MY THIRD HETALIA STORY! BTW I LOVE CANADA X CUBA! SUCH AN UNDERRATED SHIP!
Twilight had set over the remote Royalton Hicacos beach on the Cuba's central coast, where the boyish, baking body of the young Canadian tourist, Matthew Williams, had been staked out on a beach lounge under a palm tree all day. He watched the berry-brown Cuban beach attendant, all bulky muscle and graceful movement tidy up the beach area for the night. This didn't take long; it wasn't an onerous task in the off season when very few occupied the small vacation bungalows dotted around at the top edges of the small semicircular, pristine white sand beach of the cove. While the beach attendant worked, he frequently let his eyes stray to the stretched out, provocatively posed, and perfectly proportioned body of the Canadian, the last resort vacationer remaining on the beach.
Matthew turned onto his belly on the lounge bed and looked up toward the nearest bungalow, where the lights had just gone on. He sighed as he felt the strong hands at the waistband of his Speedo, and the suit being slipped down over his slim legs. A warm, naked, hard-muscled body lowered on him, stretching out on top of him. He let his arms dangle over the sides of the chaise lounge, his knuckles dragging in the sand on either side of it as the man above him turned Matthew's head to the side with a hand on his cheek and took his mouth in a kiss. The small Canadian, his body dwarfed by the massive muscularity of the Cuban, moaned with the feel of the cock head dragging on the small of his back. Coaxed by the touch of a hand, he spread his thighs apart. The beach attendant's cock, already half hard, dropped into the crevice between Matthew's thighs, the upper side of it rubbing, rubbing, rubbing across Matthew's puckering hole as the young man started to pant in response to the dry fuck.
A beefy arm laced under his waist and coaxed him up on his knees, as the Cuban's weight shifted. He no longer was lying on Matthew's back. He was somewhere below Matthew on the lounge. Matthew grunted and gasped and spread his thighs farther as a hand encased his engorging cock and a wet tongue went to - and into - his hole. He raised his arms above his head and grasped the top of the lounge. His eyes turned toward the foliage beyond the top of the lounge, toward the terrace of the bungalow with the lights on inside. There was another light, the glow of a cigarette, and the silhouette in the advancing dark of a figure sitting on the terrace.
Matthew tried to stifle his moans and groans as his 9.5 inch cock was pulled through his legs and a mouth swallowed it and a tongue ran up and down the sides of the shaft. He gave a little cry as the lips closed tightly over his bulb and the tongue darted into his piss slit. A thumb was buried deep in his hole, slowly moving in and out, opening him up to the shafting that soon was to follow, seeking and finding his prostate with its pad.
"Oh, yes, yes, fuck yes. Fuck me, fuck me," Matthew murmured, knees trembling and slowly rotating his hips with the attention being applied to his cock and prostate. He was trying to be quiet. The glowing cigarette was just yards away. But he involuntarily cried out as the beach attendant rose up over him, crouched over his buttocks, grasped his hips with strong hands, and slid his cock into a shimmering channel, open to him and begging for his touch.
The fuck was a long one. The beach attendant was young and virile and had great stamina - and no doubt had been thinking of this encounter since earlier in the afternoon when the two had established the twilight assignation. After doggy fucking Matthew for several minutes, he turned the young Canadian on his back, slid in between his thighs, grabbed Matthew's ankles and raised and wishboned Matthew's legs. As the Cuban thrust his shaft back inside the moist, now-gaping hole, Matthew arched his back and panted and moaned. Matthew was fucked hard and fast to the Cuban's first ejaculation. After the beach attendant had come, he moved down the lounge, pulled the spent condom off his cock and dropped it to the sand at the side of the lounge. He then lowered his mouth on Matthew's cock and palmed Matthew's pecs, worrying the young man's nipples, until Matthew too had come.
The beach attendant moved back up Matthew's body and they kissed, both enjoying the taste of Matthew's warm cum. They lay thus closely embraced and moving their bodies against each other in a desultory fashion until Matthew could feel the beach attendant going hard again. Matthew was doing so as well. The Cuban went up on his knees between Matthew's spread thighs and Matthew narrowed his eyes in pleasure at the beautifully molded, berry-brown torso of his "For now" lover. He moaned at seeing the sight of the man's very large cock, 13 inches long and nearly twice as thick as than a can of Canada Dry. The beach attendant smiled down at him, Matthew watched as the Cuban slowly rolled on another condom.
Exhibiting both his strength and his control over the small, lithe-bodied Matthew, the Can grasped Matthew by the waist and raised his body in the air, over his, while he moved to stretch out his own legs toward the top of the lounge. Slowly he lowered Matthew's body, Matthew's knees going to the outer sides of the beach attendant's thighs and his face coming down to the Cuban's, where their mouths met in another long, lingering, tongue-possessing kiss.
"Perfect body, so small and perfect," the Cuban muttered as they came out of the kiss. "Such an amazing hole, first very tight and then opening right up. I didn't think it could, but it opened right up for me. You have taken many men, haven't you? That turns me on. And you are so flexible and graceful. Are you a dancer?"
"More in the line of an actor, I think you'd say," Matthew answered, and then, with heavy breathing, "And yes, I have taken many men. Of those, you are one of the best. You have fucked many men too, I'll wager."
"And women too. It's part of the resort service."
"Fuck me again," Matthew whimpered. "Just keep on fucking me."
Matthew grasped and positioned the Cuban's cock while his own pelvis was being lowered to the Cuban's, and he lowered his channel on the shaft. Demonstrating his full acceptance, Matthew leaned back and grabbed his ankles in his fists and fucked himself on the hard shaft as the Cuban laid back on the lounge and, smiling, arms crossed behind his neck, his muscular chest puffed out and heaving, watched Matthew gyrate his body and ride the cock. After a few minutes the Cuban reached down with both hands and worked Matthew's cock.
This time Matthew came first.
The Cuban raised his torso up, grasped Matthew's sides under his armpits, thumbs stroking his nipples, and Matthew arched his torso back over the upper section of the lounge and let his arms dangle at his sides and his head arch back, completely relaxed in his torso and his legs, every ounce of his energy and focus going to his channel and that thick, hard cock reaching up inside him. Again, the beach attendant resumed fucking Matthew's channel with slow, forward and back, movements of his hips. Matthew willed his channel muscles to undulate over the cock, to squeeze it and release it, squeeze it and release it. And with a jerk and deep-throated phrases of passion in Spanish, the Cuban ejaculated.
Alone, laying on his belly, panting and cooling down, listening to the waves lapping up on the beach and the breeze whispering through the palm branches, Matthew raised his head and looked up at the nearby beach bungalow. The lights inside had moved to a different room. But the figure was still sitting on the terrace, the smolder of the lit end of the cigarette moving back and forth.
Matthew turned and stretched like a cat on the lounge; raised his knees up, with his feet flat on the surface of the lounge; spread his thighs; and moaned quietly as he stroked his cock. His head was hanging over the top of the lounge, and his eyes were staring toward the foliage above him, picking out and following the movement of the cigarette tip.
The cigarette arced out over the terrace of the bungalow, landing in a planter, and Matthew held his breath as he discerned the movement of a darker, bulky shadow rising from the patio chair in the darkness enveloping the bungalow patio. But then he heard the closing of a door and all was silent from the terrace. Matthew's hand dropped away from his cock. He sat up on the side of the lounge and gathered up his beach items, looking up the beach toward his own bungalow.
Matthew was already stretched out on his "claimed" lounge under the palm tree on the resort beach in mid morning when a couple came out of the bungalow closest to him and moved to side-by-side lounges farther along the beach but close enough that Matthew could hear that they were speaking when they did so but not their specific words. He watched them over the top of his sunglasses and a paperback novel held near his face as they laid out their towels and other beach paraphernalia.
They were a couple that would arrest most anyone's attention, so it wasn't notable that Matthew would be scrutinizing them closely. They were mismatched. She was somewhat of a mousey woman, probably in her early forties, who was losing the battle of weight and didn't seem to know it. She was trying to wear a bikini and not pulling the effort off very well. Dishwater blonde hair, skittish movements, facial expressions that changed moods frequently, and a whine that Matthew could hear from where he sat. She wasn't bad looking, just tired looking, nervous and giving off an air of defeat. She was on the beach to swim and went to the water, up to her knees, but no farther, almost as soon as they had reached their lounge chairs.
The man, in contrast, clearly wasn't there to swim. He was bare-chested, but wearing baggy shorts, and Matthew doubted he was planning on swimming with the Smith and Wesson M&P 9 mm and holster buckled at his waist. From his attitude, he was there to continuously scan the beach, his eyes stopping for a lingering moment to focus on Matthew with each sweep.
He was a mismatch with the woman in nearly every way he could be. He probably was in his late twenties or early thirties, was movie star handsome, gave off an aura of confidence and capability - and all business - and quite evidently was a serious bodybuilder. Whereas his body was a temple, the woman's was a 7-Eleven convenience store.
It was very hard for Matthew to see these two as a couple. He continued to watch them both as surreptitiously as he could, while the woman waded around aimlessly and rather listlessly in the surf, flinching at any sound other than the cawing birds, rustling palm leaves, and lapping waves, and the man finally settled in to a wary seated position on one of the lounges. He slowly relaxed a bit while keeping an eagle eye on the woman broken by occasional scans of the rest of the activity on the beach - of which there wasn't much - and began chain smoking cigarettes.
After a while his eyes were going to Matthew almost as often as to the woman in the surf, and Matthew was doing all he could in posing in his skimpy Speedo on his lounge to encourage the scrutiny. The man was a real hunk, and the glances Matthew devoted to the gun on the man's hip sent him into flights of fancy on the other gun he was packing. The shorts were baggy and the leg holes drooped, so that Matthew fancied that he almost . . . almost . . . could see far enough up the curve of the heavily muscled thighs to see the hint of a cock bulb.
Almost imperceptibly Matthew turned to his side, facing the man and, as he pretended to read his paperback novel, drank in the man's bulging pecs and ripped six pack through his sunglass lenses while his free hand glided over his sweat-glistened body. It wasn't long before Matthew was rewarded with seeing the man's hand drop to his crotch. He was studiously not directly looking at Matthew, but Matthew knew that the man was watching him as surreptitiously as Matthew was watching the man.
It almost seemed like the man was poised to rise and come over to Matthew's lounge when the woman came out of the surf, dried herself off with a towel, said something to the man, and they returned to their bungalow.
Matthew rose from his lounge then as well and walked in a graceful half-strut across the sand toward his own cabin, being fully aware that the man had come out onto the terrace of the bungalow and was standing there, smoking a cigarette, and watching Matthew walk away.
That afternoon and evening it was like the paths of the couple and Matthew were continuously crossing. In the afternoon, Matthew went into the small village outside the gates of the resort to view the handicraft stalls, and the couple was doing the same thing. When Matthew went to the resort's beach bar for a drink afterward, the couple already was there. The two were perched on barstools, side-by-side, although leaving the impression they weren't together, she morose and he observant, not saying much of anything to each other. They certainly weren't honeymooners, as anyone watching them for any length of time could tell.
Back in the village for an early dinner, both the couple and Matthew had selected the same restaurant. The woman's eyes were darting everywhere while she ate, but Matthew and the man mostly stole glances at each other.
Shortly after dark, Matthew was back on his lounge, riding the cock of the beefy Cuban bartender who had been serving them drinks that afternoon. The Cuban laid on his back stretched out on the lounge, the palms of his hands fanned out on Matthew's pecs as, facing the bartender, Matthew crouched on his haunches on the man's cock and leaned his torso back with his hand's gripping his ankles. He was slightly raised off the man's crotch to give the Cuban room to fuck up into his channel.
Matthew was moaning and moving his hips to meet the Cuban's thrusts, but his gaze was directed toward the fringe of the beach, where a figure was sitting, in the dark, on the terrace of the couple's bungalow and smoking cigarettes.
When Matthew arrived at one of the village restaurants for lunch the next day, the couple was already there. But the man leaned over and said something to the woman, after which he took money out of his wallet and they both left the restaurant even though their food was only half eaten. The Smith and Wesson was still strapped to his waist. It was there every time Matthew saw the couple.
Matthew's own meal was only half eaten as well when two local policemen entered the restaurant, walked up to his table and politely but firmly requested that Matthew accompany them to the local police station. There he was taken to a small interrogation room furnished with a wobbly wooden table and three chairs, one on one side of the table and two on the other. A large mirror was set in one wall, where the single chair faced. Matthew was asked to sit in the single chair.
After a wait of nearly an hour sitting there all by himself, two men entered the room - an older-looking policeman and the man from the resort. They sat in the chairs opposite Matthew, and the man opened a pouch he'd brought with him and had laid on the table and took Matthew's passport; hotel reservation printouts for here and the Cayman Islands, where he next was booked at a beach resort; and plane tickets out of the pouch and laid them on the table.
"You've been in my bungalow," Matthew said. "Those were in a locked safe."
"Yes, Mr. Wilson," the body-builder hunk with the gun on his hip said. "The local police are cooperating with me. It doesn't take much in the Cuban Republic to obtain permission to search someone's home. You have been paying a bit too much attention to me and the woman I'm with - enough to have raised questions why that was so."
"It's a small resort and off season," Matthew said. "I didn't know that there were restrictions on where I could go just because you and your wife would be there too."
"She's not my wife," the man shot back. But then it seemed from the expression on his face as if he had said something he shouldn't have, and he regathered his approach. The policeman sat stoically beside him, arms crossed, saying nothing, quite possibly understanding little other than that there must be some reason for him to be cooperating with this other tourist.
Matthew thought of asking the man - or the policeman - by what authority he was questioning Matthew's activities, but he thought better of it and just waited for the man's next move, watching his face with a mixture of amusement and lack of worry.
"We are here for our privacy. I am, you might say, the woman's bodyguard, and I have to be very careful who shows interest in us."
"You've been in my bungalow. You've gone through my things," Matthew repeated, gesturing at his documents that the man had laid out on the table.
"Yes, sorry."
"Did you find anything that would make you suspicious that I wasn't just here on a vacation?" Matthew asked.
"No, we didn't. But you have been watching the woman closely. Can you say why?"
"I wasn't watching the woman," Matthew said, giving the bodyguard a level, direct stare. "I was watching you."
"Watching me?" the man said, nonplused and surprised at the comment. "Whatever for?"
"I suspect - I hope - for the same reason you have been sitting and smoking on the terrace of your bungalow the last two nights and watching me - and what I was doing."
The three sat and stared at each other for more than a minute. Only the policeman seemed not to understand what was being said - and his English probably was very limited anyway.
"Tell me that I'm wrong," Matthew said. "Tell me you haven't been watching me - and listening - with special interest."
Another pause of staring and then the man leaned over and said something to the policeman in Spanish. The policeman nodded, rose from the table, and left the room. The bodyguard also got up from the table, walked over to the door to the corridor, and closed and locked it from the inside. This was his one and only intentional act in that first coupling.
They fucked with the man standing with his back against the wall beside the mirror. Matthew did most of the work. The man had clearly wanted to fuck Matthew, but he struggled with the propriety of doing so, especially right there in the police station, until Matthew seduced him with entreaties of need and with clever initiation of groping, moaning, kissing, stroking, begging, heavy breathing, and cock sucking - all out of view of the mirrored window in one wall.
Matthew forced a position that the man could not resist and did not have to take responsibility for. Matthew had his fists locked behind the man's neck and was draped on the front of the bodyguard, who, shorts down around his ankles but Smith and Wesson still buckled on a belt at his waist, was palming and spreading Matthew's butt cheeks to give his cock maximum penetration of Matthew's channel. Matthew's legs were bent with his feet flat against the wall and out wide at the level of the man's waist, giving him the aspect of a crab attached to the man's pelvis. He used his feet for leverage. Taking full charge, Matthew pumped his channel on the man's long and thick cock. Matthew provided the Golden Ticket condom, Matthew provided the opportunity, Matthew provided the sensual touch, and, in the clutch, Matthew provided the pumping action on the cock.
Until he was completely lost to Matthew, and the irresistible need for him, the man was given no opportunity to withdraw from the brink of the abyss. What he did that night was, at least in his mind, a compensation for his lack of control and dominance earlier, letting a small, boyish-looking man dominate a macho, hulking dude like him. It became a matter of pride to reassert dominance.
That night after the resort's pool boy fucked Matthew on the lounge under the tree and had gone, Matthew rose from the lounge and walked over to the terrace of the neighboring bungalow. The bodyguard, naked, was sitting in a patio chair and smoking a cigarette. As Matthew approached, he flicked his cigarette into a planter and raised and spread his arms, pulling Matthew into an embrace as, facing him, the young man straddled the arms of the patio chair and lowered his channel on the man's erect, already-sheathed cock.
After Matthew had ridden the cock to his ejaculation, the man gathered him up in his arms and carried him into the bungalow, into one of the two bedrooms; laid Matthew down on his back on the foot of the bed; spread the young man's thighs, slowly slid his cock into Matthew's channel; and fucked him, at great length in ever-more-rapid strokes, to his own ejaculation. As soon as the man could regain a hard staff, Matthew straddled his pelvis and rode his cock again.
At length, exhausted, Matthew and the man lay side by side on the bed, their hands roaming each other's bodies and Matthew giving the man a hand job until with a moan and a sigh, the bodyguard drifted off into sleep. When the bodyguard's breathing had become regularized and he was quietly snoring, Matthew carefully and silently rose from the bed and padded out of the bungalow, leaving the door behind him unlatched and slightly open.
He stealthily moved back to the lounge he had claimed for himself and lifted it and swung it away from the base of the palm tree, careful to muffle the scraping noise in the sand. Once the lounge was turned, he went down on his hands and knees and dug into the sand. Extracting the oilskin pouch that had been hidden under the beach lounge since the day Matthew had arrived - two days before the couple in the nearby bungalow did - Matthew carefully unwrapped the Beretta 92FS it contained, checked it over, and then screwed on the silencer that also had been hidden in the pouch.
They had been right, he thought. The best avenue of approach and the disarming of defenses had been through the sexual proclivities of the bodyguard. He already could feel the sweet taste of success. There hadn't yet been a witness protection arrangement that he hadn't been able to circumvent.
He rose and, holding the Beretta at the ready at his side, quietly and carefully stole his way back inside the bungalow.
THE END.