Pursuing Douglas Ames

We were out before dawn and at the small Rangoon airport to fly to the even smaller airstrip in Pagan, the ancient capital of an empire in the ninth through the thirteenth centuries on the left bank of the Irrawaddy River and now the home of a thousand ancient temple ruins. It was here, the last I knew, that Douglas Ames had retreated to paint. Our plane was a twin-engine, eighteen passenger Boeing 247, which made the round trip twice a day. We took the early morning flight, because Soe Pyne was distressed by what had happened with General Nakamura and the man’s supposition of why I was in Burma, which I knew was more than just a supposition, and he wanted to slip out of Rangoon as quickly and quietly as possible.

I think Soe Pyne was also distressed by what he hadn’t kept himself from doing after rescuing me from Nakamura’s clutches. I don’t know how long Soe Pyne had been listening at the door or why he didn’t try to save me earlier, but I certainly found out what effect my encounter with the Japanese general had had on him. The morning after he moved around well away from me as if he wanted to erase what he’d done in the pedicab altogether. While he was doing it, I was so high on lust that I didn’t care who did it as long as the taking and receiving kept rolling along. Signaling my acceptance of him, I had clutched his hips with my knees and rocked with him in the fuck. I had expected it to continue when we went into the safe house, but it didn’t. He showed me a small bedroom and left me alone there.

Ames was not at the airstrip to meet us in Pagan, which both Soe Pyne and I had expected him to be, but there were pedicabs there to meet the morning flight, and we took two for the trip into the field of temples to a hillside cottage where, I was told, Ames spent most of his year. He wasn’t there now, though.

“He’s gone up to Mandalay where he also keeps a house,” Soe Pyne told me after consulting with Ames’s two young houseboys. “He says the atmospherics weren’t right to meet with you here. There won’t be a plane going up there for several days, so we will take a riverboat in the morning. It’s only ninety miles up to Mandalay from here. Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable. If there’s anything you want—anything—just ask the houseboys, Maung Wai and Thaik Nu. They are both eighteen and very accommodating.”

He gave me a meaningful look when he said this, and I blushed. I no longer wondered what Douglas Ames had told him about our relationship and my resultant fetish, which matched Ames’s—a desire to lie with eighteen-year-old boys, the age I was when Ames took my virginity and whipped me into shape—literally. Both of the houseboys were beautiful young men, and I had little doubt how Ames used them—or what license I was being given to use them as well.

Of course, I wouldn’t succumb to my instincts, though. I would resist, as I’d been able to do in England for years since I had visited Ames during my early university days at his country estate and covered his eighteen-year-old stable boys just as he was doing—and handling them roughly just as he was doing and as he done with me.

“I am exhausted from last evening’s escapades even if you aren’t,” Soe Pyne said, the closest he came to criticizing my willingness to put myself into a compromising position with Nakamura, “but I will give you a short walking tour of the temples in the immediate vicinity and then come back to the cottage for a rest while you further explore. Although it doesn’t seem so, we are very close to the main road from the airstrip to the town center.”

While he was off arranging the rest of the day with the houseboys, I wandered through the cottage. The cottage—more a rambling mansion than a cottage—was a warren of rooms, running from formal at the front back to the more intimate rooms and, eventually, to Douglas’s art studios. All had stunning views of the temple fields from their windows. The artwork on the walls were all by Ames, and there was a wealth of them. He probably had as many on his own walls as were floating in Europe, and I readily understood he was holding them back to increase the value of what he had out in the world. What was here was a treasure for the future support of his lifestyle.

As I moved back through the cottage the artwork became more intimate. I’d been told he served two markets—his landscapes and portraits of nobles serving the market of high-society parlors, museums, and restaurants, as represented in the cottage’s front rooms, and the underworld market of specialized collectors of pornographic and homographic art for certain well-heeled collectors, as represented in the more private rooms of the house. I could readily see that Ames had retained his fetish for eighteen-year-old boys.

When I reached what must have been Ames’s bedchamber, I was arrested by what I saw on the walls there. It wasn’t just that they were all sketches of late teenagers stretched out and looking dazed from having just been fucked. Two of the sketches were of me at eighteen, looking as dazed and dreamy—and stretched out and vulnerable—as any of the others. I hadn’t realized at the time that he sketched the young men he fucked. One was drawn from after he had fisted me and focused on how stretched open I was afterward. Another was posed after he flogged me for the first time, in the hayloft of his stables. I reached up to touch the marks he had left on my buttocks and back. The sensation of the pain and ecstasy they had caused me at the time—the guilt and arousal I felt when I realized that the beating lifted me to higher realms of sexual pleasure—came flooding back into my mind and I had to turn and leave the room.

When I’d done the house tour, I found Soe Pyne waiting for me on the front porch, and he took me around to several ancient temples within sight of the cottage. They all were attended by berry-brown, bare-chested young men, wearing cotton sarongs at their waists. I recognized both the temples and the youths from some of the artwork in Ames’s house.

“Much of his setting subject matter is within walking distance of the house,” Soe Pyne told me as we entered a temple and a young, beautiful Burmese man came forward to greet us. He hardly need have told me, as I readily recognized this temple from paintings in the cottage’s front rooms and the young man coming forward as a subject of several artworks in the cottage’s more private rooms. “Douglas has managed to arrange for the temple attendants in the vicinity all to be in their eighteenth year,” he said. That I hadn’t figured out, and I wondered what Ames had had to pay for the local authorities to agree to that. Pagan was remote enough and Burma was under British administration, so I could understand how they would be accommodating to Ames—for a price. I was sure that the accommodated whatever else Ames wanted to do with an eighteen-year-old male.

One thing I could say for Ames, though, was that the young men always were willing and they all clung to him after he had deflowered and debauched them. I had been no different. I wasn’t different for him and I wasn’t different more recently with the Japanese general, Nakamura, who made me feel the virgin and then ripped it from me.

I not only gave myself to Ames willingly at eighteen. I also returned to him when I was older and learned at his knee—sometimes over his knee with him wielding a riding crop. The trouble he had gotten into in England wasn’t only their age. It also was their heritage. They all, like me, were from notable families who could not afford the scandal or stomach the technique their sons had surrendered to. Here in Burma, at least, Ames seemed to have chosen late teenagers who benefited from his sponsorship in terms of living conditions.

“I’ll leave you for the attendant to show you around the temple and walk on from here,” Soe Pyne said. “You’ll find the young man very helpful and accommodating.”

He certainly had been in the artwork featuring him that I’d seen in the cottage, I thought.

Soe Pyne left and the temple attendant, who spoke very good English, gave me a tour, including a hidden room at the back of the temple with a cot and everything else the young man needed to live here, albeit somewhat primitively. But this was remote Burma in 1941. I’m sure everyone living in the ruins of the ancient capital of Pagan was doing so primitively—except for privileged Englishmen with money, such as Douglas Ames was.

We came back to the front of the temple, and I was preparing to leave when I saw two pedicabs out on the main road racing from the direction of the airstrip. Nakamura was in the lead pedicab and his two solider bodyguards followed him in the other. I pulled back.

“On second thought, I believe I’d like to see your hidden room again, the one in which you stay,” I said to the temple attendant, wanting to remove myself from discovery by the Japanese general.

The young man misjudged my intent, but it didn’t matter. From the moment he knelt in front of me in his room and unbuttoned my fly, released me, and gave me suck, all of my inhibitions from taking my fetish pleasure floated out over the temple compound.

The young man was every bit as accommodating as Soe Pyne said he would be and as flexible and accomplished as the artwork in the private rooms of the cottage depicted him to be. Both his sarong and loincloth were released at a simple tug on a knot and then we were on the cot, him underneath me, his legs spread and bent, his pelvis elevated, and me fondling and kissing him all over. He reacted as I knew Ames would have trained him to to the spanking and the breath control I administered with one hand clutching his throat and the other striking his buttocks with an open palm as I fucked him.

He gave an exclamation of, “Karunar, mainn, k aaramkyee lwanntaal ngarko payy!—Mercy. You’re too big, give me . . . !” as I entered and stretched his channel, but he almost immediately opened to me, cried out, “Hotekae, hotekae!—Yes, yes!,” hooked his knees on my hips, and moved with the fuck. “Aaramkyee, aaramkyee—So big, so big,” he kept murmuring as I sank deep inside him, pumped his stretched channel, and slapped his ass. I didn’t take it as criticism or as something he hadn’t experienced from Douglas Ames already.

He knew his role in the coupling—even in the corporal discipline that went with it—and gave me immense pleasure. The joy of having a supple, willing eighteen-year-old youth under me flooded in, and I used him fully without reservation or guilt. When I pulled away, he clutched at me as if he didn’t want me to leave him.

Later, when I returned to the cottage, being wary of my surroundings in case the Japanese general and his guards had followed us to Pagan and were looking for me, I found that Soe Pyne’s idea of a nap was not different than mine had been for hiding in a temple with a eighteen-year-old youth for an hour. He was on his bed, mounted on the buttocks of the houseboy Maung Wai, and taking his pleasure in the position of the dog. A hand whip lay at the side of the coupling man and houseboy and the red welts on Maung Wai’s body spoke of Soe Pyne being as much a sexual technique student of Douglas Ames’s as I had been. I was not surprised. Much of the artwork of men coupling with youths that hung on the walls in the private areas of the cottage were of Soe Pyne covering young men. He was as much a model and partner in fetish with Douglas Ames as he was the man’s factotum.

That night I sported with the other houseboy, Thaik Nu, while Soe Pyne continued pleasuring himself with Maung Wai. It hadn’t taken long or much effort for me to fall back in the ways of Douglas Ames.

To Be Continued