India Assignment

“Lie back on the bed and cough when I tell you to, please.”

I did so, a little embarrassed I’d gone hard, but since the doctor was examining me to certify me clean to have bareback sex with a man, and he undoubtedly knew that, I didn’t know why I should be embarrassed. Maybe it was because the doctor was a hunk and a half and told me up front not to worry about the reason I was there—that he was gay himself. Somehow that revelation didn’t help me not become aroused at his touch. He had a gloved finger up my ass and had already had his hands everywhere else on my body, including stroking me hard with a gloved hand, so there wasn’t much more intimate he could get with me. Well, there was, and perhaps the embarrassment was that I fantasized him doing it—doing it all to me. While he had a finger in me, I closed my eyes and imagined that it was more than a finger. And I just let myself engorge and throb and then, under his stroking hand, shoot off.

“Ah, very good. A healthy discharge,” he murmured. “Can you . . . quickly? Ah, yes, you can. Very good. Very good indeed.”

He, Dr. Deeran Chari, had said he was from South India, in the state of Tamil Nadu, which explained why he was a dark brown. But he also was taller and huskier, harder bodied, than I thought of an Indian as being, with muscular arms and a handsome face, with an aquiline nose, a black beard, and, strikingly, milky-blue eyes. His hair was groomed on top, but the sides were pulled around and tied into a bun at back. I wondered how far it would fall when that bun was undone. Would it go to his shoulders? To his waist? Would he look any sexier then than he did now? His features were strong and his forearms were hairy. His cotton shirt was thin enough that I could see that he was hirsute, with curly hair swirling on his pecs and down his clearly cut six pack to his flat belly. A medallion of some sort on a chain nestled between his bulging pecs. Either he rouged his nipples and quarter-sized aureoles, peeking out from swirls of fine hair, or they were naturally rosy. They shown through the gauzy material of his loose-weave shirt.

All of this was contributing to me becoming hard again while he continued poking and prodding me. He held my cock in one fist while doing his work with the other hand—the work that purposely was making me harden and come.

I was a male whore who had been held back for three weeks to be prepared for this assignment. Yes, I was horny. Getting it would just make me hornier. Sam Winterberry understood that about me. But the man was just a doctor they’d brought in. He wasn’t going to lay me right here with Winterberry and Deaver watching.

Was he? I began to wonder what sort of fee deal Winterberry and Deaver had made with the doctor. I had no doubt that sexual privilege would be included in the deal if that’s what the two needed to get the deal done. And what did I feel about that? With this particular doctor, it would be just fine with me.

We were in a hotel room high up in Mumbai, India’s, Taj Mahal Tower Hotel, my having arrived here the previous day, escorted by the chief of the Agency’s Candy Store unit, Sam Winterberry, to do a couple of jobs in India, one here in Mumbai, which once had been Bombay, and the other one down on the eastern coast, at Chennai, which once had been named Madras.

The mark here in Mumbai had insisted on a tryst with a young blond male, with classic Westerner looks and a great body, as part of his compensation for spilling his company’s guts on middle-man work with Russian and Chinese munitions exports into the Middle East. I was the answering product off the Candy Store shelves for that. He had also insisted on barebacking and on having a certificate of being clean. The Agency had pills for that now, but the man had insisted on the certificate.

Once the doctor had been brought into the hotel room, where Sam Winterberry and the handling agent from New Delhi Station, Jason Deaver, were standing off to the side and observing, Deaver had tried to get Doctor Chari just to sign the certificate, telling him that the Agency had the scientific answer for this well in hand without an examination, but Chari had insisted a full medical check in addition to the blood tests, which he could have processed in a couple of hours, apparently the reason why he was selected.

Deaver had argued, but Winterberry had interjected and said, “Just get on with it. Drake’s going to be fucked anyway. Let the doctor do whatever he wants, as long as we have a certificate before dinnertime.” I was finding that what the doctor wanted was to get his jollies making me fire off for him.

And so, here I was, lying back on the bed, with a dreamy-looking doctor’s finger up my ass and his other hand holding my cock. I didn’t mind. The central part of my job was being fucked by men, so a doctor being overzealous in an exam that normally was handled just with a blood test, was no big deal. A bigger deal was watching Sam Winterberry watching me while the doctor had his hands on me. Winterberry’s approach to recruitment was to put the man or woman through their paces to determine they could do the job. I knew the look Winterberry was giving me.

And, sure enough, after the doctor declared he was satisfied and was ushered out of the hotel room to put in a rush on the blood sample, Winterberry told Deaver to leave as well.

“Don’t dress just yet,” he said, as he shut and locked the hotel door. “Stay right there.”

When he turned, he was unzipping himself. I sat up on the end of the bed, as he saddled up to me, took his hard, thick, long cock in my hands and then in my mouth, and gave him head. I knew Winterberry’s procedures and demands.

He obviously had faith in the Agency preventative pill, because when he turned me, belly down, on the bed and, crouching over me, holding my wrists to the silk bedspread above my head, mounted, and penetrated my channel, he wasn’t sheathed. As always, he was thick and long, strong and vigorous. I arched my torso off the bed and back into his chest. He buried his face in the hollow of my neck and held a ridge of my skin in his teeth, holding me in place as psychologically as he did physically. He fucked me hard and deep, as Sam Winterberry always did with his Candy Store agents, making sure I understood who was boss. Most likely he was remembering too that the first fuck just added to my arousal for the next one.

* * * *

Dinner was just for two in a private room of the hotel’s Shamiana restaurant. My job was to charm the man and to let him know, in any way he seemed to prefer, that I would be happy for him to cover me and that I’d show him the best of times. Jagan Mehta was a mixed bag. He was ugly as sin, short, and fat. He wasn’t overly obese but he was dough-boy pudgy. He was about fifty and berry-brown, although not as dark as the doctor who examined me in the hotel room had been. When he talked—and before he became comfortable with me and his little habits flowed away—he had a silly grin on his face and his head swayed from side to side like a bobble doll. Throughout the meal I had to try to forget the sexiness of the doctor and prepare myself for the target. I had to give this little man a good time.

As the meal progressed, though, that became easier to contemplate. In my job, I’d been fucked by a lot of old, fat men. No matter what was said publicly about the business of intelligence, my Agency, like nearly all of those of other countries, combined the two oldest professions in history—spying and whoring—to gather vital information and conduct operations. I took targeted men—and women, as necessary—however they came because of what they knew that was of intelligence value, and you didn’t normally become of interest to the Agency as a young or trim man. It was usually men of experience in age and who were self-indulgent and able to feed their excesses. To sell your nation’s secrets to get young male ass required a certain amount of greed and overindulgence. That didn’t mean you didn’t have a lot of experience of dominating young men in bed, though. Some of these men were men of command, intelligence, and charisma as well. Jagan Mehta was one of those.

My job in this assignment wasn’t to take Mehta’s valuable information on Russian and Chinese arms sales into the Middle East from him. I sometimes got that end of the assignment as well. Here, though, I was just to take his cock. My services were part of the incentive, the reward. I was just supposed to lay under him and sheath his shaft to reward him for services already rendered.

He came dressed like a maharajah, in beige silks, a turban, and glittering gems on his fingers. I thought he’d be a shallow dandy who thought he was a sexual being. He soon disabused me of that, though. He was personable and sharp. He talked nothing of the topics we the Agency valued him for. He talked broadly on all sorts of other topics and both showed interest and sensitivity to me and respect for my own views. He treated me like I was a courtesan rather than a whore.

I wasn’t a dummy on foreign affairs topics. I’d come to the Agency with a master’s degree in the subject. Unfortunately, I’d also come with a weakness for men’s cocks and with the looks that men wanted in a male whore. The Agency had ferreted that out quickly and turned me over to Sam Winterberry. In all, though, the job had been a good fit for me.

Over dessert, Mehta got around to more explicit questions, but by then he was comfortable enough to drop his irritating mannerisms and I was comfortable in talking with him, mellow with the idea of being with him in bed, and prepared to see this through without any stress. He had moved to beside me when the dessert and coffee arrived, and felt me up. I became more at ease by the expertise he exhibited in being able to get a good feel without making it obvious he was doing so. The restaurant was very discreet; the serving men obviously knew Mehta was being intimate with me, but the impeccable service continued as if they didn’t notice.

“I would say nearly seven inches,” he said.

“Yes, a bit longer hard,” I answered, looking directly in his eyes, not flinching even though he wasn’t doing his estimate just from a feel outside the material, but had masterfully gotten me unzipped and was holding my cock in his bejeweled hand. I willed myself to get hard for him to convey that I wasn’t shy for him, and I managed that. I wondered briefly is I was expected to be the top in this encounter. I could go with that, if need be, although most of my marks wanted to be the top.

“I’m nearly eight hard,” he said. “That’s what you’ll have to take.” So, that cleared that question up.

“That’s good to know,” I replied. And it was good to know. Many men say that inches don’t matter, but that’s usually men who don’t have them. To a prostitute, especially a submissive one, knowing how many inches you have to take is important. It’s important in terms of the john’s enjoyment—the best positions to maneuver him into for the size he is—as much as in terms of what the submissive can sheath and provide good friction for in the fuck. It’s usually a surprise, but if it isn’t and you know the man will be unusually long or thick—or small and thin—you can prepare better.

It also is important information for a seasoned male prostitute as I already was. We took cock often enough that size mattered. If the cock was small or even regular sized, we knew we’d had to do a good bit of acting and we prepared for it. For a cock the size that Mehta had declared, we could go with the natural pleasure of the unusual stretch.

There are positions that accommodate big cocks better than others, and you need more preparation for such a cock—more lube and more patience and foreplay in getting open for it. You even need different size condoms. If he’s small, there are positions for that, albeit more limited. The bottom line, for the male prostitute, is to maximize his pleasure, which is aided with foreknowledge of what you have to work with. To be forewarned on extra size is to permit a seasoned prostitute to adjust at the time of penetration and to ease the deep fuck. Big-cocked men were surprised and pleased when a man was able to sheath it all and work with it.

If the man is small, you can move into penetration almost immediately. Often the first ejaculation is fast and not fully satisfying, as the john will be concerned about his size and ability to perform. But a good prostitute will build on that, make him more comfortable, a bit longer and thicker, and more satisfied and assured in subsequent ejaculations. But if he’s big you’ll want to take your time. He’ll need to as well, even if he doesn’t want to. He can do himself damage if he tries to force a channel not yet open enough to take him.

At the other end of the spectrum, a seasoned prostitute is likely to prefer the bigger cocks. Arousal and satisfaction are tied to feeling the cock, being challenged and stretched by it and not having to work with producing satisfaction in the john from a small cock. I preferred at least eight inches myself—or five and a half in circumference, if he’s thick but not long—to be able to really get into the fuck and to groan and moan as I should to give the john pleasure and the feeling of being a man. I wanted to pant and moan naturally, to suffer a bit at the stretch of it to begin with but when we get into the pumping, I wanted it to both stretch and glide. Nine or ten inches long and over six inches in circumference, though, and the man owns me. He can do anything he wants with me. I’ll be lost to the total possession no matter what the john looks like or his body size. My mind totally goes to what’s inside me, stretching and working me to the limit. And I have the experience to give such a man a good time.

I didn’t know any man, prostitute or promiscuous or just normal, who didn’t know his length inches soft and hard. Those who don’t most likely don’t have even the average and don’t want to talk about. A nine-inch man will make his measurements known. What they don’t all know, but that is the most important, is how must girth they have, what the stretch will be. Receiving warning of eight hard inches, as Mehta had done, was enough to arouse me. It went a long way to make up for what he lacked in musculature and good looks. In the dark, nothing matters more than a good-sized cock.

“Do you have experience with Indian men?” he asked.

“No. You will be my first. I’m looking forward to pleasing you any way you like.”

“I am not cut. Have you been docked before?”

“Yes.”

“Fisted?”

I paused at this, but I had been, so I gave him the correct answer. As he’d worked up to asking this, I was thinking this might be central to what he wanted. “Yes. Is this what this is all about? Can you not find Indian youths who will take your fist? I’m just curious. You, of course, can do anything you want with me.”

“I find what I need here. But an American. A beautiful young blond. I’ve always wanted to—”

“Yes, of course.”

“It wouldn’t be too challenging, as you can see.” His hand had come out of my fly and he’d zipped me back up. He lifted that hand and bunched up the fingers to show that they were long, but thin and that the space across his knuckles was narrow.

“Of course, you have several rings,” I said.

“Yes, I do, and I rarely take them off.” He was smiling. I was beginning to think that this would be more taxing than I originally thought it would be.

“Do your toes match your cock?” he asked.

That confused me a bit. “I’m not sure,” I answered. “I haven’t given it much thought, I’m afraid. I don’t know what you mean by ‘match.’”

“Have men sucked your toes before? Does that arouse you? If he has his cock inside you at the same time, do you open up more? Are you flexible enough to have your toes sucked by the man fucking you as well?” He was breathing heavily. I thought that talking about it likely was as arousing for him as doing it.

“There’s a position where a man can fuck you and suck your toes at the same time?” I asked, incredulous.

“More than one,” he answered. “Several if you are flexible—and you look like a very flexible young man.”

That certainly got my attention and upped my arousal factor. “Not that I recall,” I answered. “I don’t remember having my toes sucked. So, I can’t answer the other questions you ask about my reaction to that. Will you be fucking me while you suck them? Will I be on my back, moaning and rocking my pelvis against you, taking you deep while you’re sucking them? Do you want me to stroke my cock or rub your nipples while you’re doing it?”

I was purposely arousing him, and the look he was giving me and the deep rumble I heard coming up from his gut told me I was succeeding. I wanted to hurry him along here, get this moved upstairs. It was having the desired effect. His eyes were slitted, he was licking his lips, his hand had gone to his crotch.

“Ah, virgin toes. I am in heat. Perhaps we should go and meet with your Mr. Smith now.”

“That would be good,” I said, rising from the table.

Smith was the name Deaver had given him. I, of course, was John Jones. Mehta was a smart man. He knew both names were fake.

We met up with “Smith” in the Harbour Bar. He was accompanied by a young Indian man, who I was surprised to be introduced to as Saanjh Mehta, Jagan’s son and assistant in his business. It turned out that, while Jagan apparently was going to take the reward for what he had already given up to U.S. intelligence, Saanjh was the one who was going to give up more of the information the Agency sought. He obviously had already given some or we wouldn’t have reached this stage of the debriefing.

What surprised me, though, was the Saanjh in no way looked like his father. He was taller than his father, taller than I am, heavy without being fat, so, muscular, and he was quite presentable of face. And where his father exuded conviviality, the son seemed less congenial, more up tight, and thuggish.

We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes before “Smith” looked at Jagan and received the nod of acceptance of the offering that was me. Then he said, “If you like, John here will show you his hotel room and Saanjh and I will stay here and continue our discussions, in a more detailed manner.”

“Quite fine,” Jagan said, standing. “Shall we?” he asked, looking at me, suddenly with lust in his eyes.

“Yes, of course, whatever you want,” I said and also stood, catching the flash in his eyes.

Jagan turned out to have something more than seven inches hard and more than the magic five inches in circumference. He took his time getting around to using them up my ass, though. He seemed pleased with my blow job, as I sat, naked on the foot of the bed and he, also naked, short, and potbellied, stood in front of me and I took him in my mouth and held his hips in my hand. Closing my eyes helped me give him a professional suck. I could concentrate on what was a very nice cock and filter out the rest of his body.

He hadn’t asked me how I liked prolonged eating out of my ass, but I liked that part just fine. I had just lain back after sucking him off and taking his cum in my throat, and moaned—convincingly and genuinely—as he knelt behind me, holding my legs raised and spread, and attacking my hole with his lips, tongue, and teeth. Periodically he’d stand and suck my toes, which tingled and which was a new, pleasant experience for me. He must have been pleased with the length of my toes, because he hummed happily while he sucked them.

He hadn’t lied about being uncut. I was cut, but that didn’t stop him from putting our cock heads together, pulling his foreskin over them both and a good distance down my shift, and then stroking them together as I moaned and rocked my hips up and down, and eventually came, flooding his bulb with my cum. He had held off for later, whispering to me the Indian secret for staying in check, a helpful hint that I promptly forgot as he was telling it to me as I was building up to my climax and had asked if he was going to come as well.

The fisting was less pleasant, mainly because of the rings on his fingers, but it didn’t last long before he was crouched over me between my thighs, and inside me, fucking me bareback. I pressed the heels of my feet on the ledge where his buttocks jutted out from the small of his back, palmed his shoulder blades, sucked in my belly to give him some place to rest his belly so he could use most of his seven plus inches, rocked with his thrusts, and gave him a good ride. He managed to get my feet to his mouth to suck my toes while he fucked me.

I gave him a second ride when he had rested, putting him on his back, straddling his pelvis, and leaning back with my palms on his knees to negate the effect of his pot belly and to let him get in deeper on a bouncing cowboy ride.

“Stay right there while I shower,” he said, as he rolled out of the bed. That seemed peculiar. Was he going to fuck me again after showering, I wondered. He had really shriveled up after the second time. I thought he’d reached his limit and I’d given him a better draining than he usually got. He had a lot of cum for a man his age, and I had it all, deep inside me and seeping out and down my inner thighs.

He was on his cell phone when he came out of the bathroom. Ringing off, he dressed at the foot of the bed, putting his hand out in a “stay” motion when I made like I was going to get off the bed. Dressed, he answered the door. His son, Saanjh, was at the door. Behind him, I could see “Smith” in the corridor. Saanjh came in, his eyes going to me on the bed, and I immediately realized that this was a two-for deal. I hadn’t been told that, and I don’t know if “Smith” knew that was the way it had to be before he could get Saanjh to the heart of the debriefing, but I could tell what was expected of me by looking at “Smith.” He’d clearly OKed it.

He confirmed it. “The son has given us good information,” he said, looking at me. “Give him a good ride.”

I came out of the bed and met Saanjh standing at the foot of the bed. He put an arm around my waist and pulled me to him in a kiss. “Smith” said nothing as Jagan joined him in the corridor and closed the door, so I knew this had been agreed to.

I don’t know if what happened next was in the agreement, but my job was to accept that it was—and I can’t say it didn’t fully satisfy me.

Saanjh pulled a double wrist leather restraint and ball gag out of his pocket. As I surmised he wanted me to do, I struggled with him in getting those in place and me on my belly on the bed, with my arms over my head, my wrists restrained, and tied to the headboard. I struggled because I knew he’d want that, that it would get him worked up. And it did. I knew he wanted to assert physical dominance and I knew how he wanted to assert it. So, I struggled with him a bit at first, he slapped me hard across the face and threw me down on the bed, and both of us accepted that as all the assertion of control he needed before he bound me. After that, he didn’t have to contend with any struggling, feigned or otherwise.

As I watched him undress, my eyes went big and I began to pant when I realized that his belt was strands of leather—a hand whip. He whipped me while I writhed on the bed—not enough to bring blood or to raise welts that could be seen for more than a day but enough to sting and let me know he cared—that he cared enough about the whipping that it had made him go hard. Then he came onto the bed, crouched over me, pulled me up to my knees, with an arm under my belly, but pressed down between my shoulder blades to keep my cheek and chest flat on the bed. He mounted me, thrust inside me, and fucked the hell out of me with vigor and a steady beat.

I don’t know if he had the seven plus inches his father did hard, but he used every inch he had to melting effect. Like his father, he was thick enough to make me strain to stretch to his needs.

He rolled off the bed, leaving me there, panting hard, exhausted. He reached down and fished around in the pockets of his trousers. I managed to turn over onto my back on the bed, my wrists still restrained to the headboard, still silenced with the ball gag. I winced from the pain of the whipping. My eyes followed him around the room. What was he going to do next?

He came up with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and went over to the wide window set in an alcove and looking out toward the Arabian Sea. It was late, but the setting sun still was bathing the western sky down to the water in purples and reds and oranges. He leaned his back into one side of the alcove wall, with his window-side leg bent and the foot flat against the wall. Silhouetted against the sunset as he was, his body was magnificent—tall, muscular, broad-chested, and flat bellied. He had the thighs of a soccer player. His belly was flat, his cock and balls hung low, and I could believe now that he was over seven thick inches. All thoughts I’d previously had of Indians being small, thin men vanished. He lit up a cigarette and smoked it as he stared out of the window. He had the cigarette in the hand toward me and was holding the lighter out with the other hand, flicking it open, producing a flame, snapping the lid shut, flicking it open, producing a flame, snapping the lid shut. It was like setting up the pace and rhythm of a fuck.

He came to the nightstand and I thought he’d climb on the bed and fuck me again—and I both wanted that and, because I was exhausted from taking both his father and him, I wanted it to be over. I was afflicted with the condition of being taken higher into arousal and the satisfaction zone with each subsequent fuck, so, although my body might give out, my libido wouldn’t. I might not want it until the man put it in me but when he did, I couldn’t live without it. He didn’t climb on the bed, though. He snuffed the cigarette out in an ashtray and went back to the window, took up the same pose as before, and lit up another cigarette. He tossed the lighter over on his crumpled trousers and, as he smoked, he took his cock in the other hand and stroked himself hard.

This time when he finished the cigarette and came to the nightstand to snuff it out in the ashtray, he did climb back up on the bed. He was hard again. He walked in between my thighs on his knees, lifted my ankles to his shoulders on each side, grasped me by the waist, and raised my pelvis to his crotch. He looked down into my eyes with an almost disinterested stare as if he was only doing this because the opportunity was here now and wouldn’t be here tomorrow. His hands went to my buttocks, pulling the cheeks apart, putting the hole into position. I whimpered, but I lay there, exhausted, fully captive to whatever he was going to do.

He entered me slowly, moving slowly inside me—in and out; in and out. He picked up speed, and I lay there, spent, docile and unmoving, as he fucked me with increasing vigor, his eyes coming alive, his body animated, covering me and rocking on me, fucking me. I remained motionless, panting lightly, and moaning, while he released himself inside me and lowered himself on top of me, let my legs fall to the side, where they lay where they had dropped, and was kissing me in the hollow of my throat. I closed my eyes and held there as me kissed me on the throat and on the nipples and ran his hands up my flanks and over my body.

I had trembled and shuddered with the first fuck, wholly into it. Not now. Now I was just the vessel that he was stroking inside. I could feel him hardening again, and then he was moving inside me once more—he hadn’t pulled out. He was virile; his stamina was first rate. His pelvis started rocking again. In, out, In deeper, out. With a sigh, I managed to raise my legs and hook them on his hips and, with effort, I started to rock my pelvis against his renewed thrusts. We were fucking again. Despite everything, I was being lifted to a higher level of satisfaction.

I lay on the bed, spread-eagled and moaning softly with a silly grin on my face long after he’d taken the restraints off me, showered and dressed, and left the room. And that’s a lot for a prostitute to admit to. I couldn’t say I wasn’t well fucked and fully satisfied. I was awash in cum. Both father and son were big-time spouters. And I sure as hell had done the job I was sent here to do. The difference between the two was that the father treated me like a courtesan and the son like a whore.

It was only the first of two India assignments.

* * * *

They let me rest most of the next day. Jason Deaver put me on the Chennai Express, leaving Mumbai’s Dader station at 8:30 that evening for the 1,300-kilometer train trip to Chennai, formerly known as Madras, on the Bay of Bengal on India’s southeast coast. New Delhi Station had advised that there was a much lower risk I’d be detected by the local intelligence apparatus if I went by train rather than air. I, of course, had a private compartment and Deaver told me that, since no one was going with me to babysit me—which is what he meant even though he didn’t directly say it—I should stick to my compartment for the twenty-three-hour train trip.

He didn’t say that they’d deliver your meals to your compartment, and I found that they didn’t. My dinner car call was for 10:45 p.m. I used the first two hours of the journey studying my assignment in Chennai. Again, I didn’t have to do the information collection myself, and this time it wasn’t a matter of collecting information. The Agency wanted to compromise a Tamil State minister, Chudar Kurusar, and put him to long-term collection and support in favor of U.S. interests. When he was on a trip to the UN in New York, the Agency had learned that Kurusar was partial to dancing blond boys. He’d gone on club crawls every night he was there, and each night he had zeroed in on good-looking young, flexible blond dancers who were willing to go into the clubs’ back rooms with him. He often took more than one at a time.

I was a young blond, flexible man who had done some pole dancing in my early days and could dance a pole again if that was required. Sometimes it had been required, both in clubs and privately.

Kurusar didn’t know it now, but we would be meeting. He would be on a seaside vacation at a business contact’s beach house in a couple of days, where he was promised there would be a blond American dancer to entertain them. The businessman already was owned by the United States. I would give Kurusar a good time, which would be recorded, and then the station officer in the U.S. consulate in Chennai would take it from there. The Agency had some interests in supporting operations from Tamil State.

At 10:30 I made my way to the dining car for the last sitting. The diners were scarce and the waiters seemed to be exhausted and barely functioning. I was seated at a table for two, the diners across from each other, in an area with no other diners around. At 10:07 Dr. Deeran Chari appeared at the side of the table and said, “Do you mind if I join you?”

What could I say? I was flabbergasted he was there. He didn’t wait for me to say anything. He slipped in across from me. Our knees almost touched under the table. I was trembling, which I knew was silly of me. He was looking terrific, wearing white silk Indian dhoti pants—made from one length of material—with a tunic on top of a more gauzy white material that permitted more than hints of his sexy hirsute chest to show through and that had a slit down from the collar in front that showcased the metal medallion around his neck. The medallion now clearly showed as a recognizable gay male top symbol, and his nipples and big aureole, still appearing rouged, shown through the shirt material against a berry brown body.

His feet were naked in sandals. The toes were long. I was sure that Jagan Mehta would have gone bonkers over them. I was doing so as well, thinking of the theory Jagan had introduced me to that the toes reflected the cock. The dhoti drooped in the crotch; there was no way to gauge the cock size. That only encouraged me to fantasize and assume something of mammoth proportions. I was a well-used prostitute; I needed a big cock if I was going to get maximum enjoyment out of the coupling.

“Fancy that we should find ourselves on the same train and with the same dining hour,” he said, flashing me a smile that almost made me melt.

“Yes, fancy that,” I said, letting my suspicion show.

“I live and work in Chennai,” he said. “I’m a Tamil. I was brought to Mumbai because I lived far from there and I’ve done work for the U.S. embassy before—for your people, I think.”

Was he inviting me to say I was Agency? If so, fat chance of that. I didn’t ask the natural question. I waited him out, which didn’t take long.

“And you? Why are you on this train?” he asked, putting the ball in my court again.

“I have time off before I fly back to the States,” I said. “I’ve always liked madras material. I thought I’d check out where it came from. Chennai used to be Madras, wasn’t it?”

“Why, yes, it was. I wish I had time off now and again to visit places on such tenuous contexts,” he responded, a twinkle in his baby-blue eyes. He wasn’t buying my impromptu explanation, which I’d tried to make a joke of. But again, if he expected me to make another try at why I was on a train headed south in India, he would have a long wait.

We were interrupted then by the appearance of our meals. These had been reserved as soon as we had gotten on the train. I had ordered the Western meal. Chari had an Indian one. He won in the better choice category, if only because I couldn’t really agree on what the Indian train service thought would be a Western meal. He saw that I was disappointed and fed me with bits of his meal, extending his fork across the table and giving me a dissertation on what each tidbit was, what it was composed of, where it came from in India, and whether or not—more yes than no—I should have my water glass handy when I ate it, “Although a banana would be more effective,” he said.

I found the act of being fed by another man, especially a man like Chair, very sexy.

At some point I had rested my forearm on the table and he’d grasped my hand with his, folding his thumb between our palms and rubbing my palm. That was a signal of a top to a bottom—at least it was where I came from. If I left it there, I was confirming I was a submissive and that I was interested in submitting. I left it there. The man had already had his finger up my ass, and I was highly sexed. The man had stroked me off and I had hardened and come for him. There wasn’t any more to know on whether I was a submissive or would be a submissive for him. I’d already been there.

He broached the subject when the waiters had cleared our entrees and we were waiting for dessert and coffee or tea. “I was brought in to certify you because you were either going to cover a man or lie under him, and the sex would be raw, without protection. Is that not true?” he asked.

“Lie under him,” I answered. “He covered me.”

“And you did so—you lay under him?”

“Oh yes.”

“So, you are submissive?”

“I think you know I am; you’ve already been there with me.”

“Ah, yes I have,” he said, with a smile. “I think we both enjoyed it too. I know I did. And you let men inside you without protection?”

“I am what I am called to be—either submissive or dominant. Usually submissive, though. And you were being told the truth when the man with me said we had a pill that would take the risk away. I don’t think you’ll be able to obtain a sample, though.”

“You are a prostitute for men?” He had been rubbing my calves with a bare foot, having taken it out of his sandal. Now he ran his foot up between my closed legs, which opened for him and rested his heel on the edge of the seat between my thighs, placing the sole of his foot against my crotch. I reached down with a hand and held his foot closely pressed into my basket. I was, of course, already hard for him and he, of course, could discern that with his foot.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Legally no, though. In my country, there are such things as sanctioned prostitution. You could say I was an official escort, part of the accommodation for official visitors.”

“You take money to lie under men?”

“Yes.”

“You would take my money?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You were hard for me during the examination.”

“Yes. You said I had to be for you to do your examination.”

“But you would have been hard for me anyway, I think.”

“Yes.”

“So, why do you say you wouldn’t take my money?”

“You arouse me. If you’re a big-cocked man, I’d go under you without a fee.”

Chari laughed. “I think that I will fuck you then—without protection. I think you will enjoy my doing so. Have you been fucked in an Indian style before?”

Before I could respond to the baldness of that statement in an openly bald discussion, we were interrupted and went silent again while the dessert and coffee were served. The two waiters serving us drew back to the pantry at the other end of the car and went into a deep conversation between them.

“Are you interested in what the Indian style of copulation between two men would be?” he asked, peering at me over the rim of his coffee cup.

I saw no reason not to be honest. I had been intrigued by the Indian style I’d experienced thus far. “Yes.”

“Unzip your trousers for me,” Chari said in a calm voice.

“Excuse me?”

“Unzip your trousers for me and take your cock out. I know it’s hard. You know that I know it’s hard.”

“But why? Do you want me to jack myself off here?”

“No, I want to do it with my toes here—Indian style. I will fuck you more conventionally when we return to the compartments.”

“Your toes?” What was it with these Indians and toes? “You can do that?”

“You won’t know unless you unzip your trousers and take your cock out.”

I did, and wonders of wonders, he could get the root of my cock between his big toe and the next one, and he stroked me off while I clutched the edge of the table and panted. He held my hand in his grip and rubbed my palm with his thumb as he was doing so. It wasn’t a long trip. I’d already been panting for him. While he stroked, he whispered what he could do for me, what he wanted to do with me—what he intended to do to me.

“You have heard of the Kama Sutra, have you not?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“It’s Indian in origin, you know. But perhaps you didn’t know there are Kama Sutra positions for men fucking men.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“I’m ten inches hard,” he said. “It’s a snake. It hisses for you. There are special Kama Sutra positions for men thus endowed. But the first time I fuck you, it’s so powerful that all I have to do is give it all to you and hold and you’ll come for me without being permitted to ride it. And after that you will let me do whatever I want with you—and I want to do everything. You won’t be a hardened prostitute with me. You’ll be a virgin, each time. You will moan and whimper for me like a virgin. You won’t be able to play the prostitute with me. You will be totally undone.”

“No. You couldn’t . . . arousal to ejaculation requires friction,” I said. “You couldn’t bring me off just with ten inches of unmoving cock.” I was a professional prostitute, for God’s sake. I was trained to maintain control.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try it. Will you come to my compartment or do you want to go to yours?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. The coffee came cold.”

“Your compartment,” I managed.

“As soon as you come for me and my toes. Don’t worry, I can make you come as often as I want to.”

I came for him, and lay back in the chair, arms dangling at my side, panting in shallow breaths. The waiters at the other end of the dining car, which now was deserted other than the doctor and I, were looking at us and smiling knowingly.

He was already right about one thing. I wasn’t the in-control prostitute for him. I already was in the thrall of a master.

* * * *

He was, as he claimed, ten inches hard. And it was a snake, reaching further up into me than I’d ever known one to go before and then doing a dance while it was up there. It wasn’t thick, and he could manipulate it once he was deep in the soft core of me to kiss and caress every surface and to cause the muscles of my passage walls to ripple and undulate over the full length of the shaft. Men didn’t often get into the core of me and make me go soft and spongy there—especially since I had gone professional—but that’s where Chari went and that’s where Chari played. He was a beautiful man, doing beautiful things to me.

He didn’t manipulate it inside me the first time he put it in. And he didn’t stroke me with it. As he promised, he just laid me on my back on the bed, moved my legs so they were spread and bent, with my feet flat on the surface of the bunk, and he hovered over me, on his knees, between my thighs, holding me captive with his strong arms, unable to move and gasping and groaning as he penetrated my ass and moved it in all the way to the hilt, ten inches of cock up inside me. Then he just held it there, hard and steady as a rock, and also holding my body fast, not allowing me to hand my cock or rock my pelvis on the shaft, while my channel walls fought, in vain, to animate the cock, and my soft core tried, unsuccessfully to either expel or caress the alien object penetrating so deep inside me. He waited until I went soft and spongy at the core, which was encasing the bulb of his shaft.

While he held me there, he spoke to me of sex with a man—with me—and he was very graphic and poetic—and convincing. His mesmerizing voice and what he spoke of to me went a long way in enhancing my arousal.

“Come for me,” he whispered, drilling me with his mesmerizing eyes. “Think of me inside you, deep. Has any man possessed you this fully? Think of what I can do—will do—when I am mastering you with it. Come for me. I am not inside you just to breed you. I have come for your very soul, to possess and own you. Come for me and then we will use it for sport, you and I.”

I groaned and moaned and tried to move, without success, and I panted and whimpered and whined. I begged for him to fuck me, without being heeded. He whispered in my ear in a sing-song voice of the long, hard rod inside me to the quick, bulb resting in my spongy core. And my arousal went up and up and up at the rock hardness deep inside me, slightly throbbing but not stroking. Just the thought of ten hard inches inside me from a gorgeous man and the knowledge it was going to stay there until I surrendered helped move the process, I’m sure. At last, I did just as he said I would. I jerk my pelvis violently, shot my load, and a prodigious load it was, and collapsed under him, relaxing into a stage of moaning jelly. My legs collapsed to the sides, and I was completely open, vulnerable to him.

“Now, now, fuck me now,” I murmured, wanting it even though I was terrified of the damage he could do at my spongy core.

He laughed. “I told you so. You see, what your body wants to do is to ejaculate. The friction will bring it about, yes, but at some point, when your passage is possessed by a shaft such as mine, your mind will will you to do what you want to do in response to it, and you will release your seed. But now I will give you ejaculations in more conventional ways, and I will happily join you. You have a beautiful body. I must tell you that it probably was harder for me to hold inside you and not stroke than it was for you to reach maximum arousal and to give me an orgasm. My cock will entertain you in ways now that, the next time we meet, you will climax just in seeing it in erection for you. We move from the conventional into the male Kama Sutra now. I have much essence to give you.”

Then still hard, he began to move inside me, and, open and vulnerable to him, I took the cock hard and deep, moving, stroking, fully possessing.

He fucked me properly and repeatedly, showing admirable virility and stamina. After the initial missionary position, he took me with me kneeling into the back of the bunk across the seat cushion that had been lowered while we were at dinner. My cheek was against what had been the back of the bench, which still was in place, and he was covering my back, his teeth latched onto an earlobe, his fists gripping my wrists and pulling my arms straight back, while he entered, entered, entered me a second time as I breathed hard, moaned, and groaned. He held there deep inside me, waiting for me to beg him to pump me, which I did—and then he did pump me. He obviously wasn’t worried about what I might have picked up since the last time he saw me, in Mumbai, because he barebacked me, and he breeded me, his cum seemingly flowing forever deep inside my channel again and again with each taking as I sighed and purred. No one is better than a prostitute in knowing that he was being fucked supremely.

He was still ten inches hard when he sat on the bed, leaning his shoulder blades on the bench back, and held my waist between his hands, as I sat in his lap, on his cock, facing him and leaning back with my palms on his knees, and fucked myself on his shaft. Nor had he diminished in size when he was sitting on the edge of the bunk and I was below him, my shoulder blades on the floor of the compartment, my ankles on his shoulders, Chari grasping my wrists, and thrusting down into my channel.

“Such a sweet whore,” he muttered. “You can give out forever, can’t you?”

Not any more than you can, I thought. And who would have known that a john could call me a whore and I’d revel in it. Of course, he was a sex partner, not a john. He hadn’t offered to pay and I hadn’t suggested he should. In fact, I’d told him he could have what he wanted without fee. He was making full use of that privilege.

He had let his hair down for the train fucks, and I decided that he, indeed, was an even sexier man that way. Of course, having ten inches to put inside me and what he could do with it when it was all inside me—making me passionate for it rather than killing me with it—qualified him as the sexiest man alive in my books at that time. When he was inside me, I’d just lie there docilely, not working with him or anything as I normally would do, and luxuriated in what he could do with that lovely snake.

When I was in an appropriate position, I licked and sucked on his rosy-red nipples, pulling the aureoles into my mouth to give them suck as well. The prominence and blush of them were mesmerizing.

I went back to my compartment to rest in the night and I had breakfast and lunch with him in the dining car and went back to his compartment each time, where we lowered the blinds to the corridor and shot home the lock on the door, and I sat on his lap on his cock and lay back supported by his arm under my lower back and moaned as he went in ten inches and worked his magic on me again and again.

* * * *

The train arrived at 19:45 in the evening, exactly on schedule, at Chennai’s Egmore station. Peter Turner, the Station’s man at the U.S. consulate on Gemini Circle in Chennai came onto the train to meet me, but he arrived twenty minutes after the train had reached the station. I knew someone would meet me, so I’d held fast in my compartment as I had been told to do. The train would be going out of service in about an hour, a conductor told me, so I had plenty of time to wait. I hadn’t been told who would be coming for me—only that he’d be able to recognize me. Photos sent from the Station to the consulate, I assumed.

“Peter?” I said, surprised to see who it was.

“Good to see you again, Drake,” he said smoothly, so I knew he’d been told who he would be meeting. They didn’t have to tell him what the man looked like he was looking for. Peter and I had been in the same covert operations class at the Agency’s training facility in Williamsburg, Virginia, that was publicly known as Camp Perry, but known in the intelligence world as The Farm. During the course, we had slipped into the woods three times and I had gone down on all fours for Peter and he had mounted and fucked me. Tension was high in Agency covert operations courses, and Peter and I had found a mutually satisfying way to let off steam. It was nothing but physical attraction and mutual need.

I had been targeted, seduced, and recruited to the Candy Store unit by one of the instructors, but Peter apparently had made it through the course and into the Ops directorate without his preference being detected.

I had never really liked or trusted Peter. It was his beer-can-thick cock I liked. In class he was always playing the angles and his loyalties all seemed to center on himself. And when he fucked me it was all about him and his need, but he was the only one I could go to for relief in those days. And his cocking made me yodel. I’d thought he was the only one who knew about me. I was clearly wrong there, though.

We went by Doctor Chari’s compartment as we were detraining, but it was empty. Neither did I see him on the platform when we climbed down to it.

“I’ll take you to your hotel. You won’t be needed at the consulate until noon tomorrow. You’re staying at the Hilton Chennai. Very nice. The city has really come up to civilized standards in the past few years. An economic powerhouse now.”

He was babbling, trying to avoid, I thought, what he didn’t want to say. So, I said it.

“You’ll leave me at the hotel, or you’ll leave me in the hotel room . . . later?” I asked.

He turned and gave me a sloppy smile. “What do you want? I’m finished at the office for the night. I told Nadine I’d probably be home very late, maybe not before she went to bed.”

“Let’s go to the room, with you leaving later,” I said. “I’m horny as hell.” And that was the truth. With me, sex just begged for more—and more—sex.

Peter gave me a grin. “Just like old times?”

“But not in the woods with deer ticks,” I responded.

“With me on top, though,” he said, making it something between a statement and a question.

“Yes, you on top,” I said, and gave him a little laugh.

* * * *

When we arrived at the Hilton Chennai and I was checking in, I spied Doctor Chari sitting in the lobby lounge and looking in any direction other than the reception desk, although he somehow knew we were there. Had he followed us? He couldn’t very well have done that if he was here and settled before we arrived. We hadn’t stopped off anywhere once it was obvious this was where we were coming. Had I told him on the train where I was booked? No, I hadn’t told him anything. He’d tried to get me to talk further on why I was coming to Chennai and what I was doing here, but I’d told him nothing. I’d been told to say nothing about it and my portfolio on the operation was locked in the secret compartment in my suitcase. Our fucking had all been in his compartment, and he’d been with me the full time my compartment had been empty.

Somehow he’d known to find me here. That was something to wonder about, but not right now when I was in high heat. Either Peter or Chari. I didn’t care which, but I wanted someone’s cock inside me now.

I repeated the room number loud enough for Chari to hear—“Room 638, with a view of the Bay of Bengal. Very good”—and Chari remained sitting in the lobby when Peter and I entered the elevator.

I was on my back, naked, on the end of the bed, with Peter, also naked—and happily, having taken very good care of his body since he’d last fucked me—crouched between my open thighs, the bulb of his cock being rubbed across my hole, coaxing it to open, when the knock came on the door. We held, both of us panting and Peter taking more time teasing my hole with his glans, until there was a second, louder knock, and then no more. We actually heard the footsteps retreat.

Peter plunged his cock up inside me, forcing me open, and I arched my back, scrabbled at his biceps with my claws, and cried out at the brutal, glorious penetration. He and Chari were polar opposites in the cock department. Chari was godawful long, but thin and snake-like in manipulation, kissing and caressing and nipping at every square inch of my passage as he worked his way in and reaching into my soft core and playing me like I was a grand piano. Peter wasn’t long, but he was beer-can-cock thick. He did his work closer to the surface, but his stretching there caused me to yawn with the challenge and writhe under the throbbing pressure for the walls to open to him. And the shaft was hard as steel, pumping mercilessly as I flopped around like a rag doll under him. It had been Peter who had reamed me wide enough to take any other men thereafter.

He took no prisoners this time either, hunching over me, his eyes capturing mine. I knew he liked to watch the effect of his stretching pistoning in my eyes as he pumped hard, his hands grasping my knees and rowing them to the beat of his thrusts and withdrawals. Thrust and pull back; thrust and pull back. Row the legs to the beat of the thrust and pull back—until, my hand beating myself off to the same rhythm, I cried out and arced my cum up onto my chest. But Peter continued—thrust and pull back. Row the legs to the beat of the thrust and pulling back—until I was exhausted, he fired off, and he fell on top of me.

“Yes, that was good,” he whispered. “I remember how good that was. You were always the best.”

I assumed he’d leave then, but he didn’t. He rolled me over on the bed on my belly, my legs over the foot of the bed, my knees bent, and my toes dug into the carpet. He was thumbing my hole, which must have been gaping following what he’d put in it. He was crouched over me, with his left hand palmed on my lower back, holding me down on the bed.

“I’m told that the target in Mumbai fisted you. That you let him do that.” His thumb sank into my hole.

“Peter. Don’t. Enough.”

But he did and it hadn’t been enough yet. He didn’t fully fist me. He went to the knuckles with all fingers, but not the thumb, in as I moaned and groaned, and, shamelessly, called out, “Yes! Yes! Do me!” He did me up to the knuckles, which was easier from him than it had been from Mehta because he’d opened me up more with his cock. And then, when that had made him hard again, he swung around, saddled up behind me, force his cock inside again, and fucked me hard to another ejaculation.

When he left, he merely said, “I’ll pick you up at 11:45 tomorrow morning. Briefing in the consulate. I’ll take you to my club on the beach for lunch, a swim, and another fuck in the cabana. You’ll be back in plenty of time to be with the minister in the evening.”

I pulled myself up onto the bed on my back, spread and bent my legs to give relief to my still-stretched hole, and whimpered myself into a doze.

I don’t know how much later it was when I heard a key card working in the door and saw the door opening. I had no time to change my position on the bed as Doctor Chari walked in, all smiles, showed me the key card, and said, “Friends at the reception desk. And I see you are ready for me.”

He was stripped on his way to the bed and on the bed and hovering over me before I could say a word. He had been right the last time we’d met. I began to moan and leak at just the sight of him walking toward me with ten inches of erection. When I’d gathered myself, the “Oh, Shit! Oh, Fuck!” that I called out was because he was six inches inside me and sliding deeper. Pulling out and sliding in seven inches. Pulling back and sliding in eight inches. He grabbed my wrists and trapped my arms over my head. Nine inches.

“Fuccckkk! Yes, do me. Do me hard. Fuck me deep.”

He had been in my soft core at eight inches, but he went in deeper and then deeper yet. And then the bulb of the cock, the head of the snake, started pivoting around, kissing, caressing, nipping my walls over ten inches inside me. I spouted cum, but it was only to be the first load in a short amount of time.

He took his left hand away, holding my wrists with the right. I wasn’t fighting him. I was lying there, completely open, vulnerable to him, shuddering, the walls of my passage undulating over his snake of a cock, my mouth yawning open in an unverbalized scream, my eyes glazing over, every fiber of me concentrating on that snake’s head making love to my soft core.

His left arm encircled my waist, pulling my pelvis up to him as he raised up on his knees. My torso was streaming down on the bed. He released my wrists, and my arms went straight out from my body in a “take me; take all of me” position of surrender. He fucked me and fucked me and fucked me. I came for him and then came for him again and then . . .

It was after 2:00 a.m. when Chari left me, moaning and whimpering, blowing bubbles, humming . . . purring. I didn’t move a muscle and was asleep before 3:00, on my back, arms flung out to my side, legs spread and bent, feet flat on the bedspread. Royally fucked, drained of cum, balls aching. The last time he’d caused me to ejaculate, all he’d had to do was put it in me to the hilt and hold there, me too exhausted to do anything but wait for my mind to tell me to flow.

If he had not left, I would have just lain there, docile, and let him do whatever he wanted to me. In fact, that’s what I’d done for the last hour—just lain there and taken him and taken him and taken him. And I felt like he had done everything a dominant man could do to a submissive. He had even slapped me around, strapped me with his leather belt, and fisted me, calling me a whore who needed to be punished and controlled while he did it, and I had taken it and whispered my thanks to him for mastering me and being cruel and begged him for more, for it all—to take me to new heights of passion and arousal. In the final hours he had also wanted to know what I was doing in Chennai—the particulars of it—and his fucking became more like an interrogation. But I told him nothing. I was lost to his fucking; that’s all I could concentrate on.

* * * *

I was awakened a little after 10:00 the next morning by the sound of a key card in the hotel room door—again. Does everyone in Chennai have a key to this room, I wondered. But I didn’t have time to think of anything else, because the door burst open and in strode . . . Jason Deaver and Sam Winterberry.

“What?” I exclaimed. “Sam? I thought you left India. And Mr. Deaver? I thought you were staying put in New Delhi.”

“It’s still Mr. Winterberry to you, Drake,” Winterberry said. His face was set to angry. So, for that matter, was Deaver’s.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” I asked, realizing I was naked and lying there with my legs open. I rolled over and sat on the side of the bed. I couldn’t do much about the naked part. They’d both seen me naked. Winterberry had fucked me naked—repeatedly.

“It’s off. You’ll have to pack and get out of here,” Deaver said. “There will be a charter plane at the airport when you get there.”

“Not until tonight,” Winterberry broke in. “We don’t want the plane taking off until dark.”

“OK, tonight. I’ll call,” Deaver said.

“Will someone tell me what’s happening?” I said. “It’s off? Why is it off?”

“Kurusar is dead. The minister’s been assassinated. Chudar Kurusar is gone,” Deaver said.

“How? Why?” I asked.

“The operation was compromised. That doctor we had exam you in Mumbai is an agent of the Indian Intelligence Bureau. He found out what was happening and the Indians plugged the hole.”

“Chari is Indian Intelligence?” My body went cold. “He didn’t find that out from me.”

“Of course not. No, he found it out from Peter Turner. Peter’s confessed. He was feeding Indian Intelligence all along. He’s the one who recommended the doctor to be brought up to examine you. The doctor didn’t find out about the Mehta deal, we don’t think. But he sure as hell found out about the Kurusar operation. Peter copped to that. He said he told the doctor about it when he went to pick you up on the train. The doctor was meeting the train too for some reason . . . probably arranged beforehand with Peter.”

They didn’t know. I looked over at Winterberry. His brow was knit but if he’d known I’d been with Chari in the train, he would be shaking my teeth loose now. They didn’t know. But of course Peter would tell them. So, I was on borrowed time anyway. But I hadn’t told Chari anything. He’d tried to get information out of me, I could see that now. But I hadn’t told him. Kurusar’s death wasn’t on my hands. Messing around with Chari . . . and with Peter was, though.

“Peter Turner?” I asked, somewhat in a daze.

“Peter’s had an accident,” Winterberry said, calmly.

“An accident?”

“A fatal accident,” Winterberry clarified.

Oh. “And Ch— . . . and the doctor?”

“We can’t touch him in India. He’s Indian Intelligence. We’ll have to worry about him later . . . when everything’s calmed down.” This was voiced by Deaver.

“So, the operation is over now,” Winterberry said. “You did your part. You did fine. Jason, perhaps you could go pin down the charter plane arrangements now. And I know you have work to do on Peter Turner’s accident. I’ll look to Drake.”

“Of course.” When he was gone, Winterberry went over and put the chain on the door. I was glad. Entirely too many people had key cards to this room. But then I looked up. Winterberry was marching toward the bed, and he was looking all business.

* * * *

“Sam. Mr. Winterberry, could we readjust a bit. You’re crushing me.” Night was falling outside the window, across the Bay of Bengal. Winterberry was full on top of me, crushing me to the bed. His dick was inside me, still half hard. But he had gone to sleep and had been snoring. He had been fucking me off and on for hours. That was quite all right with me. He was a master at it and as long as he was fucking me, he wasn’t choking me to death—not that there hadn’t been some choking while he was fucking me. He edged me that way. Winterberry was a rough fucker. I didn’t mind that either.

“Uh, sorry,” he said and rolled over onto his side. He was fully awake now, and I felt his cock on my thigh—on the rise again. I turned on my side and cuddled into his chest. I reached back and grasped his cock and stroked it.

“Haven’t had enough?” he asked and then laughed.

“Never enough,” I murmured.

“That’s why I keep you in the Candy Store unit,” he whispered into my ear. A chill went down my back. He was whispering. There were only the two of us in the room and he was whispering as if the room was bugged. And maybe it was. And his voice was suddenly serious and, wrapping an arm around my chest, his hold on me was suddenly steely. “You’re a major asset of the Agency, Drake. We need you. You give it all. I know you didn’t tell Chari anything. We have an asset close to him and Chari admitted he’d been unable to get anything out of you—though he certainly put something in you—on that twenty-three-hour train ride. If you’d told him something, I would have had to reassess your employment. But I’m confident you didn’t. So, I’ll protect you. Turner is gone. Chari will be gone . . . in time. Do you understand? Do you understand what you owe me?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. Scared out of my wits.

“Good. Then you’ll give me whatever I want.”

“Yes, sir.”

What he wanted was to fuck me again. He lifted my left leg high in the air, placed his cock in position, thrust up inside me, and fucked the stuffing out of me.