visitor this evening. Mission prep. That was it. No details. My stomach churned. After Jules and that femboy porn fluke, I was braced for more “coaching.” A blowjob was one thing—professional, detached, ego-stroking. But going further? Full-on sex with a guy? My frat days didn’t prep me for that. I wiped clammy palms on my pants, heart thudding. What the hell were they throwing at me now?

A knock snapped me out of it. I opened the door, half-expecting another OnlyFans star, but instead got two guys: one a wiry nerd with glasses slipping down his nose, clutching a black case like it held state secrets, and the other a tall, chiseled Adonis in a tailored vest. The nerd spoke first, voice cracking. “Bryson Tucker? Fred Turner, MI6 tech division. This is Marcus Livingstone, tailor. We’re here for your… mission prep.”

I blinked. A tailor? Relief hit, but my guard stayed up. “Mission prep? Like, suits and gadgets, not… more of that coaching shit?”

Fred flushed, pushing up his glasses. “No, uh, no coaching. Just equipment and wardrobe for Monaco.”

Marcus stepped forward, offering a handshake. His grip was firm, his eyes a deep hazel that locked onto mine a second too long, stirring something I ignored. “Pleasure,” he said, voice smooth as the silk sheets I’d tangled in last night. He was honestly stupidly handsome—sharp jaw, dark hair swept back, a faint smirk that screamed trouble. I yanked my hand back, muttering, “Yeah, sure.”

We moved to the suite’s lounge, Marcus setting up a measuring tape and fabric swatches while Fred fumbled with his case. Marcus’s gaze flicked over me, assessing, as he motioned me to stand. “Custom tailoring needed,” Marcus added, standing, his hazel eyes meeting mine again, that smirk still there. “Adrien’s parties demand… attention to detail.”

I snorted, crossing my arms. “Yeah, well, I’m not here to model.”

Marcus chuckled, his gaze lingering on my form one more time. “We want some suits specially tailored, with secret pockets for some gadgets.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Which gadgets?”

Marcus nodded to Fred. “Fred here will tell you in a while. Now strip to your underwear cowboy.”

I peeled off my shirt and pants, standing in my Celine boxer briefs, feeling like a show pony. Marcus worked methodically, his tape sliding over my shoulders first, cool metal against my skin as he pulled it tight, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck in a way that sent a prickle down my spine. He leaned in close, breath warm on my collarbone, hazel eyes meeting mine with a subtle almost-wink, like we shared a secret. “Broad shoulders,” he rasped, smirking just enough to make my throat tighten. I focused on the Thames, not his face, telling myself it was just the job.

He moved to my chest, tape wrapping around, his knuckles grazing my pecs as he adjusted, a light pressure that lingered a beat too long. Another smirk, his eyes flicking up with that teasing glint, almost winking again. “Solid build,” he said, voice low, fingers trailing down to my waist, measuring with meticulous care, palms flat against my abs for stability, the touch firm and measured. The room felt warmer, my pulse kicking up, but I chalked it up to nerves.

He knelt for the inseam, tape running up my thigh, his breath warm against my leg as he inched higher. “Spread a bit,” he said, voice calm but laced with amusement, his fingers grazing closer to the crotch, measuring with precision, pausing as he jotted a note. “Bigger than usual,” he said, matter-of-factly, that smirk deepening, eyes lifting to mine with a subtle wink that made my face burn. A faint stirring hit down there, a traitor’s twitch I blamed on the awkwardness.

Marcus’s smirk widened. “Turn around—need the back view for pocket placement.”

I turned, feeling his eyes on me, the air thick with his subtle chuckles as he measured my back and hips, fingers brushing my sides with that same meticulous touch. “Good lines,” he said, almost to himself, with another almost-wink when I glanced over my shoulder. I pulled my clothes back on quickly, the stirring fading, but Marcus’s presence lingered, his handsome face catching my eye every time he moved.

Fred, sweating now, interrupted by slamming his case open. “Right, uh, gadgets. For the yacht party.” He pulled out five items, laying them on the glass table like he was unveiling cursed artifacts. Marcus stayed, leaning against the wall, chuckling softly at my reactions.

“First up: ‘Sweet Dreams’ Tranquilizing Anal Beads. Operation Goodnight Kiss.”

I choked on air. “Beads? You’re shitting me.”

Fred adjusted his glasses, voice shaky. “Each bead has a micro-dose sedative. Last one releases a gas—knocks out anyone in two meters. Careful, though, it’ll get you too without a mask. Polymer coating blocks X-rays, RFID. Very discreet.”

“Discreet?” I laughed, bitter. “It’s a string of knockout balls up the ass.”

Marcus chuckled, his hazel eyes twinkling with amusement, a subtle smirk playing on his lips as he watched me squirm.

Fred moved on, pulling out a silicone horror. “NanoTracker Buttplug. The Tail-End Locator. Nano-GPS, heartbeat sensor, tracks you in real-time. Vibrates Morse code—four clenches for ‘help.’ Syncs with your smartwatch, but, uh, you don’t wear it?”

“Because it ruins the look,” I snapped. “GPS in my butt? What’s next, a dildo drone?”

Marcus let out a low laugh, his gaze flicking to me with that almost-wink again, like he was thoroughly enjoying the show.

Fred flushed deeper, pulling out a silicone ring. “Uh, ‘Climax Cam’ Condom Ring. Operation Snapshot. Micro-camera and audio, activated by three quick hip thrusts, two slow. Records for MI6. Glows red, waterproof, distress signal if twisted.”

I stared, horrified. “You want me to film… with my dick?”

“Discreetly,” Fred mumbled.

Next came a sleek pen. “InvisoPen, Operation Secret Script. Dispenses invisible ink, revealed by UV or chemical spray. Micro-injector for sedative.” Fred hesitated, then grinned nervously. “Fun fact: back in the day, the British Secret Intelligence Service found semen made great invisible ink. Sir Mansfield George Smith-Cumming said, ‘Every man is his own stylo.’”

I snorted, nearly choking. “His name was fucking Cumming??? I’m dead!”

Marcus burst out laughing, his eyes crinkling, a full smirk breaking through as he shook his head. Fred, flustered, pushed on. “Anyway, it vibrates to confirm ink delivery, but, uh, it might squirt if you twist it wrong. Milky ink, for effect.”

“Milky? Jesus,” I muttered, rubbing my face. “What’s the last one? A vibrating chastity cage?”

Fred pulled out a neon-green tube. “Slick Shot Lube Dispenser. Operation Smooth Operator. Just… lube. Water-based. Glows in the dark, has a QR code for a luxury care site.”

I blinked. “What’s the point?”

Fred stammered. “It dispenses lube?”

“Why not just buy one for £1 at Costco?”

“I… well, yes. We probably could. But this has a QR code?”

“WHY?”

“I don’t know!” Fred snapped, glasses fogging. “They wanted five gadgets, okay? I’m a tech guy, not a porn gadget dude.”

I grinned, leaning back. “Why not just a dildo that expels truth serum or some shit?”

Fred paused, eyes wide. “That’s… actually a good idea. Well, too late! Good luck!”

Marcus chuckled, his gaze lingering on me with that subtle almost-wink. “You’ll look the part in the suits, Tucker. Gadgets or not.”

Fred nodded, packing up. “Oh, and Leona wants you to meet her tomorrow. Things are getting expedited—she’s got big news.”

I gulped, my throat tight. “Big news?”

Marcus smirked, heading for the door with Fred. “Good luck, cowboy. You’ll need it.” His eyes caught mine one last time, and I turned away, heart pounding for reasons I refused to unpack.

Alone, I stared at the gadgets, the InvisoPen’s legend echoing in my head. Semen as ink? Crazy, but if that pen failed, maybe… No. I shook it off. I was straight, mission or not. Just get through Monaco, nail the job, and don’t fuck it up.