Pursuing Douglas Ames

“If you can hold that pose for just . . . OK, I’m done.”

With a sigh, I sank my cock into the eighteen-year-old houseboy, Mya Khywa, at Douglas Ames’s Mandalay bungalow on the banks of the Irrawaddy River. Mya Khywa groaned as his passage was stretched by the invading shaft and he fought for breath as I loosened my rhythmic chokehold on this throat. He writhed under me as I began to pump him in earnest.

“Yes, like that. Good, good,” Ames said and reached for his sketch pad and pencils again.

We’d been posed on a studio bed draped in blue velvet, Mya Khywa on his hands and knees and me hovering over him. I had my hands on his throat, one leg draped over his waist, and the other standing on the floor on the far side of the bed, both out of the way of Ames’s view of my cock three inches inside the small Burmese houseboy’s hole, where I’d been working him at shallow depth for as long as it took Ames to do his basic sketch. He’d spend the evening painting from the sketches and his memory of the pose and the night fucking his houseboy, Mya Khywa—or maybe the other eighteen-year-old houseboy, Maung Wai—himself.

Maung Wai had come up the Irrawaddy on the three-day, ninety-mile, as the crow flew, river journey with Soe Pyne and me. I hadn’t seen much of what was on the riverbank, because I’d spent most of my time in the single cabin below, fucking Maung Wai, or sleeping while Soe Pyne fucked Maung Wai. I had given myself up fully to the fetish of eighteen-year-old boys. Maung Wai maximized pleasure from dispensing minimum pain very well.

We had come down to the river in Pagan in the predawn hours, going a roundabout path in the town to circumvent the hotel for foreigners and thus avoid being seen by the Japanese general, Heido Nakamura, and his two bodyguards. It may have been a coincidence that he showed up in Pagan after we’d arrived there. But, again, it may not have been happenstance. It was becoming more and more clear that he wasn’t in Burma to assess the possibilities for the import-export business.

Douglas did work feverishly the evening of that first day I was in Mandalay with him on the painting of me covering the houseboy Mya Khywa.

“You are still a gorgeous young man,” he had said when he first saw me climbing out of the boat in Mandalay. “I must record you for history,” he said, meaning, of course, that he wanted to get me, fucked and naked, on canvas in a painting.

To him, I suppose I’d always be one of his conquests—one of the eighteen-year-olds he seduced, freed of their virginity, and trained to respond to cruelty—but he hadn’t touched me in that way since my nineteenth birthday. He’d flogged me later when I’d returned to him during university for further instruction, but then it was in sharing an eighteen-year-old conquest with him.

Here, as we moved from the boat to his bungalow and then sat out on his riverside patio drinking gin slings and catching each other up with our lives, he still wouldn’t touch me. His hands would hover near me as if he wanted to caress me as he had before he escaped from England—escaped prosecution for exactly what he’d done to me on an afternoon on a riverbank in England when I’d just turned eighteen. But I no longer was eighteen. I may be good enough for him to paint in a coupling with an eighteen-year-old, but I no longer was eighteen and thus was unable to feed his fetish.

“As good as it is to see you again, Neal,” he said as we sat side-by-side, drinking, and watching Maung Wai and Mya Khywa flutter about us, both of us dreaming in our minds of being mounted on and riding the young houseboys, “your trip is wasted. I could have told you that if you’d written ahead. I won’t be coming back to England. I would be pursued and prosecuted if I did.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Douglas,” I responded, “not if you were circumspect and remained in the London area. That’s what I’m authorized to tell you. All of that would be wiped away if you came back and headed a cartography unit for the military. You’d be hidden away in London, far from your old stomping grounds in Devonshire. War is coming. We need the best people to support the war effort. As long as you didn’t indulge further in England, you would be protected there.”

“I can draw maps from here. They can send aerial coverage to me here.”

“That won’t work, Douglas. It will take far too long. The maps will be needed in near-real time on or near the battlefield.”

“Your eyes keep going to Mya Khywa,” he said, abruptly changing the topic. “You want him, don’t you?”

Indeed, I did. He was a beautiful, almost effeminate young man, berry brown, lithe, moving like a sleek cat, dressed only in a sarong tied around his waist, dipping low enough to show those delicious creases at the top of his thighs, leading down in the pubes, and wearing a gold chain necklace, bracelets, and anklets that produced an enticing murmur of bells as he glided around.

“Yes, I do,” I said and added because I couldn’t resist doing so, “It was what you did to me, Douglas. You not only seduced and stole my innocence at that age and made me wanton, but you also subsequently taught me to want to do that to youths of that age myself.”

“I taught you higher-level pleasures, Neal. And nobody pleasured me like you did at eighteen—or did when you were at university, as I watched you with the stable boys one after the other.”

“After you had deflowered them,” I said.

“Yes, after I had initiated them into the pleasures of man-youth sex. You cannot tell me that you weren’t pleasured both in the deflowering of yourself and of the taking of other young men.”

“No, I can’t tell you I didn’t take pleasure from that. But after you left, I—”

“Soe Pyne tells me you are fully involved in it now, here in Burma. Again, do you want to fuck Mya Khywa? And will you do so while I sketch you for a painting?”

“Yes,” I said. And so I did.

And that night, after Douglas had sketched me covering Mya Khywa and had spent the evening painting the image, he did, indeed, fuck Mya Khywa himself in celebration. But he went further than that. For the first time since I turned nineteen, he touched and fucked me—just he and I had done several years ago—as well. He didn’t just share Mya Khywa with me, which he did as well, he covered me when it was just the two of us.

We took Mya Khywa to bed together, and we shared him—fully—not just holding the young man between us and fondling and fucking him in succession, but also fucking him together, both of us inside him, fucking each other as much as we were fucking him. And then, later in the night, Mya Khywa no longer was there and I was on my back, legs spread, heels rubbing Douglas’s calves, as he lay between my thighs, arms encircling my waist, raising my pelvis to him, and face nuzzled into my throat, as he penetrated me, sank deep inside me, and hummed as he moved his hard cock in and out. Deeper and deeper he went into my soft core, and I opened and yielded to him there and gave him everything. As he pulled his cock out of me, he transitioned to fetish, signaled when I watched him pull the black leather gloves onto his hands and grease them up. One of his hands went to my throat, controlling my breathing, and the fingers of the other hand bunched up and, penetrated my hole to the knuckles. With a little cry, I felt the gloved hand pushing through, up to the wrist, and he was punching up into me again and again, causing my pelvis to rise and fall. My sexual awareness rose and danced on the clouds. I came in great arcs of cum. We were back into the days of my youth when he fully dominated me.

The next day we were on the terrace of a café in Mandalay when I had to turn my face away from the pathway to the interior of the restaurant and murmur for Douglas to do the same. General Nakamura, followed by his two shadows, had climbed up to the terrace and strutted toward the interior of the restaurant. I didn’t know if the Japanese general had seen me or had any reason to believe that I was in Mandalay. Before I could think of what to do, Soe Pyne was climbing to the terrace as well not too far in the wake of the Japanese. He came straight to our table.

“We must leave,” he hissed to me.

“Yes, I can see that,” I answered. “It’s a stretch to think it a coincidence that the Japanese general is following us upcountry. We’ll have to go back to the bungalow straightaway before finishing our lunch.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Soe Pyne muttered impatiently. “I must get you away immediately. Not to the bungalow, but out of Mandalay. Out of Burma. The Japanese general is too much of a threat. It’s almost certain he’s on to you. Headquarters wants you out of Burma.”

“Headquarters?” I asked.

“I’m with the Int Corps just as you are,” Soe Pyne said. “I haven’t been able to convince Douglas to return and serve. It was a long shot, but we thought you might be able to do so. But this isn’t worth the risk. I have transportation ready.” His gesture turned my attention to the path below the terrace, where there was an ox cart with Maung Wai in the driver’s box.

“The Int Corps?” Douglas Ames asked, a confused expression on his face.

“I suggest you find someplace to hide until the Japanese general has moved on, Douglas,” he said. “As far as young Neal here is concerned, we must be away immediately.”

“Leave directly from here?” I asked, dumbfounded at how rapidly this all was happening. “For where?”

“Outside of Burma. It’s all arranged. It was a contingency plan. Your luggage is in the cart.”

“Can Douglas go with us?”

“Yes, of course,” Soe Pyne said. “If he will.”

“Douglas?” I asked, turning to him.

But he just raised his arms, palms showing, a shrug from his shoulders. “You said I could return if I stopped doing what gave me pleasure, Neal. I’m a weak man. I must have my pleasures. You’ve seen what they are and that they are available to me here. I will stay.”

We left him there, sitting on the terrace of the café, turning his attention to the young waiters serving the drinks and the meals as soon as we were leaving—assessing, I’m sure, which of them was eighteen and ripe for the taking.

It took more than a week for us to reach Chittagong, in India, overland on jungle paths. There, Soe Pyne and Maung Wai left me in the hands of the British authorities for transport back to England.

“Take care of Douglas,” I asked of Soe Pyne as we parted. “I don’t think he can take care of himself.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Soe Pyne answered.

To Be Continued