Caged

April, 1947; Tangier, Morocco

It was my own fault, of course, not only because of what I did before but even more by what I did afterward, so I didn’t say anything at the time. The cage door was open, and I slithered in with only a bit of a push. I wanted the door to lock behind me. It was safer inside the cage than outside.

The years immediately following World War Two in Europe were hedonist ones. We, the exiled, were the ones who had survived. Although the responses of some of us were out to the edges, that didn’t mean society had gone there yet. And that’s what resulted in my being at a beach resort in Tangier with Richard Chambers, the British novelist. I had become entangled with him at Oxford, where I was finishing up an English literature study and Chambers was brilliantly lecturing. He was a commanding, bigger-than-life, and over-the-top figure, a lion in both his profession and in social life in England. He also was totally self-centered and arrogant, and the public wasn’t ready for him. Although at the center of society, he was a danger to society.

I had been ready for him, aching to be at the center and knowing for some time what my preferences and inclinations were and being well-turned-out enough to have no problem with receiving offers to relieve me, at eighteen, of my virginity to men. I realized even then the value of a young, handsome man, giving himself to an older one. Chambers took care of that himself on the banks of the Thames during an alfresco picnic, and then in a boat house, and on a punt on the river, and then in his rooms at the university. He was so smooth in his seductions that I opened to him each time with a sigh and a murmured “Please.”

I was completely enthralled with him. Chambers was too open with his lifestyle for the society and laws of the day, but, to his credit, when he moved on to the much-more-tolerant Tangier at the time, a novelist being able to ply his trade anywhere his imagination can thrive, he took me with him.

Tangier was just the sort of place that kept Chambers’s literary and other juices flowing, and his success as a novelist kept the sustaining money coming in. We established ourselves at an exclusive beach resort on the rocky shores of the Mediterranean, where we woke up fucking; doors to the terrace open and Arab servants moving about, not caring who saw us do so; sunned ourselves in the nude; and swam in the sea during the morning. Both Chambers and I wrote in the afternoon after a post-lunch fuck and siesta. When he’d written what he wanted to for that session, he’d read a critique what I was writing. We partied in the evening, with Chambers enjoying watching me being passed around among his new-found friends for fucking.

He told me that it was all valuable experiences collecting for my own writing, but I would have let him share me out anyway as long as he kept bedding me himself as well. It was all part of the euphoria of having survived the war and assuming—falsely, as it turned out—that hard-fought peace in the world meant a new toleration of men like us.

The little world we had entered in Morocco was a well-heeled one. Chambers was at the top of his profession. The small group he gathered about him included the middle-aged Lord Townsend—Charlie—as much on retreat for being ahead of his time in England and very much in the public eye as Chambers was; the handsome and relatively young, at twenty-nine, son of a fabulously wealthy textile manufacturer, Nigel Standford; and Pierre, the bishop of Reims, who stole away for months at a time to indulge himself in incognito in Tangier.

They all fucked me here in our isolated paradise, separated from the social mainstream of the day, by wealth and privilege in the exuberant days following having survived the war. I wasn’t the only youth they kept within their hedonist circle to open his legs for them—there were Moroccan youths as well—but I was the only European boy toy—the only one in residence—and Chambers controlled every aspect of my life, holding me willingly in his emotionally constructed gilded cage, including who fucked me when. They all fucked me well.

That didn’t keep me from looking beyond the group, however, and that became what led to the rest of it—to my actual caging.

Normally, the men at the beach resort formed groups, often determined by the countries of origin or having had prior connections, connections that were strengthened by them sharing interests and the effects of public persecution for same. In the Chambers group, all had a connection to Chambers if not, initially, to each other, which made him the natural center. The Moroccan youths serving the resort and its guests moved between groups, but the guests didn’t often do so unless they piqued each other’s interest and hookup up sexually, which usually was only a casual and short-lived arrangement. One exception was Nigel Standford, the second son of a prominent textile manufacturer family in England, who was outgoing and gregarious and moved between all of the groups, making connections where he could—business connections more than sexual ones, although the latter as well.

The beach resort was exclusively for men such as we were. And the climate was so hot that it principally was the mornings that would find most of those in social attendance on the beach, taking in the sea and sun to some extent, but more generally ogling each other and setting up assignations.

I was very much in the “being ogled” group, being young, well-formed, and good-looking in an androgynous, full-lipped, dreamy-eyed blond way of a loose-moral upper-class English youth way, an anomaly among the bevy of Moroccan boys dispersed on the sand to service the rich European faggots. What titillated the men of the group was that I was prepared to give myself as fully as the Moroccan boys did—and as exotically and to as many as desired me simultaneously.

But after a few weeks in Tangier, I wasn’t the only anomaly in the Chambers group. A young French priest only a couple of years older than I was, Jean-Philippe, was sent out to Morocco to fetch the bishop of Reims home, and he lingered in Tangier in his mission. He was a contrast to me—European but dark-haired, with the sulky looks of a fox to my sunny blond countenance. Chambers found the time and opportunity to fuck us both. He delighted to do so with both of us in his bed simultaneously and spreading our legs for him.

It doubtless was the newly arrived competition for Chambers’s attention that caused my eyes to roam. When men gave me the piercing, undressing eye on the beach—where there wasn’t much undressing that need be done—I returned the looks of those I found attractive.

One to whom my eyes frequent went was the one my circle called the Indian Prince, although they were quick to say he wasn’t really a prince. He wasn’t even a maharaja. He was just the brother of one—the Maharaja of Baroda, a satrapy in India. His name was Rao Agarwal, and he was here with an entourage of servants, all exotically turned out, as he was. He was in his thirties, tall for the other Indians in his entourage, muscular, and imperial of bearing—haughty even. Although he often set up camp near the Chambers group on the beach, it was only Nigel, from our group, who occasionally went over to speak to him. The prince never made the return visit. I spied him from across the room, exotically attired in rich brocades during the supper hours and in the mornings, here on the beach, in just a bathing suit, displaying a magnificent body.

When our eyes met, he was commanding—devouring—and I must admit I didn’t conceal my interest or my submission. As soon as our eyes met, I lowered mine, clearly signaling that he could have me if I were free to give myself to him. He surely knew what my role was in the Chambers group. There were times when he was undressing me with his eyes that Nigel was beside him, and I knew that Nigel was telling the Indian Prince that I opened my legs for Nigel—indeed for almost any of the men in Chambers’s group who wanted to fuck me. We were from two different worlds, though, the Indian Prince and I, even here; I was here with Richard Chambers, who controlled what I gave to other men; and, despite the exchanges of steamy looks, I did not give Rao Agrawal permission to debauch me. But debauch me he did.

On the day in question—the start of my physically “caged” life—the Indian Prince and I had exchanged several steamy looks while I was stretched out on a towel with Nigel Standford fondling and kissing me and Chambers, the lord, and the bishop watching us and discussing whatever they were discussing. As Nigel was approaching taking me right there on the beach, with everyone watching, I laughed and detached from his embrace.

“I would be too tense to be doing it right here on the beach, with everyone watching,” I said.

Nigel gave me a quizzical look, as I had let men cover me on the beach before. But the Indian Prince never had done so. I was most nervous about the Indian Prince, who was watching, seeing me give it all to a man in public.

“We could go into the water,” Nigel said, some recognition dawning with him what the source of my reluctance was as his eyes observed the exchange of looks between the Indian Prince and me. “You could ride my cock in the sea, where we could be in view of the beach but they couldn’t be sure what we were doing. It would be fun.”

“Only if you can catch me in the sea,” I answered, with a laugh, breaking away and running to the water. I dove in and swam out to sea, expecting Nigel to follow me, reach me, and fuck me there in the sea. But Nigel didn’t follow me.

Rao Agarwal did follow me, though, and he had reached me and was embracing me from behind and had his hands all over me before I realized it was him rather than Nigel. When I did realize it, I broke away in a surprised panic and swam off parallel to the beach, beyond a line of rocks marching down the beach and into the sea, marking the edge of the beach resort beach. I reacted instinctively. Nigel had Chambers’s permission to use me as he wished. The Indian Prince did not.

He followed me. He was a powerful swimmer—much more than I was. He was much more powerful as a man than I was, as well. He reached me and embraced me again. I fought him and we thrashed around in the water. When I wasn’t giving in to him quick enough, he punched me in the face and in the belly, which cause me to collapse and go docile.

He dragged me up onto a small section of sandy beach between towering rocks out of sight and hearing of those on the resort beach. He struck me again across the face with the flat of his hand, sending me onto my back on the sand. Stripping off my bathing suit as I panted and moaned, offering slight, but ineffectual resistance, he put me on all fours, covered me from above and behind, mounted and penetrated me, and fucked me. I writhed under him as he stretched me inside, sank deep, and began to pump. I took men’s cocks regularly and the Indian Prince was a handsome, well-endowed man who I had fantasize about fucking me, so whatever resistance I was giving was because of the assault nature of the act. It was not that I would have rejected him as a sex partner if it were by my acquiescence or Richard Chambers’s direction.

I was to learn that the Indian Prince needed to take his sex this way to reach the zenith of arousal and sexual satisfaction.

When I had become completely docile to him, he turned me onto my back, knelt between my spread thighs, mounted and penetrated again, and rode me to his ejaculation. In this position, I melted into him, clutching his shoulder blades and biceps, pressing his hips between my knees, and rocking with the fuck, huffing and mewing.

He laughed and said, “I knew you wanted my cock.”

I, in fact, had dreamed of having his cock inside me, but I had not, however, at any time, given him permission to fuck me—and most certainly by assault. He did so as if by imperial right. And what scared me was that being taken this way rose my own arousal to heights I hadn’t reached before.

When he was done, he simply left me there and swam back out to sea and around to the resort beach. When I was able to pull myself together, I did as well. When I reached the resort beach, the Indian Prince and his entourage were gone.

In shock, I said nothing to the others in the Chambers group on the beach, although I didn’t stay. Saying I wanted to write, I left the beach and retired to my room. I didn’t write. I stewed about having been taken without my—or Chambers’s—permission and composed in my mind how I was going to tell Chambers about this violation.

At supper, though, I hadn’t said anything and Rao Agarwal was there, resplendent in his Indian brocades, and giving me the “I own you” eye. When he left the room, going out onto the terrace overlooking the sea, I excused myself and followed him. I don’t know why I followed him. I think I half thought I needed him to apologize for the forceful way he’d taken me on the beach. If so, I read him and his arrogance completely wrong. When I approached him and opened my mouth to speak, he viciously slapped me across the face, saying, “The little whore has come back for more?” The strike sent me to my knees on the sand, upon which he adjusted the folds of his imperial costume, produced an erection, and made me give him suck, holding my head fast between his hands and brutally thrusting into my throat.

He fucked me up against the trunk of a palm tree in the garden, on a clifftop overlooking the Mediterranean. I had my legs hooked on his hips and my arms thrown around his neck. My face was buried in his chest, his brocade shirt flaring open and me sucking on a gold medallion on a chain, nestled between his bulging pecs, as he took me in long, deep thrusts, and left me afterward in a puddle at the base of the palm tree when he was done.

I whimpered and moaned, but my murmurs of “Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me hard,” conveyed to him all he needed to hear on my surrender to him.

The next day, he and his entourage were gone, leaving me pining for him and now somewhat distant from out of tune with what heretofore had been a comfortable and convivial Chambers group. After having willingly gone to Rao Agarwal that evening, I was in no position to complain about having been taken by him unwillingly earlier in the day. Even in that debauching, I had been in sync with him during the fuck before he was finished with me. I continued into my nineteenth year as the boy toy of this group and developing my writing experience and talent under the tutelage of Richard Chambers, but I already had a foot in an Indian cage.

Somehow it got back to Chambers that I had given myself to the Indian Prince without his permission, and henceforth, he kept me close to him and used restraints to control my movements. I was physical in his cage now. I did not resist Chambers’s increased possessiveness in any way. It had frightened me to discover how readily I melted to cruelty in the fuck. I was overwhelmed by passion in the sensation that a well-endowed man wanted me so badly he would take me by force—and that there would be nothing I could do to prevent it. All of the responsibility was on him and, after an initial struggle, I could, with no feeling of guilty, just lie back and let him ravish me.

* * * *

If it wasn’t for Nigel Standford, I would have been stranded in Tangier and no doubt would have wound up in a male brothel there. Eventually, though, I was to wonder if the change in my life from Morocco hadn’t largely been orchestrated, and one male brothel is pretty much the same as the next. But that’s not fair, I suppose. There are classes of brothels and degrees of being caged in one.

When the bishop of Reims returned to France, he didn’t travel alone. The young priest, Jean-Phillipe, sent to Morocco to fetch him home, of course accompanied him. But Richard Chambers decided he wanted to continue writing his book, declaring it based in France, on locale, and I woke one morning in Nigel’s bed to find that the three—Chambers and the two French priests—had departed in the night. I can’t say I hadn’t heard Chambers rumbling about continuing his writing in France, but I had no inkling that he would do so without me. In the space of a couple of hours I was moved from caged to abandoned.

As charming and enticing as men always said I was, this was just one instance of where one supposedly wrapped up in me disappeared on me, leaving me stranded. Nigel Standford was there for the rescue, however. He too was moving on. He had been impressed with the fabrics the Indian Prince, Rao Agarwal, and his entourage wore—rich color- and patterned-silks—and Nigel was roaming the area ostensibly to locate exotic textiles and cheap production means. It only seemed to the rest of us that this was just a ploy of the Standford family to keep an openly gay son out of their hair and vicinity.

“I am going to India from here,” he said when I’d calmed down from being stranded by Chambers, who at least had paid up our resort bill and covered me for two more weeks. “Do you plan to remain here, or do you wish to move on to new adventures? Are you destitute or do you have some means of your own?”

“I can manage,” I said. I had an inheritance. I hadn’t come here with Chambers because I had no other means of support. I would have to set up a means to have support funds transferred here. “I wasn’t with Richard because I had no other means of support. I came because I wanted to be with him and he was an exciting man. And he was mentoring me in my writing.”

“And the others of us?” Nigel asked.

“I went with the bishop and Lord Townsend because Richard wanted me too and they weren’t repugnant. I went with you quite willingly. Is this not evidence?” I was going “with him” as we were having this discussion. He was still inside me, having already breeded me, but still covering me and his cock was still moving inside me, coaxing on an afterglow ejaculation, which Nigel was fully capable of providing. And I was rocking with him in the rhythm of the fuck he set up. What I said seemed to assure him.

“I will take you to India with me, if you wish, as my assistant. But you will have to give me the same servicing and loyalty that you gave to Richard.”

“Yes, I would like that,” I answered.

Just a different cage, but Nigel was a handsome man and a good lover. I needed it frequently and he already was giving it to me frequently. He couldn’t help me with my writing, but he could teach me much about the textile industry and business. And I was mesmerized by the thought of exotic India—the land of the Indian Prince, who had forcibly taken me but who I couldn’t get out of my mind.

* * * *

February, 1948; Baroda, India

Nigel did say that where he was taking me if I went with him was to India, specifically the state of Bombay, on the subcontinent’s east coast on the Arabian Sea, and I did conjure up the image of the Indian Prince, Rao Agarwal, when he said that, but little did I realize how much I had already been in the plans even before Richard Chambers left for France with the bishop of Reims. Nigel never actually admitted it, but I think that Chambers may have known how this was meant to unwind before he abandoned me. Looking back on it, I think something he said hinted that he realized I had gone to Rao Agrawal without his permission and that that had precipitated everything that followed.

What was fact was that Nigel went to India, to Bombay State—and to the city in Bombay named Baroda—to pursue the textile market and cheap production. That was uppermost in Nigel’s mind and that’s what Nigel got. I didn’t realize until we were in India and driving in a 1946 Hindustan 10 from the city of Bombay to that of Baroda at nearly zero miles an hour because of the condition of the roads and because of the crowds that gathered on the road. When we were nearly there was the first time Nigel told me we were headed to Baroda and that we’d be the guests of the Maharajah of Baroda.

I knew that Rao Agrawal was a younger brother to the Maharajah of Baroda. I’m not sure that Nigel, having waited so long before telling me where we were headed, realized that I would have taken on the journey more eagerly than I did if I’d been told we were going where the Indian Prince, Rao Agrawal, lived. Of course, there was no guarantee that this was where Rao Agrawal now was.

But it was where Rao Agrawal was now located, and although he lived in a palace across the city from the maharajah’s palace, he was there to greet us when we arrived at the maharajah’s palace. I thought it was all fortuitous. Naïve as I was, I didn’t consider that it all actually was as contrived.

When formalities were over and Nigel and the maharajah got down to talking business on Nigel’s family firm setting up a textile factory in Baroda to make and supply for the European market the distinct local Potala, Bandhani, Dhamadka, and Ajirakh textile designs, I was asked to take notes. Rao Agarwal was also present. He organized a fashion show of sorts introducing Nigel to the textiles. Those modeling were both women and men, all young, all introduced as part of the maharajah’s harem, with the exception of Rao Agrawal, who also modeled for us, wearing the traditional male wraparound skirt, the dhoti, and leaving his magnificent, tattooed chest bare.

We were invited to try on some of the clothes, which Nigel and I did. I was provided only with one of the chest-baring dhoti wraps and we spent the rest of the afternoon walking the extensive gardens of the palace and ogling each other. The dinner, taken kneeling at low tables and resting on cushions on a wide terrace under torch light and being fanned by young, handsome men in dhotis, was followed in the evening by explicit dancing and sex play by members of the maharajah’s harem.

Nigel was given a willowy Indian youth to toy with during the evening entertainment and Rao Agarwal sat close to me, holding me in his embrace, and playing my body with his hands.

He didn’t fuck me there and then. Near midnight we went to our own chambers. Nigel took his Indian youth with him, so I knew he wouldn’t be calling on me in the night. The room I was given opened out onto a balcony that extended down one side of the palace. I hadn’t been there long before Rao Agarwal appeared out on the balcony, in a dhoti, and posed there until he knew I’d seen him. Then he slowly walked away, down the balcony. I, of course, followed him.

The room I followed him into was sumptuously appointed with all of the exotic textiles we had seen and discussed that day. Much gold thread was in evidence and gleamed in the light of the wall torches. A massive four-poster bed dominated the room.

And then, in turn, Rao Agarwal sexually dominated me. Two attendants were there who bound me, hanging, between the two sturdy posts at the foot of the bed, my wrists bound high on the posts and my ankles bound to the foot of the posts. The men were strong and I had no chance of evading or fighting them off. I was stripped of the dhoti I was wrapped in and Rao Agarwal took up a hand whip with vermillion, silk strands, and he whipped me on the buttocks, back, and thighs, not too hard, but enough to sting and to cause me to writhe under his attention and to become vocal. I also went hard, as did he.

“Do not bother to try to be quiet,” he said. “Everyone knows what we are doing in here. You are under maharajah law now.”

I could not hide that the exotic bondage and whipping didn’t arouse me. I was naked. After a short while Rao Agarwal was naked as well. As the two attendants stood against the wall, looking impassive, but ready to assist if I managed to break free—although I had no capability or desire to do so—the Indian Prince encircled my waist, lifting me up, and setting me down on his cock. His initial fuck was taking me from behind as I hung between the bedposts, one hand palming my belly and the other stroking my cock as he thrust up inside me to his ejaculation.

Later in the night, I was spread-eagled on the bed, face down, my arms and legs stretched out and bound to the four corner posts, and he rode my ass.

We no longer were part of the textile business discussions. For the next three days, we remained in the sumptuously outfitted bedchamber and Rao Agarwal fucked me in every conceivable position and using a variety of exotic sexual toys. If he thought I would object to that, though, he was wrong. I gave him whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it.

On the morning of the fourth day, I was on the balcony looking down into the palace’s forecourt in time to see Nigel Standford and his luggage loaded into the Hindustan 10 car.

“My luggage isn’t with his,” I nonsensically said as Rao Agarwal came up behind me and put his arms around me. I could feel him in erection again against the small of my back. The man was insatiable.

“He’s made his deal here and says he’s moving on to Nanking, China, where they make the most luxurious brocades,” the Indian Prince said.

“We’re going to China?” I asked, still not getting it.

“No. Nigel is going to China. You’re staying here—in my harem. You were part of the deal he was striking with my brother.”

Yet another cage. “You made this deal back in Tangier, didn’t you?” I asked. “You and Nigel and Richard.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He pulled me back into the bedchamber, as the Hindustan10 started up and drove off. He slapped me around, as he liked to do, until I was collapsed on the Persian carpet, panting and almost sobbing. And then he ran an arm under my belly, pulled me up on all fours, mounted, and penetrated me, and fucked me in what must have been the twentieth time over the previous three days.

Later that day I was moved to his palace across town, where I joined three other young men and five women in his harem. I was the only European in his golden cage.

Once I was lodged in his harem, he called for me less frequently and he misused me more cruelly. After a session with him, I needed several days of rest and healing. But, I’m ashamed to admit, there was never a time I didn’t want to go to him when Rao Agarwal called for me. My body betrayed me. He always knew that I wanted him inside me. I never resisted. I always gave him everything he wanted and begged for him no matter how cruel and brutal he was. He was my Indian Prince.

* * * *

March, 1949; Baroda, India

The master of the harem was a big, muscular Gurkha, one of those dusky, massive, fierce warriors from the northern hills, favored by the British and the rajas alike for their stature and their prowess with their swords. This particular Gurkha had a mighty sword indeed. He knew what to do with it and Rao Agarwal gave him license to do as he pleased with it in the harem.

He was big in every way, and it was he who exercised me sexually for the periods, which had now become months prolonged, when Rao Agarwal had not called for me. I looked forward to this exercise. The Gurkha filled and stretched and worked me as not even the Indian Prince could. Though ugly and menacing in looks, He left me blissfully wrung out and purring. He was virile and vigorous and had great staying power and multiple ejaculations in a session. It was during just such a session when I learned why I hadn’t been called by Rao Agarwal for months, why there were four fewer in the harem than when I entered in it—the four youngest, two women and two men. And it was the session which caused yet another transition in my life.

The Gurkha liked to take me in inventive ways and as a captive. I was bound at the wrists and the ankles by red, silken cords, and lying stretched along the Gurkha’s body on a divan well within sight of the others in the harem, although used to sexual acts and cruelty, they weren’t paying all that much attention. My arms were stretched over my head and my bound wrists behind the Gurkha’s neck. My legs were raised straight up from my body, the ankle binding captured on an overhead hook. My thighs were bound together in a silken cord as well. This was to constrict my opening and passage to provide maximum invasiveness and stretch of the man’s mammoth shaft. Like Rao Agarwal, the Gurkha enjoyed experiencing my glorious suffering.

The Gurkha’s legs were spread and bent, his giant feet were placed flat on the surface of the divan, giving his feet leverage for power thrusts up into my anal passage of his massive erection. I was, of course, crying out in pain and passion, mostly passion as the man now was frequently visiting and using me and I was reamed to his needs.

When he had breeded me in that position and after a short respite on my panting and whimpering and the Gurkha humming, he unhooked my ankles, turned me over to where my buttocks were raised to his desire, my knees were supporting me, and my cheek and arms were pressed to the surface of the divan. There he pressed his bearded face into my crack and fucked me with his tongue until I was writhing and begging for his cock again—and make no bones about it, I did beg for the Gurkha’s cock. Then he rose and bent over me close, clutching my breast with one hand and my cock with the other, mounted me from behind and above, thrust up inside my restricted channel, and fucked me to another strong ejaculation.

He left me, then, moving over to a chair, his eyes still devouring me, as, moaning and sighing my satisfaction, I stretched out on the divan, my wrists still bound. That usually was a sign that the Gurkha wasn’t finished with me, which was quite all right with me. I had gone two weeks without sex before the Gurkha gave me relief and release. It had been over two months since Rao Agarwal had called for me. This in mind, I asked the Gurkha what he knew about the absence.

“Have I displeased the Indian Prince?” I asked. “Is that why he has not sent for me for some time?”

The Gurkha snorted. “Have you seen him send for anyone here still in the harem in that time?”

“No, I haven’t now that I think about it,” I answered.

“That is because the master has not been here since January. He is gone. And he took his favorites from the harem with him.”

“Gone?” I was crestfallen. That meant I wasn’t one of Rao Agarwal’s favorites.

As if he could read my thoughts, the Gurkha dispelled that notion. “If you are thinking that the master doesn’t favor you, you are wrong. You are a European. He felt he could not move around freely with a European in his entourage. Too many questions would be asked. He asked me to keep you well breeded, and I trust I have.”

He certainly had. His cum was dripping down my inner thighs. “But why has he gone?”

“You don’t know? You haven’t heard about the Bombay Provincial Corporation Act of this year?”

“No, I haven’t. What’s that?”

“It’s a new law in this state breaking the power of the maharajahs. It establishes civil law and rule. The old rajas are on the run. Ours has gone to Switzerland. Rao Agarwal has left as well. In fact, your stay here is coming to an end. The new government is seizing this palace for a government building. In two weeks you will be gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?” I looked around my gilded cage. I had been held captive here long enough that I lost all connection with another existence.

“Don’t worry, little one, I have plans for you if you do not have them for yourself.”

“Plans.”

“You are a prisoner of the cock. That has become obvious. You can’t exist without a man to take care of you and keep you well breeded.”

“You? Are you taking me away for yourself?”

“No. You are a man who craves variety too. You want many men vying for you and covering you. You are a natural courtesan for the brothel. There are many in Bombay. You will go to a brothel.”

“A male whore house?”

“You are a European of fine sexual quality. You would be a waste in just any house. I have arranged for you to go into one of high class and refinement. I take you there in two weeks.”

Such was my situation and my disposition, which I had to admit the Gurkha had correctly depicted, that I didn’t question my assigned fate.

“But for now, I am ready to dominate you again.” the Gurkha said. And, indeed, he was. Sitting in his chair he had stroked his cock to commanding and not to be denied again. “Come sit on it again,” he commanded, and, trembling and whimpering, I struggled off the divan, went to him, and straddled his lap. Grasping my buttocks cheeks in his hand to spread me and enable to give his cockhead purchase, he pulled me, groaning, down onto the shaft. When I was fully saddled, his hands moved to my waist, and he pulled me on and off the shaft, taking me deep again.

Although, with these revelations and this discussion, my life was taking another drastic turn, I emptied my mind of all thoughts except for the magnificent Indian warrior shaft that was taking me to hell and heaven.

* * * *

May, 1949; Bombay, India

“We must bathe you and make you ready,” the attendant in the Bombay brothel said to me as he entered my chamber, one that was quite luxuriously appointed. I had become a favorite at the exclusive male house on overlooking the Bombay waterfront. This had made me less available if more in demand, though, to emphasize how hard it would be to attain me. This was my day of rest, however.

“Make me ready? Today? Why?”

“A very important man. A man from England,” was the reply.

“What makes him so important?” I asked.

“He buys contracts,” came the reply.

I wasn’t a slave here—not really. I was caged, certainly, but I was here willingly—at least willingly to have let the Gurkha from Baroda sell my contract. There were five months left on this contract. The Gurkha would fall out of the next contract and all of my share of the profits would be mine alone—not that I had any means of spending money here. But it was all going to buying a house of my own. There was all of my inheritance money building too. I just couldn’t get to it now. If I went back to England, though . . .

“You say he is from England?” I said as the attendant started attending to me, making me ready for another client, preening me to ride another man’s cock—unfortunately most often some fat and old Indian merchant’s cock, as those were the men who could afford me now.

He was from England, and I knew him. “Lord Townsend,” I exclaimed when he was ushered into my room. I had last seen him in Tangier, when he was part of the Chambers’s group and had bedded me occasionally there. He hadn’t been the worst of my lovers in that period. That “honor” had gone to the bishop of Reims, but he was middle-aged, and though distinguished looking, he had neither the stamina nor the vigor, length, or girth of either Richard Chambers or Nigel Standford. And he certainly didn’t come anywhere close to the sexy exotic mastery of the Indian Prince. He’d been affable and tolerable. He also, I was now reminded, had used a strap.

I received him as an old friend now. But, although he was friendly enough, he also was here to get off at a high price, and, as it proved, he was here on business.

After a short period of pleasantries, he had me as he wanted me and was paying a vast sum to have me. I was bent over the bed, naked, my arms raised and spread, my wrists captured by silken cords attached to the posts at the head of the bed, and Lord Townsend was mounted high on my ass, riding me like I was a thoroughbred horse and stinging me with a strap on my back, thighs, and rump as he thrust. He was small enough that I hardly felt the cock. I did, however, feel the lash.

Afterward, as we were sitting at the French window onto the balcony overlooking the busy Bombay harbor and drinking tea, a civilized scene if you didn’t take into account that I was naked and he, though dressed, had his shaft out and was stroking it in preparation for another assault on my body, I learned of his real mission here.

“You are as handsome and yielding as ever,” he said. “You’ve learned new tricks but somehow have managed to keep the freshness of near virginal youth.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Near virginal?”

“Enough to excite men. I can understand why you are going for such a high fee.”

“It’s a long way from Tangier,” I said. I had given it for free to whoever Richard Chambers designated.

“You are why I am here in Bombay,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yes. I have come to negotiate your contract. There is use for you in England. How would you like to have the chance to return to London?”

“How have you found me here?” I asked.

Townsend mentioned a mutual friend, someone I had been corresponding with in London as I had been trying to set up a means to tap my assets there without having them seized by anyone here. I wasn’t poor by any means, but I was still caged. Townsend’s arrival here and the opportunity to return to England and regain my finances was fortuitous.

“I still have four months left on my contract here.”

“We can wait,” he said. “I’ll arrange your sail to London and will meet you there and get you set up.”

I should have latched onto the use of “we,” but I didn’t. I assumed Lord Townsend had an exclusive men’s club in London where I would set up service, and perhaps he did, but I never found that out.

* * * *

October, 1949; Southampton and Guildford, England

Lord Townsend was in Southampton to meet my ship and we did start off in the direction of London in his new, chauffeur-driven Bentley. But we only made it as far as a remote country house in Guildford.

With no explanation, he sat in the car and had the chauffeur deliver me and my luggage to the front door of the house. A familiar-looking young man of Indian origin met me and ushered me upstairs to a bedchamber, not responding to any of my questions as if he didn’t speak English. Another young Indian man, like him, followed on behind us to give me the distinct impression that I had no choice in going where I was being guided. I had expected Lord Townsend to come out of the Bentley and enter the house to give me some sort of explanation why we had broken our journey here—but he didn’t. Rather, I heard the Bentley start up and crunch its way out of the forecourt of the mansion as I was being ushered up to the upper floor.

The room I was led to and left alone in was a luxuriously appointed bedchamber, with a water closet adjacent. There was a smaller sitting room through another door, as well. The windows were covered with drapes. When I went to a couple, though, I ominously discovered that there were bars on the windows. I went to the door to the corridor to find that it was locked.

An examination of the four-poster bed, with its sturdy oak columns, revealed what I was afraid of—restraints were attached both above and below on all of the columns.

It was a cage—yet another cage. It was luxuriously outfitted but it was no less a cage than I had been confined to for the past two years.

I had no time to reflect further on this, though. The door to the corridor opened, and the two young Indian attendants entered and moved along the walls of the room in separate directions, giving the impression that they would meet any attempt by me to escape—there, of course, being no means of escape, no where I could go from here.

The Indian Prince, Rao Agarwal, entered the room. He looked magnificent in his brocaded Indian attire. He was holding a hand whip, with red, silken strands, and was flicking it against his leg.

“You are looking as desirable as ever, Benton,” he said to me. And then, to the two attendants, he said, “Strip him and hang him from the bedposts.”