That night Logan had trouble sleeping. Why had he kissed Raymond’s eyes that way? He told himself, again and again, that he did not feel an attraction. “I don’t do attraction like that,” he told himself in the darkened room over and over again. “He’s a nerd. He’s a geek. A nice enough guy in his way but a geek. I could never… ” When, after hours of sleeplessness, he finally fell asleep, it was restless sleep. He didn’t know why, or even want to admit it if he figured it out.
* * *
No formal announcement was made about Raymond’s trip. Word filtered slowly through the population that the king had gone off to visit the capitals of Europe. Logan found it odd that is was done on the sly; apparently the Privy Council was running the country in his absence. Alex and Peter had gone with him, taking a half dozen of their men. Evgeny was left in charge of the guards in Bulvania.
Logan didn’t have much contact with them. He had gotten an assignment from an American travel magazine to do a photo feature on Bulvania for them. His days were occupied taking pictures of various sites around the capital, including the palace complex, and writing short descriptive captions for them. Goat farms and nut plantations in the countryside were also included, so there was a good bit of light travel. People from the embassy acted as tour guides for him.
Oddly, no one in the city seemed to notice that Raymond was off on a trip, or to care much. Life went on more or less as usual. No one ever said anything unkind or unsupportive about Raymond the Monk; the people simply hadn’t gotten to know him well enough to care. When Logan mentioned that the king was off on a trip, people tended to shrug. “New kings do that,” was a typical reaction.
The only one who seemed to miss Raymond was Logan. He kept trying to tell himself it wasn’t because of a growing attachment. No, he kept trying to believe, it was because he knew of the queen’s plot and was concerned about him. He didn’t let the obvious fact that Raymond was safe in Western Europe interfere with his thoughts. In fact, when he found himself thinking tenderly of the king, conjuring up an image of him, scruffy and ragged, was usually enough to end it.
But as he traveled around the country, he always made it a point to tell people good things about their new king. People listened politely but a bit skeptically—Logan was an American, after all. But no one expressed anything but good will toward the king. It appeared that if it was up to the people and not the nobles, Raymond would have a long, happy reign.
* * *
After a few days, Logan began to feel that familiar itch, that urge that takes hold of every man everywhere sooner or later. At first, he satisfied himself with jerking off to fantasies about Alex, Peter and their men screwing their way across Europe. Once, even Raymond made his way into the fantasy.
But soon masturbation wasn’t enough. He decided to take an afternoon off from his photography project and drop by the Frederick the Great Barracks.
It was a bright, sunny afternoon, a bit on the warm side. The guards would be out in their courtyard working out, possibly naked, and… The mere thought of them, of all those gorgeous Eastern European men and their smooth, lean bodies had him hard as a rock.
Two guardsmen were on duty at the palace gate. They were young, and they looked… innocent? unspoiled? boyish? Tall, thin, looking hot in their uniforms; the sun was bringing a blush to their cheeks; their complexions were pure peaches-and-cream. He couldn’t remember seeing them before. They must be new recruits. But he couldn’t wait to, er, get to know them better.
“Hello.” He approached them, smiling the warmest smile he could manage without making it obvious what he had on his mind. “I’m Logan Bockwein, from the American embassy. I’m a friend of the king and your commander, Captain Borodenko.”
“Yes, sir.” The guards snapped to attention. “But I’m afraid his majesty is not in residence, sir.”
“I know it. He’s off in Paris. But I want to visit some of my other friends in the Royal Guards.”
“I’m afraid that is not possible, sir. The palace is closed to visitors during the king’s absence. Except for official business, of course.”
Logan looked them up and down. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, have we? As I said, I am from the American embassy.” He hoped that was official-sounding enough for them.
But it wasn’t. “And may I ask your business here today, sir?”
“As I said, I simply want to visit a few friends.”
“I’m sorry, sir. That cannot be permitted.”
Logan hadn’t expected anything like this, and he wasn’t sure how to react. “If you’ll call Lieutenant Evgeny Petrovich, I’m sure he will—”
“I’m very sorry, sir. But it is as I said.”
Logan looked to the other guard, thinking he might make more progress with him. But he was standing stiffly at attention and looking straight forward, not at Logan. He turned back to the first one, and he put on his friendliest, most seductive tone. “I don’t think we’ve met before. Mind if I ask your name?”
“Private Leland, at your service, sir.”
“You’re a new member of the Guards?”
“Yes, sir.”
He paused and tried to sound tentative. “Would you like to get together after you get off duty? For a drink or maybe a light meal somewhere?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t get off duty till after midnight.”
“Getting off is what I have in mind.” He made it sound like a little joke, though he meant it quite seriously.
“I’m sorry, sir. Recruits are not permitted to fraternize with civilians.”
“Oh.” He turned to the other guard.
But before he could speak the guard told him, “I’m afraid I am a recruit, too, sir.”
“Oh. Oh.” He looked from one of them to the other. “Well, maybe some other time, then. I’ll just go inside and say hello to Lt. Petrovich.”
“I’m very sorry, sir.” They both said it at the same time. “That is not permitted.”
Oh. Damn. Putting the best face on his disappointment he said, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you both again.”
They stared straight ahead.
“Goodbye, now.” He turned and left, his mind turning furiously. The Promised Land was on the other side of that gate. There had to be a way for him to reach it. There simply had to be.
* * *
Logan complained about being kept out of the palace to everyone on sight. Marge made one of her usual wisecracks about it, which of course didn’t help. Constantine consulted a handbook on Bulvanian protocol and decided there was no way around it.
Logan even talked to a few of the locals who worked at the embassy. The chauffeur told him, “I’ve never heard of anything like that. The palace is always open to everyone.”
“They told me it’s because the king isn’t in residence.”
“That’s never made any difference before, sir.”
A chambermaid was even more puzzled. “My brother was there just this morning, sir.”
“He was actually in the palace?”
“Yes, sir. He works for one of the greengrocers who sell them provisions.”
“Well, I guess they have to let deliveries like that inside.”
“He wasn’t delivering any food. His fiancée works at the palace. She’s one of the maids, and it’s her birthday, so he was taking her some flowers.”
He was astonished. “And they let him in?”
She nodded. “It’s a long tradition, sir. The palace is the peoples. It’s always open to everyone.”
So those two guards he’d encountered were simply too new to know the rules. He decided to go back and have another try. Visions of naked, sweating guardsmen fucking, sucking, playing every known sexual game drove him, and drove him forcefully. This time he would get inside to play with them. He had to. His hardon was practically bursting out of his pants.
There were two different guards on duty this time. So Private Leland was lying when he said he couldn’t meet Logan because he was on duty till midnight. Oh well, what the hell, he was probably straight.
But “different guards” did not lead to “different results.” Even though he knew one of these new ones, even though he had screwed the guy at their last orgy, he couldn’t get into the palace. “I’m very sorry, sir, but no visitors are permitted to enter the palace while his majesty is absent.”
“Everyone I’ve talked to says the palace has always been open to everyone.”
“Sorry, sir. This is a new policy.” He lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “Security.” That word was supposed to explain everything, it seemed.
Logan kept imagining the man naked and erect. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind. “Security? But I’m the one who exposed the plot against the king.”
“Plot? I don’t know anything about a plot, sir. All I know is that no visitors are permitted to enter the palace grounds.”
Logan felt like he had to touch another man or he’d explode. “Look, Hans, you know me. We’ve played together. We can again. Let me in.”
“Sorry, sir, no visitors are permitted.”
Logan didn’t know whether to be angry, hurt or just incredibly horny. He turned to the second guard, but the man was standing rigidly at attention, eyes forward. Logan’s exchange with Hans might never have happened. The two of them snapped rigidly to attention and said in unison, “For the greater glory of Bulvania!”
And so he left a second time.
* * *
The next morning there was a note for Logan at the embassy. It was from Count Schlutow; he wanted an answer to the proposal he had made at that lunch. So they were serious about their plan, and serious about involving him in it. This situation wasn’t going to go away. He decided he had to tell the ambassador about it.
“Dad, we’ve got problems.”
P.T. sat behind his desk, drinking his morning coffee. A cuckoo clock, nearly as large as the one in his office back home, ticked loudly on the wall behind him. “What else is new?”
“I’m serious. There are diplomatic ramifications to this.”
“There are diplomatic ramifications to everything we do. Constantine just told me I’ve been buying my morning newspaper from a street vendor who belongs to the queen’s party. So I guess I’ll have to change.”
“I’ve had an encounter with the queen, too, and at a lot closer range than that.” He told P.T. about his luncheon with the count, the queen and the bishop. “And it affects you, too. They told me if I go along with them they’ll approve the contract for Zinc, Inc.”
“Isn’t that something the king would have to do?”
“What if the king isn’t around?”
“Oh. Oh. Yes. I see the problem. But—but what was your response to them?”
“What could I say? I stalled. I can’t get involved in an assassination plot, and I wouldn’t even if I didn’t like Raymond. But I certainly don’t want to crab your tin deal.”
P.T. was a bit surprised. “You’ve gotten that friendly with the king?”
Logan nodded, not sure what his father might be suspecting. “He’s a nice guy. On the nerdy side, but underneath those monk’s robes there’s a certain sweetness.”
“I’ve seen him, Logan. ‘Sweet’ isn’t the adjective that comes to mind. He looks like—”
“No, really, dad, he’s a nice guy. I mean, he needs a good, thick coat of polish, but—”
“Can you get him to approve our deal?”
Logan thought that, yes, he probably could. But he was starting to feel like a pawn in a diplomatic chess game, and he didn’t like it. “We’re not that close.”
P.T. smiled a smug smile. “Yet. I know you, Logan. If there’s one thing about you I’m sure of, it’s—”
“Don’t say it, dad. You wouldn’t really pimp me out to increase your corporate profits, would you?”
“I’m a Republican. I believe in traditional family values. And there’s nothing more traditional than money.”
“Swell. Just great.”
“But I’ll have to let Washington know about this damn plot. It’s going to be a balancing act, and I don’t want to make any wrong moves. Besides… ” He paused for a long moment. “I’m supposed to have lunch with Count Schlutow today, precisely to discuss the tin deal.”
Logan had to admire their efficiency and relentlessness. He whistled. “They’re not wasting any time, are they?”
“They can’t very well do anything till Raymond gets back from this trip. So we’ve got time. Keep stalling them. I’ll do the same.” He paused again, then added, “And don’t tell Constantine about this. This is way too important for a junior bureaucrat.”
“Sure. Oh, and Dad?”
“Hm?”
“Don’t tell them about me and Raymond. Not that there’s anything to tell, really. I mean, they know we’ve met, and… Well, just don’t tell them, okay?”
“I’m a diplomat. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this game, it’s how to play my cards close to my vest.”
* * *
A week later Logan had still not found an outlet for his sexual urges. The guards kept rebuffing him, and Constantine was out of the question.
Marge was amused by his frustration. “A week? You haven’t gone without it for that long since you were in Pampers.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
She suggested that he get close to Constantine. “Any port in a storm, after all.”
“I’ve already docked in that port. And believe me, once was enough. He’d probably issue a protocol for oral sex, for Christ’s sake. There has to be a gay bar someplace in this city. Why can’t I find it?”
“Like a pig hunting for truffles.”
“You’re no help at all, Margery.”
He buried himself in his photography project to keep his mind off men. And he wrapped it up, he decided some panoramic shots of the harbor would be a good idea. So he climbed to the embassy roof and set up a camera and tripod with a telephoto lens.
He had to admit to himself, despite his current frustration, that it was a gorgeous vista. The deep blue of the sea, the brilliant white of the sailing craft bobbing gently in the surf, the long curving harbor dotted with little islands, the blazing sun above it all… Landscape photography had never really been Logan’s specialty; he was more of a portrait man. But he wanted to capture the natural and manmade beauties of Flausenthurmopolis for the magazine.
And then it hit him: the islands. Guardsmen’s Island! That was the place he’d been looking for.
He trained his telephoto lens on it. And there they were. Guardsmen, naked, lounging on the beach or moving into and out of the bushes. Even at this distance he could see that some of them had hardons. That was the place, Valhalla, the Promised Land.
He got his final shots quickly, and 20 minutes later he was at the harbor renting a small motorboat for himself. The surf was a bit rough, but he managed the boat without too much trouble. Guardsmen’s Island. He watched it as he approached. Men, naked men on the beach. Sex, there would be sex. He was wildly excited; after a week of enforced abstinence it was all he could do not to come in his pants at the mere thought of it.
Finally, he was there. Not bothering to take his shoes and socks off, he jumped eagerly into the water at the shoreline and pulled his boat up onto the sand.
And almost at once two guardsmen approached him. One was blond, the other a redhead. He didn’t recognize either of them. Except for the ceremonial swords they carried, they were naked; their lean, muscular bodies seemed to glow in the sunlight. Their pubes were shaved, and their cocks were huge; half-erect. They had obviously been having sex and would be again soon enough. His mouth watered at the thought of what they’d be doing in a few minutes.
The blond inspected him with mild curiosity. “Good day, sir. May we help you?”
He put on a bright smile. “I’m Logan Bockwein, a friend of the king and Alex Borodenko.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I—I’ve come out for a day of recreation.” They seemed to grow more beautiful each moment. Logan couldn’t wait to touch them, taste them, feel them inside of him.
“This is Guardsman’s Island, sir, off limits to everyone except members of the king’s Royal Guard.”
“I know where I am. But as I said, I’m a friend of—”
“We must ask you to leave, sir.” The redhead had a deep, masculine voice. Logan wanted him.
A few feet along the beach a group of five young guardsmen were playing. They lay on the sand in a ring, and each of them was sucking the cock of the next man. The sight had Logan wildly excited; he wanted to make a similar chain with the two guards who were confronting him. “Leave? I’m a friend of Captain Borodenko.” He added lamely, “And the king.”
“I’m afraid neither of them is here, sir. If you really are their friend, you must be aware that they are out of the country.”
“I’m quite aware of that. But I thought—”
“Please, sir. Go now.”
And that was that. Glumly, puzzled and vaguely hurt, Logan got back into his motorboat and returned to the harbor.
* * *
“Dad, I’ve got to get out of this country. I can’t stand it here.”
P.T. looked up from his desk, where he had been reading some State Department communiqués. “You can’t, Logan. I need you here.”
“But I—”
“The deal is in the works, at least Schlutow says it is—but he wants a cut. One way or the other, the king will have to sign off on it. Schlutow ways that will be no problem. But I need you here to make sure of it. If we can swing the deal without Schlutow and the queen in the mix, it’ll mean more profits for us. I need you.”
“But I—”
“Besides, the Secretary of State will be touring this part of the world next month. We don’t have confirmation yet that she’ll actually be coming to Bulvania. But if we can have the tin deal all worked out and ready to go, it’ll be a big incentive for her. I told you, the Pentagon’s counting on that tin.”
Trapped. Logan’s heart sank. “Tin soldiers.”
“That’s no attitude, Logan. This is for the family, the company and the country. You can’t leave. After everything’s worked out… we’ll see.”
“Just for a week or two. I need to get to London or New York.”
P.T. smiled knowingly. “Aren’t there enough men here?”
“It’s a long, rotten story.”
“Well, you can’t leave. Negotiations are too delicate, and we need you here to keep stringing the count along.”
“Damn.”
“You’ll survive. “Why don’t you go up the mountain to St. Dymphna’s? Get to know the monks.”
“If Raymond is any example, no thanks.”
P.T. tried to make his tone as kind and understanding as he could. “Look, you can’t leave. I know what you have in mind, and I know you haven’t gone without it for so long since you were a kid. But I need you here, and so does the U.S.”
Logan muttered, “God bless America,” turned and left.
* * *
His photographic equipment was still in place on the embassy roof. He climbed the stairs to it, unhappy, muttering to himself about the fate that had brought him to Bulvania, planning to take a few final photos and wrap up his project.
The day was still bright and sunny. He got a few quick shots of the cathedral, the palace, the river in the afternoon light. Then, impulsively but inevitably, he turned his telephoto lens on Guardsmen’s Island.
They were still there. The afternoon sunlight lit their bodies perfectly. Lean, smooth bodies glistening with sweat. He paused for a moment to wonder how they could do what they were doing so openly, in full view of anyone on shore with a telescope. But that didn’t seem to bother them, so why should Logan trouble over it?
He recognized some of the faces he saw; and some of the bodies were familiar. There were two dozen or more men, all undressed or in the briefest bikinis. Some cavorted playfully on the beach, running, chasing each other, tossing balls around. Others were engaged in more intimate activities. Kissing, fondling, licking. Some couples stood, others lay on the sand. A group of four guards took turns worshiping each other’s feet.
Erect cocks stood out clearly. Men sucked, licked, stroked. A pair of guardsmen licked a third guy’s butt. Couples fucked. It was too much to stand, hotter than the hottest porn film. Logan got out his cock and began stroking. Slowly, slowly, he wanted this to last, he stroked, he fondled, he manipulated.
A guardsman spanked his boyfriend, and the bottom guy smiled so widely Logan could see it clearly. He stroked.
Another guard lay facedown on the sand, and Logan watched as one man after another fucked him. When the man finally rolled over, Logan saw that it was Evgeny.
Logan kept moving his lens, checking out one part of the island after another, and everywhere he looked there were guardsmen making love.
There were a few other men too, mingling among the guards. Logan knew he had seen them, but he also knew they weren’t part of the Royal Guard. After a moment he recognized them: they were young priests from the cathedral. They and their friends in the guards engaged in every kind of sex imaginable, spanking, pissing, tying each other up and playfully “torturing”…
Finally, he couldn’t contain it any longer. Logan stroked himself to a huge climax. A week’s worth of jizz spattered onto the embassy roof.
Priests. Young, fit priests on the island, playing with the guardsmen. So much for the separation of church and state. And so much for the claim that the island was only open to guardsmen. Why had his friends turned against him? Why was he no longer welcome? He had no doubt the same kind of activity was taking place in the guards’ courtyard at the palace. And he wasn’t part of it.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, Logan felt alone, and lonely.