International Manwhore – Part 18 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

By late afternoon the suite started to feel less like a honeymoon hideaway and more like a very expensive jail cell with an ocean view. I’d finally caved and put on the clothes Adrien left—white linen shirt, off-white trousers, no underwear because apparently he thought commando was part of the dress code. The fabric was stupidly soft, the fit stupidly perfect, and wearing it made me feel like I’d already lost half the fight. I hated it. I hated how good it felt against my skin. I hated that I kept catching my reflection in the glass and thinking I looked like I belonged here.

I’d paced every inch of the room twice. Tried the door again—still red light, still locked. Tried the biometric panel with my thumb, then my knuckle, then just slapped it like that would help. Nothing. I’d even dug through the drawers again, hoping for a forgotten phone or a paperclip miracle, but all I found were more grooming products, a stack of blank notepads, nothing I could use.

I ended up on the couch, legs stretched out, staring at the endless blue outside the glass wall. The yacht was still moving—steady, unhurried, like we were going somewhere specific but had all the time in the world to get there. My dick had finally calmed down after this morning’s disaster with the spring, but the memory of Adrien twisting that metal around my base and fucking me against the door kept replaying every time I shifted. I was sore, satisfied, and pissed off in equal measure.

The boredom was starting to itch worse than anything else.

Then—beep. A soft electronic chirp from the door panel. Green light flashed once.

I sat up straight, heart kicking up. The door slid open.

A waiter stepped in—early thirties, crisp black uniform, face professionally blank. He carried a silver tray with a domed plate cover, a crystal water glass, and a bottle of something chilled and expensive-looking. He set it on the low table in front of the couch without a word, gave a small bow, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” I said, standing too fast. “Adrien not joining me?”

The waiter paused, glanced back. “Non,” he answered in crisp French, then continued toward the door.

It slid shut behind him with the same soft whoosh. No beep. No red light this time.

I stared at the panel. Green light still glowing steady.

My pulse thumped in my ears. I waited—five seconds, ten, twenty—half-expecting Adrien to stroll back in or the light to flip red again. Nothing happened. The tray sat there steaming faintly, the smell of seared steak and truffle sauce drifting up, making my stomach growl despite everything.

I crossed the room slowly, like the door might bite if I moved too fast. Reached out. Pressed the button beside the frame.

The panel beeped once—soft, almost polite. Green stayed green. The door slid open again.

Corridor beyond: empty, softly lit, carpeted in deep navy. No guards in sight. No cameras I could spot. Just quiet hallway stretching left and right.

I stood there, hand still on the button, heart hammering so loud I could hear it in my throat.

The corridor stretched quiet and carpeted, soft navy under my bare feet. No alarms, no running footsteps, no sudden security goons appearing from side doors. Just the low hum of the yacht’s engines vibrating up through the floor and the faint smell of salt and polish. I moved slow, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat, every step feeling like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I kept close to the wall, listening. Nothing but the waves. The corridor branched left toward what looked like guest suites, right toward a narrower hall with a discreet “Crew Only” sign that wasn’t locked. I went right.

A short flight of stairs took me up one level. I cracked the door at the top and peered out.

Open deck—smaller than the main party area, private, ringed with teak railings and low glass panels. Moonlight silvered everything. And there, leaning against the forward rail with his back to me, phone to his ear, was Adrien.

He was speaking English. Not the warm, accented French-English he used with me. This was crisp, clipped, pure public-school snot: the same posh Oxford drawl my brother Sebastian had, that annoying dead-Queen English you heard in old BBC newsreels. No trace of French lilt, no rolling r’s, just that flat, aristocratic bite.

“…yes, the asset is secure. No, I haven’t decided yet. Tell the old man if he wants his port holdings back he can come collect them himself… No. I said no. Handle the Nice problem quietly. I don’t want headlines.”

He laughed—short, sharp, nothing like the low, fond sound he made when we were tangled up.

“Bloody hell, Charles, you sound like my old housemaster. Relax. I’ve got him exactly where I want him.”

The little shit. Adrien has to be lying, the “protection” bullshit, all of it. He’s playing me like a fucking fiddle and enjoying every second.

I backed away before he could turn, pulse roaring in my ears. Kept moving down the narrower hall, past a couple of unmarked doors, until I hit a heavier one labeled “Communications” in small, no-nonsense lettering. No lock. Just a push-handle.

Inside: dim blue lighting, a bank of screens showing radar, weather overlays, engine readouts. A desk with a satellite phone cradle—empty—and a small safe built into the wall. And on the floor beside it, my suitcase. The same black suitcase I’d packed in London, scuffed from the Nice airport baggage handlers.

I knelt, popped the latches. Heart in my mouth.

Clothes—gone. Gadgets—gone. Fred’s cursed anal beads, all the gadgets—all missing. But one thing remained, nestled in the lining pocket like an afterthought: the neon-green Slick Shot Lube Dispenser. The “Smooth Operator” one with the QR code and the pointless luxury care-site link.

I snatched it, shoved it in the pocket of the linen trousers. Felt the cool metal tube against my thigh.

Next to the cradle sat a burner phone—basic black slab, no branding. I grabbed it. No signal bars. Of course.

Footsteps in the corridor—heavy ones, not Adrien’s light stride. Someone coming.

I ducked behind the desk, crouched low, breath shallow. The door opened, a crew member stepped in—same black uniform as the waiter—checked a screen, muttered something in French, then left. Door clicked shut.

I waited until the footsteps faded completely, then stood.

The lube bottle felt heavy in my pocket. I pulled it out, turned it over. That stupid QR code stared back at me—black square on green plastic.

On impulse I scanned it with the burner’s camera.

The screen flickered. “Starlink connection established.”

My thumb hovered over the dial pad.

I should call Leona. Or Asher. Or anyone who could pull me out of this gilded trap before I forgot why I was here.

But something nagged at me. The accent. Sebastian talked like that every day, pure and effortless, the kind of English you only got from boarding school. The few friends he had from there shared the same snotty drawl. And the way Adrien spoke—housemaster—wasn’t that a boarding-school thing?

I glanced at the door. Still quiet.

I slipped back out the way I came, burner in one hand, lube bottle in the other pocket. Crept up the stairs again, cracked the door to the private deck.

Adrien was still there, phone now in his hand, staring out at the water. Moonlight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the easy way he stood.

I raised the burner, switched to camera, zoomed in as far as the shitty lens would go. Snapped two quick pictures—his profile, then a half-turn as he shifted his weight.

I then returned to the comms room. Sent the pictures to Sebastian’s number. No message. Just the photos.

Then I hit call. The line rang once, twice.

Click.

“Seb, lil bro! it’s Bryson.”

“Bryson?” Sebastian’s voice—sharp, annoyed, but unmistakably him.

I kept my voice low, eyes on Adrien’s back. “Seb. I’m… on a boat. With Adrien Laroque.”

Silence. Then a slow exhale.

“Why did you just send me a picture of Thomas then?”

My brain stuttered. “Thomas? That’s Adrien?”

“No, that’s Thomas Hargrove. I went to boarding school with him—before Eton. Some small all-boys place outside London. Why the hell are you sending me photos of Thomas Hargrove?”

I stared at Adrien’s silhouette. The little shit.

“Shit,” I breathed.

Sebastian’s voice sharpened. “Wait. Is that your target? Thomas?”

I heard footsteps—someone coming down the corridor toward the comms room.

“Ok, listen,” I whispered, ducking back inside and easing the door almost shut. “Find out as much as you can about Adr— I mean Thomas, or whoever the fuck he is. I’ll call you again in twenty-four hours from this number. Also… I’m fine.”

Sebastian snorted. “Oh dear. Ok. But fine, why shouldn’t you be?”

“Yeah,” I said, heart in my throat. “Hasn’t anyone reported me missing?”

“No?” Sebastian sounded genuinely confused. “Why? You’re just being your usual self-absorbed—”

I hung up. Footsteps getting closer. As they passed, I put the phone back to where I had found it.

I slipped back through the corridor, moving fast but quiet, bare feet silent on the carpet. Back down the stairs, past the guest suites, heart pounding like a drum. The door to the private suite was still cracked open—no beep, no red light.

I slid inside, eased it shut behind me.

The tray of dinner sat untouched on the table, steak cooling, truffle sauce congealing.

I stood there in the middle of the room, still in Adrien’s clothes.

Thomas Hargrove. Not Adrien Laroque. What the fuck?