Gora Rundi

We were in the last week of our tour of northern India, heading back toward Delhi and our flight home.  I can't say I'd enjoyed India.  The squalor and poverty were at a level I'd never seen before.  Moreover, as a white man, I was seen as a lucrative target for hawkers, beggars, and scammers of every variety, and I was uncomfortable with the insistence of their attentions.

It wasn't all bad.  One guard outside a temple we were visiting, struck up a stilted conversation with me.  He was interested in my runners, which cost much more than he could imagine paying.  His English was limited and my Hindi isn't all it could be, or anything at all, to be honest.

"Where you from?" he asked.

"Australia," I responded.

"MCG... SCG?" he asked.

I laughed, and responded, "MCG." He nodded knowingly.  So cricket obsessed are the Indians, that he only knew Australian cities by their cricket grounds, and he now knew I was from Melbourne.  I've only ever been to the MCG to see the Footy.  AFL, that is. Not soccer or rugby.

The friend I was travelling with, Stephen, perhaps a more seasoned traveler than me, was relishing the exotic sites, and diverse religious and cultural offerings.  I on the other hand was all 'templed' out, and looking forward to heading home.

We were visiting an old red fort near Agra; red from the pink stone commonly used for construction in Northern India.  Home to one of the Mughal rulers of the region in centuries past, the fort was now a tourist attraction, and the architecture we'd seen on the trip was one of the things that had interested me.

I was resting from the warmth of the day on a ledge in what had been the fort's mosque, when a young Indian man sat beside me.  He was slim and nice looking, with large brown eyes and magnificent eyelashes.  I tensed up nonetheless, anticipating a sob-story or a sales pitch, and annoyed to have this quiet moment disturbed.

"Hello," he said, tentatively.

I wanted to be polite, but also wanted to be left alone.  "Hello," I said.  "Look, I'm not interested in anything to buy."  I moved to stand and walk away, but stopped at what he said next.

"No, no," he said.  "You handsome."

I was taken aback.  It wasn't what I'd expected to hear.  I'm in my early thirties, and okay looking.  Maybe a six on a good day.  I certainly didn't get to pick and choose among admirers at home.  It was nice to have a decent looking guy in his early twenties tell me I was handsome.  It was enough to stay my attempted escape, at any rate.

"My name is Mohd," he told me.

"Peter," I responded, still a little warily.

"I like you.  You like men, yes?" Mohd asked me, boldly.

Again, I was taken aback.  While I didn't go out of my way to hide anything, I didn't think I was all that obvious.

My pause told Mohd all he needed to know.  A furtive glance around to ensure we weren't being observed, and he grabbed my crotch.  I gulped in surprise but didn't stop him.

"I fuck you good," Mohd said, hungrily.  "Come."

He pulled me up by my upper arm, and led me through the fort.  I was turned on by his frank words and eagerness, and allowed him to lead me to a public toilet.  He dragged me inside, locked the door, and was on me, his tongue in my mouth, and his hands groping my cock and arse.  He quickly pushed me to my knees, fished his own cock from his pants, and shoved it into my mouth.

I don't think he was being intentionally rough.  Gay sex is still illegal in India, and I presumed he hadn't gotten any for a while.  In his excitement however, he was fucking my face harshly.  I relaxed and let him have his way with me.  It didn't take long for him to cum, and he gushed down my throat, holding me firmly so I didn't have a chance to pull away.

Once Mohd was done, I stood and he took my head in a firm kiss.

"You come to my place," he said, a note of pleading in his voice and eyes. "I fuck you good."  He put one hand in my mouth, and said, "I fuck you here."  The other hand grabbed my arse crack, almost hoisting me off the floor, "And I fuck you here."  He held me locked in his hands.  "I fuck you very good."

Well, he had my number.  I'm a total bottom, and I love a top who takes charge.  India daunted me though, and I didn't relish not knowing where I was.  We'd taken this small group tour that involved using local transport and staying in local lodgings, but with a guide.

"I'm on a tour.  I can't..." I said, lamely.

"Leave tour," Mohd entreated. "Stay with me.  I fuck you all day and night."

He cajoled and groped, trying to convince me to leave the tour group and go with him.  When he found my nipples, my Achilles heal, I was undone.  He worked them at length, and I caved.  Truth was, he was hot, he was hot for me, and it had been a while for me too.  I wanted this cute, young, enthusiastic man on top of me and inside me.

There were only a few days left on the tour anyway.  The guide was dubious.  He obviously suspected what was going on, and warned me to be careful.  I was a grown up though, and it was my choice.  Stephen was envious, and told me to keep in touch.

Mohd's room was modest but clean.  I'd scarcely gotten in the door, and dropped my backpack, when he had me on my knees, and fucked my face to ejaculation again.  

We stripped, and I ran my hands and tongue over his smooth, caramel skin, while he worked my nipples, knowing now how much it got me going.  Pushing me on to the bed on my hands and knees, he finger me fiercely, and stretched me as quickly as he could.  I had to hold him back to slow down as he entered me.  Once I was relaxed though, he pounded me with youthful abandon.  I lost myself in being used, and didn't realise when I came.  Mohd took a little longer this time than the face fucking, and we slumped on the bed when he'd cum up my arse.

"You like?" he asked, breathlessly.

"Fuck, yeah."

He smiled and lay back, momentarily sated.  After a break to recharge and rehydrate, he pulled my ankles up on to his shoulders, and entered my fuck-loosened arse.  He lowered himself onto me, pressing my knees into my chest, and fucked me at a more leisurely pace.  It was nice to look into his pretty eyes while he moved inside me.  Our faces were close together, and he frequently kissed me.  I held onto him firmly, and dug my fingers into his back to show my appreciation.

Mohd went out afterwards to get us something to eat, while I rested.  We ate when he came back, then he arranged me on my stomach so he could fuck me from behind.  He seemed uninterested in fucking my face now that he had unfettered access to my arse, and I was good with that.  I don't mind a cock in my mouth, but pound my prostate, and I'm totally your bitch.

He took me again in the middle of the night, half asleep and on my side.  In the morning, he lathered me up in the shower and enjoyed running his hands all over my body.  It occurred to me that having a white guy to fuck at will was a novelty.  So far, I was happy to be his exotic fuck toy.  He actually ended up, blowing me in the shower, the only time he did during my stay.

Mohd took me out for lunch, and a friend of his joined us.  Vivek was about Mohd's age, but hairy, with a trim beard and an enticing mat of fur poking up over his shirt collar.  He pressed up against me in the booth, and smiled a lot.  Vivek didn't speak English, and he and Mohd nattered away in Hindi.  I heard the word "Rundi" a few times, seemingly in reference to me, and I decided to look it up when I got the chance.

As we were finishing our meal, Vivek put his hand on my leg under the table, and quickly moved it up to feel my bulge.  He smiled and nodded to Mohd, whose hand joined his at my crotch.

"Vivek likes you," Mohd told me.  "We fuck you together, yes?"

This trip was full of surprises.  I looked from Mohd to Vivek, and thought, what the hell.  Vivek was handsome, and furry, and a spit-roast sounded good.  I nodded a little coyly.

They wasted no time in paying the bill, and leading me back to Mohd's flat.  On my hands and knees again, Mohd fucked my face, a hand firmly on the back of my head, while Vivek grabbed my hips, and repeatedly bottomed out in me with earnest vigour.  He was very grateful afterward, and couldn't keep his hands off me, especially my arse.  I in turn ran my fingers through his oh so manly, black chest hair.

Mohd and I rested after Vivek left, and I must have fallen asleep.  It's amazing how exhausting it is to be fucked senseless over twenty-four hours.  When I awoke, the sky had darkened, and Mohd was standing at the foot of the bed.  Another man stood with him, who at first I thought was Vivek, back for more.  Then I realised this man's shape didn't match Vivek's.

Seeing I was awake, Mohd said, "This is Rafay.  He will fuck you now."

I didn't have time to think before Rafay crawled up between my legs and positioned his already hard cock at my hole.  I was glad I was so loose from the use Mohd and Vivek had made of me earlier, as Rafay was none too delicate in entering me.  He went straight to pile-driving, glaring into my eyes while he did so.  Rafay was about my age, and slim, and seemed pleased to be sticking it to whitey.  He was very rough, holding my wrists down, and slamming into me.

"Gora Rundi," he spat at me, several times.  I had to find out what Rundi meant.

Rafay didn't take long, and made a point of cumming all over me.  I was shocked, but not entirely unhappy at the rough handling.

As Rafay left, I saw him hand some cash to Mohd.  Of course, I thought stupidly.  Mohd was pimping me out.  I suppose a white guy to fuck wasn't just a novelty for him, but a saleable commodity.  I began to worry how much choice I had in all of this.  I had to head to Delhi day after tomorrow, to catch my flight home.  Would Mohd let me go?

Alone again, Mohd spent half an hour kissing me, touching me all over, and especially playing with my nipples.  He stroked me to an impressive ejaculation which he scooped up and fed to me, his hand deep in my mouth in a controlling way.  This all seemed something of a sop to my ego, in return for whoring me out.

The following day, my last full day in Agra, I didn't leave the flat as several more men paid Mohd for the privilege of violating the white whore.  When I looked it up on my way home, I found that's exactly what gora rundi meant.  Literally, 'white whore'.  Okay.  I was a whore.  None of them was bad looking though, and I enjoyed the manhandling.  I hadn't been fucked for a while, and never so much.

Mohd mostly just sat and watched me being taken.  The second or third guy, I lost track of their names, had me on my stomach on the edge of the bed.  Holding my wrists hard into the small of my back, he fucked me strenuously, his sweat slicking my arse and thighs.  When he was done, Mohd held me down in the same way, and had his turn, presumably turned on by the other guy's approach.

I slept soundly that night.  I was kind of grateful Mohd didn't want me again that night.  I was exhausted.

In the morning, he made passionate love to me.  He was gentle, and seemed to want to make it as good for me as he could.  It was endearing, and at one point I held him tightly to me, his cock deep up my arse, and me sucking hungrily on his tongue.  After he'd cum, he once again worked me to organism, with plenty of kissing and nipple play.

He cleaned me up to leave with a thorough, sensual sudsing, and rinse down in the shower.

Mohd kissed me goodbye before we left his flat.  He took me to the station to catch my train to Delhi, and my flight home.  While we waited for the train, we stood against a back wall.  Mohd slid his hand down my pants and fingered me until it was time to go.

He watched as the train pulled away, and I farewelled my adventure as gora rundi.