Date: Tue, 20 Nov 2012 03:00:58 -0500
From: John Marshall <crackerjacker18@hotmail.com>
Subject: EcstasyInc chapter 4

In trying to avoid the most common plot scenarios featured on Nifty, this
story continues the saga which began with "Ecstasy Island,"continued with
"The Working Boys," followed by "Ecstasy Renewed." "EcstasyInc," like the
previous segment, is unorthodox but quite seductive, as are the figures
depicted. Like "Ecstasy Island" and "The Working Boys," and "Ecstasy
Renewed," this one is also written in third person and proceeds in
something close to real time with extensive dialogue to carry the story
along and intense character development. Most of the characters from the
earlier stories have returned, but there are also quite a number of new
characters which will occupy the main spotlight in this segment.

Once more, this story is extremely orgasmic with all ejaculating dialogue
written in UPPER CASE. If you do not wish to be exposed to such material as
described, leave now.  If you are too young for this sort of thing, leave
now.  If reading this causes you to break the law where you live, leave
now.

Otherwise, take the time now to get naked and get your cock hard, start
strokin' it. Jack yourself off as you read and see if you can time your own
blasts of naked sexual pleasure with those of the people in the book. This
one averages about two to three orgasms per chapter. For that reason, I
don't recommend reading more than one chapter at a time.  Any more than
that might be hazardous to your sexual health...especially your hard,
throbbing cock.

Note: The inclusion of any actual individuals in this story is in no way
meant to suggest actual occurrences or their sexual orientation. All drugs
mentioned are fictitious.

If you like what you read, let me know at crackerjacker18@hotmail.com.


ECSTASYINC

CHAPTER 4


The street, such as it was, inclined sharply, often more of a stairway than
a street, almost too narrow for a street yet too wide for a stairway. Even
early in the morning women were hanging laundry from their tree-house-like
cabanas, the damp clothes if not the "houses" themselves hanging out over
the street like the foliage of giant trees. Steve Mathis was on a
mission. The company called it "Pooh Bear Harvest" after some English
storybook character. He had no idea what connection that might have with
the two eleven-year-old street urchins he was charged with spiriting out of
Rio north to Miami, then to Nassau and from there to some kind of
mysterious island resort where rumor had it the law forbade wearing clothes
of any kind.

Andre and Alesandro Santos were like hundreds, perhaps thousands of other
hand-to-mouth crianças de rua, or street children, except that they
happened to be twins and they had a very street smart older brother, Mario,
who provided a rudimentary sustenance for them, shielding them from the
worst that might befall two young boys on the streets of Rio de Janerio.

He knew he was getting close, but all the wooden hovels tended to look very
much alike. There was no street address, barely even names for the back
alleys pretending to be streets. His employer, Cox Brazil was interested in
the boys for only one reason. They were identical twins, and from the
photos Mario had supplied him for their passports, extremely attractive
young boys who appeared much younger than their birth certificates
claimed. With their large, expressive eyes, dark hair, slender faces, tiny
noses and broad smiles, they barely appeard to be eight or nine. They stood
only 54 inches tall and weighed a meager 89 pounds, a good part of that,
Steve guessed, was DIRT. Their plane left at 12:46 p.m. He was rounding
them up early anticipating he'd have to take them back to the Hotel Caesar,
scrub them clean, and outfit them in decent attire for the plane trip
north.

"Santos!?" He cried up an one of the women hanging out of the street
pinning laundry to a line.

"Quatro casas mais," she cried back.

Four more houses. He counted and pointed. She nodded vigorously. Their
humble abode was built high off the street between two utility poles. A
makeshift ladder, which appeared much more makeshift than Steve would have
liked, seemed to be the sole access. He briefly considered yelling up at
them but so early in the morning, he didn't want the whole neighborhood
angry with him for disturbing their slumber. Cautiously he began his
climb. Whole wrungs were missing. This was way more than he'd bargained for
when he'd signed on with Cox as coordinator of support services, a
meaningless gopher title if there ever was one. He wore so many hats his
job description read like the yellow pages.

"Santos?" Steve asked quietly as he poked his head through the opening in
the large cobbled-together wooden box making up the family estate.

"Sim...you Senhor Mathis?" a childlike voice ask from the darkness inside.

"Sim...Mario Santos? Steve questioned.

"Nao, he is my brother, I am Andre," the boy told him as he gripped his
hand and helped pull him up and into the grubby residence.

"Where is Mario, I have something for him...some papers for him to sign,"
Steve told the boy.

"He and Alesandro went for water so we can lavar...banhar...scrub
ourselves," the slender waif informed him in Portugese. "They will return
soon."

Steve looked about, uncertain what he might see in such a place.  "Nice
place you got here?" he joked.

"The carport we build next year," Andre replied dryly.

"You have nao pais, nao mae, nao pai?"

"Nao...mae morreu...died. Pai..." he shrugged. "foi por cinco anos."

"Five years?" Steve repeated in dismay.

"Sim...Mario nosso pai," Andre told him.

"You speak any Inglis at all?" Steve asked as he struggled to understand
the boy. He spoke some degee of Portugese but barely enough to carry on a
conversation and far too little to see him comfortably take on the role of
"nosso pai"--our father.

"Sim...yes...I suck your cock?" the boy proudly demonstrated what amounted
to his total grasp of the language.

"Nao, obrigado," Steve shook his head in dismay, "I just had my cock sucked
a few minutes ago."

The boy cocked his head, looking at him inquisitively, uncomprehendingly
like a befuddled puppy.

"I see you found us," Steve heard behind him coming up the ladder the
welcome sound of his native language, though heavily accented. Mario handed
up to him a battered bucket of clean water.

"You are well known on the streets," Steve told the handsome
sixteen-year-old as the boy climbed into the cabana.

Mario reached back and with one muscular arm hoisted his little brother up
and safely inside. "This little punk is Alesandro. We have no soap but I
thought that with some water, I might scrub hard enough to make them
presentable."

Steve smiled induligently. "I can see you've gone to a lot of trouble but
that won't be necessary. I plan to take them back to my hotel and...we have
soap there...polish them up a bit."

"But..." Mario held his nose, "they STINK."

Given the hundreds of background aromas wafting through the tenement slum,
Steve would never have noticed. "They have clean clothes?"

"Sim...I steal them from street market yesterday," the boy confessed. "No
shoes...were all too big."

"No one told me the boys spoke so little English," Steve sighed as Andre
stripped naked before him and began to wash himslf from the bucket of cold
water with an old rag."

Mario laughed. "I suppose he offered to suck your cock?"

"I say good...inglis," Alesandro claimed. "Muito better than Andre. "He
mudo...uhhh...dumb."

"Alesandro...get naked...wash..." Mario ordered his "smarter" brother.

Dumb or smart, one thing the boys both had going for them, they were
quite...well hung, as his friends back in Chicago would have said. Each boy
sported a generous five inches, even soft.

A few minutes later, judging by how dirty the water left in the bucket had
become, the boys were as clean as they might get under the
circumstances. Their new clothes were adequate, though mismatched as to
size; and Mario had neglected to steal them any underwear. Steve decided
he'd have to sneak them in the back door of the hotel. From his pocket he
counted out five hundred Cox American dollars in twenties to Mario,
probably more money than the boy had ever seen in his life. His two little
brothers, in seeing Mario's windfall, were suddenly not so anxious to
leave, but a few sharp words Steve did not understand from Mario left
little doubt that he was, indeed "nosso pai."

Careful not to rip their new clothes, the boys scampered down the "front
steps" from their cabana like Brazilian monkeys as Steve shook out his own
clothes, wary of what he might have inadvertantly picked up from his brief
encounter with abject poverty. The boys somberly hugged and kissed their
big brother there in the street as the neighbors stared down from above,
well aware that something extraordinary was transpiring in their midst.

"The car is parked at the bottom of the hill," Steve told the boys as he
took one tiny hand in each of his own and led them gamely down the street,
wondering in his mind if the locals might be thinking he was somehow
"buying" the boys for his own prurient pleasures.

"Nice automobile," Alesandro smiled as both boys climbed into the back
seat. It wasn't a "nice automobile," at all--an old, beat-up,
Brazilian-made Ford--but in this neighborhood, it would have been unwise to
have left parked on the street anything much better.

Steve parked the car in an alley behind the hotel, not caring particularly
if doing so was legal or if the car might be towed. Cox owed him a better
set of wheels after what he'd been through that morning. His plan to
smuggle his pathetic little scrubbed up street urchins in the rear entrance
to the hotel he found impossible. The back door was locked. The best he
could do was take them in the front when the doorman was preoccupied with
another guest, and then avoid the gaze of the desk clerk by sneaking them
up a stairwell to his room on the fourth floor. The boys seemed not to
mind, at least it wasn't a rickety ladder and to their surprise and delight
it was cool inside. Alesandro acted like they'd never encountered air
conditioning before.

"Okay, kids, hit the shower," Steve told the boys as they marveled at the
ceramic tiled bathroom with it's sparkling porcelain fixtures and large,
walk-in shower.

Both boys simply looked at him in dismay.

"Go...shower...get naked...wash...scrub," Steve tried body language
sufficient to have won him a game of charades yet neither boy moved.

As a last resort, Steve decided to demonstrate. He begn removing his own
clothes as finally, he got the boys to respond, though it gradually dawned
on him they thought he wanted to have sex rather than a mutual scrub
fest. Once he got them to join him under the warm spray they began to enjoy
it perhaps even more than sex. What they didn't seem to enjoy was the
soap. Steve heard the Portugese equivalent of "yuck," more than once. He
rolled his eyes in dread and dismay. These two were in danger of dying of
culture shocks, if not now, then before the day was over.

Inasmuch as he'd already showered once that morning, Steve left the boys to
enjoy themselves and their newfound taste for physical hygiene as he dried
himself with one of the hotel's opulently large terry blankets. "Okay,
kids, fun's over, we got a plane to catch," he urged as he turned to find
the two boys, side by side, their arms locked around one another, their
hands stroking one another's hard young boy-cocks furiously. They'd
discovered their "yucky" soap made a fine lubricant.

"Oh, forgodsake," Steve exhaled as he watched the boys in their mutual
masturbation. This was something he'd not expected. Not only was this
something he didn't know how to handle, it quickly became apparent the boys
had done this before. The sight was one of the most intensely erotic
encounters he'd ever witnessed. He'd watched a few Portugese porn flicks on
the hotel TV so he recognized some of the language of passion and pleasure.

"Do it to me, Andre, do it to me, do it to me, do it to me, harder, faster,
harder, faster, make me orgasm," Steve recognized in Portugese.

"I enjoy your hand, my cock enjoys your hand," Andre responded, thrusting
his slim, tiny, pre-pubescents hips back and forth as his soapy six-inch
boy-cock slipped back and forth through his brothers tightly gripping fist.

"Climax me," Steve translated in his head as best he could Alesandro's
words of pleasure. The boys seemed unaware he was even in the room, much
less completely naked, hard, and watching them. He was starting to enjoy
their wet little sexual performance immensely. Involuntarily almost, his
hand found his own soaring hard cock and started emulating the boys and
their sexual pleasure.

"I'm feeling great pleasure," Andre murmurred softly as he writhed nakedly
in his brother's sexual embrace. Steven only understood about half what the
boys were saying to each other as they strained their slender little
boy-bodies to wring every ounce of stroking pleasure from their sexual play
time. "Make me cummmmmmm..."

"Make him cummm," Steve found himself repeating in Portugese as he worked
to make himself do the same. "Jack those cocks, boys, make'em feel good, do
it, do it to yourselves, ohhhah fuck, feels good, feels sooo good,
ahhahhahhh," he moaned in a mixture of English and Portugese that mattered
little to anyone inasmuch as the boys seemed totally oblivious to him and
all about them except for their growing, aching sexual pleasure.

"Finish me," Alesandro moaned as Steve began to relize both boys were
tetering ominously on the brink of an orgasmic dive into the depths of
boyish sexual pleasure he found extremely stimulating. Faster and harder he
jacked his cock, trying desperately to catch up with them, though without
their soapy lubricant, he could not match their blurred fists stroke for
stroke. "Ohhhh shit, you little fuckers are really into this," he told the
boys as they continued to ignore him completly. "Do it, kids, jack them
cocks, feel the pleasure, make each other cum...ahhahhah fuck, do it, do
it, I'm feeling it, I'm feeling it to, boys, I'm gonna cum too, I'm
ah...ahhhh...ahhhhhh...ohhh
fucccckkkk...FUCCCCCCKKKKK....AHEAERGHEHAEIIGHEHAHERH...OGIEAHERHHHGHEHHEHHHG...UNNGGHHAHHH,"
Steve launched spurt after spurt of man-cum hard against the slippery naked
boyflesh before him.

Andre suddenly exploded, "Aghahehrhh....oeoiaiehhhhhhehhahehh...Alesandro,
Alesandro, Alesandro," he gasped as his slender little boy-body trembled
and shook, writhing in an almost agonizing moment of heart-pounding sexual
release. "AHIIAHEEHRHEHH...EIAIEHAHRHEHRHHH...GHEHAEHRHHHGHHHHhhhhhhh!"

"I CUM...I CUM...I CUMMMM," Steven heard Alesandro add his childlike voice
to that of his brother's and indeed, also his own, as the three of them
joined in a trio of orgasmic exultation rivaling anything Frederich Handel
ever orchestrated.

"OHHHAHHAHHH...WOW...AHHAHHAHHHHGHGHHHAHHhhhhhh," Andre gasped, clinging
now to his naked brother simply to remain standing. Only then did either
boy realize that Steve had washed them with several well-aimed spurts of
thick, hot, cloudy man-cum.

"You cummed too?" Alesandro's English was sufficient to exclaim in surprise
as he saw the naked man who'd brought them there still gently stroking his
seven-inch cock.

"I cummed too," Steve confirmed. "You boys put on quite a show."

Andre smiled, perhaps somewhat embarrased. "I like soap." The tiny piece
slipped from gripping fingers and skidded across the shower floor.

"Don't bother to pick it up, kid," Steve advised, "we don't got all day,
we've got a plane to catch, remember?"


They caught their plane. Decked out in stylish white shorts, short-sleeved
sports shirts, low-cut white socks, and brand new white sneakers
(miraculously the right size) the boys cleaned up really good, as Steve
recalled his mother used to comment. The Massive 737 roared off on time as
the boys struggled with so much newness in their young lives they could
barely contain themselves. Steve found himself having to explain EVERYTHING
to them, even such routine tasks as flushing the airborne toilets and the
use of paper towels to dry their hands, which the boys wanted to save in
their pockets for use the next time.

Airline food was a bit sophisticated for their tastes. Coq au vin the boys
both pronounced to be podre galo (rotten rooster) though they quickly
developed a taste for Steve's red wine, begging again and again for "so um
gole" (just a sip). Apparently they liked their wine minus the rooster.

Steve discovered to his chagrin that Andre apparently had a very weak
stomach. Even the smell of the "rotten rooster" sent him digging for the
barf bag. Steve wasn't sure if it was the food or perhaps air sickness, but
three times Andre upchucked into the handy flight accessory. Eight hours
was a long time for two young boys to be confined to their seats, no matter
how roomy and comfortable their first-class accomodations might be. Even in
school (what little they attended), Steve doubted either boy had ever sit
still for more than an hour.

Fortunately, the flight attendants were quite patient and accomodating,
allowing the boys to roam up and down the aisles from one end of the plane
to the other. Each time they returned to their seats with fresh reports of
amazing marvels and dozens of questions. Andre couldn't understand why
there was no smoking (as was the case with other Brazilians on the plane),
or why there were lights on the floor, or why the little signs all went
"dong" when they lit up. Alesandro, for his part, found the almost
continuous access to free Coca-Cola quite delightful, though he couldn't
figure out why everyone insisted on pouring it into cups made of plastic or
why they were called "glasses" or why the ice cubes were called "rocks." No
doubt to the consternation of the passenger behind him, he also found the
reclining seats quite fascinating to play with. Steve finally had to forbid
him even touching the controls. Neither boy was fond the idea of wearing
shoes and socks. Steve didn't mind their kicking off their expensive
sneakers but absolutely forbid them running around the plane
barefooted. Before the flight was over Alesandro had once more returned to
his shoes. He'd had his toes stepped on once too often in the crowded
aisles.

Once the plane was back on the ground for a two-hour layover in Panama
City, Steve found himself facing a new problem. The boys seemed frightened
half out of their wits by the size and pace of the strange air
terminal. For some unknown reason, the much larger Rio terminal hadn't
seemed to bother them. Perhaps it was the security of being able to
understand everything said and to read signs, etc. In Panama City
everything was in English or Spanish and most of the conversation they
encountered was too. It was as if they'd suddenly landed in a different
world. Steve found them clinging to him like frightened little school
boys...which they were, sort of. Steve treated them to tacos then it was
back on another plane for the three-hour hop to Miami.

It was shortly after ten Miami time when they arrived. A Cox chopper pilot
greeted them as they got off the plane and hustled them through customs
then onto his aircraft. If the boys had been fascinated by the giant 737,
they were simply overwhelmed by the sight of the Cox helicopter. It took
Steve and the pilot several minutes to talk Andre into even getting into
the thing. Alesandro seemed a bit more trusting, but Steve could tell the
kid was little short of terrified. As Steve outfitted them with headsets,
he was able to talk his frightened little boys through the liftoff after
which the incredible fascination of flying so exposed to the elements and
bright lights of Miami and Miami Beach captivated them at least until they
were off shore. From that point on, simple fatigue overtook them and
despite the horrendous volume of the whirling blades and loud engines, they
drifted off to a fitful sleep.

It was just as well. The pilot had intended to take them to Nassau, then
refuel for Ecstasy. However, he quickly learned after taking off that
Nassau was socked in with fog to the point that landing would have been
tricky, at best, even for an experienced pilot, which he wasn't. Instead,
Nassau International directed him straight to Ecstasy, where visability was
much better. His fuel supply was adequate but left little to spare. And,
while visability at Ecstasy was said to be passable, the weather along the
way was just a shade short of rotten. It was five-hour trip, at night,
through moderate to heavy rain and wind, navigating solely by radar. Worse,
for some unknown reason, Cox had neglected to schedule a co-pilot, which
Steve guessed was against flight rules in the first place and downright
horrifying under such adverse weather conditions in the second.

Steve observed his tired little boys peacefully sleeping through it all. He
envied them. He'd been up since before six that morning, Rio time which,
being two hours earlier than Miami, meant he'd been awake for something
over 20 hours. Bored, he climbed into the front seat next to the pilot, who
seemed tense but not frightened...or at least if he was, he hid it
well. Although he knew not the first thing about flying a copter, Steve
found himself watching the radar and feeding the pilot course corrections
as the wind tossed them about like a leaf in a hurricane. In effect, if not
the co-pilot, Steve became the navigator and radioman. Ecstasy was a small
dot far out in the Atlantic. Given their meager fuel situation, they'd have
only one chance to locate the island. As they drew closer, the pilot had to
reduce his altitude to stay beneath the lowering cloud cover. Steve's eyes
were glued to the altimeter. When it dropped below 500 feet, his breathing
became shallow and labored.

Around two a.m. the pilot radioed the Ecstasy heliport. "Cox International
Flight 212, request landing lights and weather conditions, over."

There was silence for close to two minutes. The pilot was about to repeat
his call, then, "Cox 212, roger. Sorry, I was takin' a piss. You're
early. Winds 10 to 20 knots and variable, ceiling 300 feet, I have you
about 20 miles out, come left five degrees, over."

"Damn...I hate shit like this," the pilot let his feelings slip.

"You ever land in weather like this?" Steve questioned.

"You wanna know the truth?"

Steve looked at him in alarm. "No."