The Indian Doctor

[This is a completed five-chapter GM novella that will complete posting by mid-July 2019.]

I now understand that my subconscious was miles ahead of my “surface” brain on knowing what I wanted. Male models apparently are as justly characterized as thick brained as female models are reputed to be. I suppose I was more narcissistic in my youth and early adulthood, though, assuming that love came from the mirror and that sensuality was merely a fake technique applied to TV commercials to sell products.

I suppose that I had been desired for my looks and hit upon by men into my twenties, but I had been too taken with myself to notice. There had been gropes in public urinals, to be sure, and as they increased in frequency, they did increasingly set themselves in my subconscious as something to wonder about and to think upon. I was flattered, but I didn’t think they said anything about me if I just walked away from such propositions. But I clearly separated them from real life—which to me were straight, white teeth, a firm body, and a good job, wife, and family to propel me into the comfortable life.

So, when my spiral started for real, down into the world of realized desire, and all of that subconscious thinking about it was being drawn to the surface, there was no blame to cast—other than on my own self-indulgent fighting of any thoughts of what really aroused me in any significant way.

I’d seen the Indian doctor (if he really was a doctor—but, of course, as I later found out, he was) work the young men on the gym floor and in the shower room. There was no reason my surface brain wouldn’t know he was a sexual predator—or what his chosen prey was. In the end, I’m really glad it happened, though. Well, glad on one level. Finding man-on-man sex was freeing for me.

And I must say when I saw him working on other young men in the gym, I wanted him to work on me too. I didn’t want to have the feeling that he wanted them and not me. I was the professionally groomed male model. I wanted to soak up the attention of other men in the gym. I just assumed that when and if he did, I could just walk away from it as I did when men reached out to touch me at the urinals in a public bathroom.

The Indian was a magician really—and I was the world’s most naive dummy. The first encounter happened without me having a clue about what had happened even when it was over. I was a few years older than those the Indian doctor was targeting at the gym—and he was a good twenty years older than I was. He touched me in the sauna—just lightly on the thigh that first time, but then again, a little more firmly and bravely when I didn’t roll off the sauna shelf and walk away—and when it continued and became progressively more intimate without me shirking it, thinking that that was just how Indians were—touchy feely; we seemed to be having a reasonable conversation—my cock burbled out juice without warning and certainly without my really realizing we were having any form of sex.

He had a mesmerizing singsong voice, and I got horny without the usual arousal mechanisms—no warning really. He was doing this monologue about being circumcised or not in those doctor words of his, as if we were having an academic discussion or a medical consultation—which I thought came from some possible anomaly he had seen in my anatomy that I should have checked out with my own doctor. I have no idea how he knew suggesting a possible flaw in my body was the most direct route to my attention.

That’s how you get the attention of a narcissist. Ask him about a pimple you see on his nose. He’ll drop everything and run for the mirror.

He had his long, thin fingers on my cock head, seemingly examining around the base of the glans to advise me on whether it had been a good cutting job or not—something I hadn’t even thought of ever, truth be known—without me realizing or appreciating what he really was doing. I was being a real dope.

After that, which was one of my earliest visits to that gym, I observed him seduce young men on the gym floor, bringing them into the sauna, and as discreetly as possible, lapping them in a dark corner of the mist-filled chamber. He would fuck them—and then move on to the next conquest. Like others, I would sit and pretend it wasn’t happening—watch with curiosity while making like I wasn’t watching. This was Bangkok. Most the gyms permitted open sex. I’d known that soon after signing up with this one. It didn’t bother me; it titillated me, which I should have taken as a sign right there that I was become ripe for approaches by men.

For most the Indian doctor seduced it was just a one-time game. For me, though, he seemed to have other, more elaborate, plans. But that thought eluded me until years later. Why did he fuck and discard others in the sauna but lure me into his web for extensive training and debauching? Perhaps it was that I had so much farther to travel in the road to sexual depravity. I started, despite my age, a pure innocent. That was quite a rarity, I’m sure, in Bangkok at that time.

Anyway, that first time I was so surprised at his fingering, doctor giving free medical advice, of my sensitive cock bulb that I shot right off. I was greatly embarrassed, thinking I had probably misjudged his intent and now he’d think I was queer. I left the sauna in a highly confused state, with him clucking behind me, “It’s quite all right. Very normal. Don’t feel embarrassed.” For his part, he probably just thought I was performing a hard-to-get mating dance. I hadn’t clocked him when he got hold of my cock. I’d just sat there and stared dumbly. And I apologized, embarrassed, at my body’s reaction to his touch. I was the sort who tried to see things coming and who strategized my possible responses; this had come out of the blue. Regardless, his reassurances helped put me off my guard.

I stewed about the encounter for a week, all of the repressed feelings of sexuality and how I fit into that surfacing and plaguing my thoughts: what had really happened; how I really should have responded. Strangely, I thought more about the doctor in the sauna being an Indian than I did of him being male. My model background and the resultant worship of my own body and, in comparison, the forms of other men had robbed me of the usual stigma of men admiring other men that society ingrained in other, “normal” people. It was natural, people, including men, would admire my body and say so. I was a model.

So, the Indian aspect of him overpowered the male aspect in my assessing. And although I didn’t think I was attracted to Indians—in fact, I found them obsequious and off-putting devious at work—this one was quite handsome and distinguished and sensual looking. And he was so self-confident. I was so dumb that even seeing him with a young man in his lap, fucking him, didn’t mitigate my regard for him as a doctor. My instinct when I first saw him was to frame him in a TV commercial appropriate for the aura about him—which, yes, was as a calm, knowledgeable, distinguished doctor or professor.

The next time we were in the sauna alone, I more or less set myself up for the pass, thinking he probably wouldn’t even make one—that it had been my imagination that he’d made one in the first place—and I could put my confusion to rest—that I could be assured that the first encounter had, as he indicated, been merely a medical discussion.

Having no intention of anything happening at all, although we exchanged a few glances on the gym floor, when I entered the sauna, I stretched out on my back, towel loosely wrapped around my waist and stretching down to my knees. I told myself he wouldn’t even come into the sauna. I’d left him doing stretches on the gym floor and chatting up a young, blond German. But he did come to the sauna shortly after I went in. He came in and sat on the bench below where I was stretched and beyond my feet. In somewhat of a trembling condition, I spread my thighs and bent my legs, raising my feet to set flat on the planks of the sauna shelf. Doing so spread my towel open so that from where he was sitting, he could see up under my towel and check out the goods—if he wanted to. I held my breath, half willing him not to want to so that I could put my confusion to a rest.

I discovered by his almost immediate reaction that he obviously wanted to and liked what he saw.

An electric jolt went through me and I suddenly knew we were “doing something,” when I felt his strong, long fingers on my foot. He was massaging it—the top of it and the toes—and was slowly manipulating and pulling on the toes in a sensual way. I went hard. He slowly worked his hand up my calf and knee and under the hem of the towel. That’s when he started murmuring to me how nice my body was—and I was narcissistic enough to melt to his seduction. He’d seen me work out on the gym floor, he said, and he knew I was in TV commercials. Others in the sauna were turned to us now. This happened from time to time in the sauna. The opportunity to watch it happen was probably why half of these men came to the sauna.

I was a model, used to having attention directed at me—to be admired for my body. I did realize that I was into “hey look at us; this man wants me” behavior. I just was dumb enough to think I controlled it—that I could and would stop it at any point I wanted to. Apparently, although I hadn’t given it much thought, I didn’t want it to. Somewhere over the years I had acquired the curiosity and desire to connect with men without have intellectualized the desire.

His hand slowly went up the inside of my thigh, and he was lightly stroking my cock. I shot off almost immediately again. And, thick lunkhead that I was, I apologized again for my early ejaculation. This hadn’t happened to me with women. Obviously, the new experience with men was just that much more arousing.

Still holding my cock, he said he could teach me some techniques that would help with that “problem”—he was talking like a doctor and like it would be something I could use with the women I was with. He could teach me to hold it until I wanted to ejaculate. I weakly said I didn’t have a problem with women, but I was talking pretty dopily, because my attention was riveted to what he was doing with his hand. He was palming my cock and stroking the piss slit with a thumb, rubbing my ejaculated cum around the head. He was still talking clinically enough that I was fooling myself a bit about what was going on.

I said I’d think about his offer of medical help.

The men around us were sitting up and watching us closely. We disappointed them, though. He pulled away from me, having gone as far as he wanted to at that point of his seduction, apparently. And realizing it was over—probably forever, I assumed, and that gave me comfort—I left the sauna and went to the showers. No harm done. I bit of sexual arousal and release. That was all.

The next week he overheard me being told that my regular masseur wouldn’t be there that afternoon—I always worked out, showered, and then was rubbed down. The Indian then asked me while we were still out on the floor exercising whether I’d like to come back to his apartment after we worked out and he’d give me the massage I was missing. I was all aflutter, still not positive where this was leading—still the dope—when we got to his place.

But of course, subconsciously at least, I knew.

He showed me his office, which is where he said he saw his medical patients, and it did have a padded examination table in the center of the room, where he said he would give me a massage.

“Please to go ahead and undress,” he said, giving me a reassuring smile. “You may fold your clothes and put them over on the counter there. And this towel. You can put it around your waist.”

He busied himself on the other side of the room, not watching me, while I did as he had instructed me to do.

“Now for a good massage,” he said, when I was ready and standing barefoot beside the table and knotting the towel at my waist. “But first,” he continued. “Some hydration.”

I looked at him, and the confused look I gave him must have amused him, because he smiled. I felt such the dope. My hands had been trembling so hard I hardly was able to control them. When I had gotten down to my briefs, I had hesitated and he’d said for me to remove them too. I’d never done that with my masseur at the club.

“Some liquid refreshment. I am dry and I must assume that you could use a little something to drink before we begin.”

I followed him into a dining room of his apartment, where glasses and two frosted jugs were sitting on the table. He poured me a drink from one jug and himself one from the other and fixed me with his eyes as I drank from my glass.

“Yes, drink all of it.”

I began to feel a little woozy almost immediately, and I looked to him and said in a slurred voice, “What?”

“Just a slight sedative,” he said. “You’ll want to be relaxed for the massage. It will help me get to deep tissue and give it a good massage.”

I didn’t answer. I wanted to say something, but it was as if my mind and my voice were out of synch. I thought of something to say, but I forgot what that was before I could form the words.

I wasn’t losing consciousness or anything, I just was out of synch and even my limbs felt light and heavy at the same time. And I felt slightly euphoric and “so what?” about anything that was happening to me.

The Indian doctor turned my chair toward him—showing great strength, as I was still sitting in it—put his hands on the chair arms, and leaned into me, looking directly into my eyes. His voice, which previously had a lilting, off-beat cadence in pronouncing sentences in English, became almost singsong.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel fine,” I answered, but as I was answering, I was getting the impression that I wasn’t clearly forming the words. “A little strange, but fine,” I added.

“That little medical problem we were discussing the other day. Would you like a little exercise for that before we have our massage?”

“Medical problem? The other day?”

“The issue of premature ejaculation.”

“That was just because it was a surprise, I think. I don’t really—”

“Shall we just see?”

He already had his hand under the towel and on my cock.

“Well . . .” I ventured.

He had begun to stroke me slowly and I was hardening fast for him.

“I feel you tensing. Relax your muscles, but not your mind. Tell yourself you are not going to come yet. There are other muscles, ones you can operate separately, I can help you with those. But, yes, now. Now, swallow and think of anything but the sex. Can you feel the muscles behind your scrotum? Tighten those the next time you feel like evacuating—but relax all of the rest of your muscles and tell yourself you will not . . . well, that is OK. We will work on it.”

I had come in his hand.

He brought his hand from under the towel and wiped my cum off of it with a napkin. He was acting like it was quite OK, and I was somewhere in a “so what?” world, so I just sat and looked, I’m sure, dopey and sheepish.

I have no idea how I got from the dining room to the massage table—or where I lost the towel along the way. At the time I had both the vague notion that he had carried me there in his arms even though he was not really big enough to carry me anywhere. Later I learned that he could manage that just fine.

He laid me on my belly on the table and massaged my back and legs and arms with oil—doing a better job than my regular masseur did. He told me to roll over on my back, and when I did so, I saw that he now was naked. He was tall and lithe, but very well muscled, and he had a thin, but very long, dong that curved up menacingly about two-thirds down, like a Turkish scimitar even as it dangled between his thighs. It wasn’t too hard, so in the “so what?” haze I was in, I rationalized that I was pretty safe. It was erect but not fully erect.

He was massaging my front with oil, and my cock was standing up straight—and I was slightly embarrassed again, not being able to control it and still figuring there was an outside chance he wasn’t trying to do me, that this was all a misunderstanding on my part. When he got to my pelvis, he palmed my lower belly with one hand, the fingers of which curled around the base of my cock, and he slowly jerked me off with the other hand, whispering all of the time that this was just part of the relaxation and purification therapy he was using.

I made some embarrassed comments about being sorry I’d gotten hard, and he could just try to ignore that, but he was soothing me with words to the effect that the Indian massage method included an “evacuation of the pent-up essences” and it was all very normal in the Indian context. But even then he was still teaching me control. He’d pump me up and then hold off until I cooled. My cock and his hands were so oiled that there was little friction at all in what he was doing. At last he let me ejaculate again and cleaned it up with a towel. He then massaged all of the muscles on my front side real well again and I got drowsy.

He came around to above my head and massaged my temples, which was really putting me to sleep. He put his hands on my upper sides and pulled me up on the table until my head dropped off the end of it, and then he was working my temples again. Then I felt his cock at my lips and he was pushing in, suddenly very hard. I was confused because he had fully hardened up almost instantaneously (something I later learned was in his bag of tricks. He had expert control over his arousal, which, of course, he was volunteering to teach to me). He didn’t push far in, but I sort of spit it out and mumbled to him that I’d never sucked a man before—that, in fact, I’d never had any form of sex with a man until now.

He went all impressed and joyful at the news that he had a virgin on his hands. While I had been trying to wonder about and focus on what was going on, maybe he had just thought I was had been into a teasing foreplay game all along. He asked me if I’d let him initiate me. He begged me to let him prepare me for future encounters. He entreated me that I’d never have anyone as gentle and skilled as him if I had any inkling I wanted to be with men.

He said I’d never know that I didn’t want to be with men unless I tried it.

He explained that we were living in Bangkok, which was an openly hedonist city, and that, with my looks I would be hit on constantly by men, not just women, and I should be prepared well so that my first time—whether by my choice or because I was just taken—was not a horror.

Then the zinger. He said that, medically speaking, he had observed me closely and that I was repressing my true desires, which wasn’t healthy for me to do. He said I wanted to have sex with men—to let men worship my body—and that I was in Bangkok now, which was the best place for me to pursue and explore the possibility of that. He said I’d always wonder and regret if I didn’t let my sensual nature show through. All people were bisexual, he said. Most of them just repressed it, and their health suffered because of that. Sex was sex was sex, he said. I needed to let him help me reach the nirvana of sensuality.

I’d only been in Bangkok for a couple of weeks at that point, having been sent here, along with my wife and two young children, to work with an import firm. The up side for me in the assignment was that I could also find work as a male model in TV commercials here. I had been working out of New York, but I wasn’t getting any younger, and I could see the writing on the wall. I didn’t really know then that he was heaping on the bullshit just to get inside me, even though the underbelly of Bangkok did pretty much reveal itself to be as he described. My life in Bangkok had, thus far been all work. But it wasn’t long before I was being propositioned. My own boss only waited to get comfortable about bringing the question up after a month.

The doctor flattered me by wondering how anyone who looked like me could have gotten this far without going bisexual. He beat the drum of bisexuality, saying that everyone was really bisexual, and that most people were just trying to repress the attraction to their own gender. More evolved people, he said accepted that they were bi—and acted on it without guilt. He showed me a picture of him fucking his wife (it really was his wife, I found out later—although she lived most of the year in India) and assured me that many men took pleasure both ways.

Something inside me told me I didn’t want to deny myself any opportunities to experience full sensuality, and I gulped and asked him if he really would be gentle. (I didn’t think to ask him why I wasn’t going to be fucking him instead, if I was all that hot.) To prove he would be gentle and careful, his cock did go back into my mouth, but only a little ways, and rotated around. He said we wouldn’t have to get much into that for now, that, as he could demonstrate on me—and then did—that sucking on the bulb of a man’s cock alone was a glorious sensation for both. (My guess is that he wanted to get his dick up my ass before I thought better of the situation.)

He sent me stumbling off with an enema bottle after we had both come with the mutual cock bulb sucking, saying I’d be more comfortable if I was cleaned out—and he went off to take a ritualistic shower (he said). He didn’t want me to take a shower, I guess, because he wanted to roll around in the oil I’d been basted in.

When I came back, he had me go up on my belly on the table—I was oiled up so well now I could have slid off the table. I had assumed he’d suck me off with attention to the shaft to show me how that was done, but he obviously was going straight for the main event. A virgin is a virgin. An American male model virgin in the grasp is probably a trip to paradise for an aggressive gay male Indian.

He put a pretty bulky pillow under my belly to lift my pelvis up. He then got up on the table, pushed my thighs wide, got down behind me, and tongued my asshole for a while. His tongue also went to the underside of my cock and around my balls and across my inner thighs in this process. All the time he taking time off from the licking to tell me how nice I was and assuring me that I was slowly opening and that I’d be well open before he mounted me. He was pretty good at keeping his word on that. He patiently worked on me for an hour or more (during which I shot off a couple more times, with his encouragement and clucking that I had nothing to be embarrassed about—I could reload within twenty minutes in those days and shoot off five or six times a night when I was really aroused).

Varieties of lubricant were applied, some of which was for deadening the area (and probably were illegal). After his tongue, he went to fingers. He had long, sensuous ones, and he could easily reach my prostate. He showed me how he could make me shoot off just by rubbing me there. Then his well-oiled fingers probed deeper. Whatever he was using to deaden pain was only used on the rim and just a few inches inside, so he could be in a couple of inches before I even knew I was being skewered. He showed me a couple of smallish dildos of increasing size before he lubed them up and slowly and gently screwed them into my ass and around, giving my channel time to adjust to them. There wasn’t much pain in any of this, and I was jacked up to the roof at the very idea of what was happening to me—the sheer risk and adventure of it—and the fact that I’d finally been brave enough to give it a try.

This may have been the first moment when I was willing—to myself—to admit that I’d always been curious. At least deep inside of me.

After more than an hour, I felt his cock at my back door, and he very slowly entered me—and entered me and entered me and entered me. That was one long cock. It felt like the uncoiling of a snake inside me. With that “bent up” cock of his, I could feel the head dragging along my ass canal walls as it plowed up me. There was some pain now, but I told myself it was minimal, bearable pain for a first time. He kept referring to the possibility of minor pain and promising that it would turn into pleasure.

I’d been as gently prepared as I could wish for. All the time he was working me, he spoke to me in a reassuring singsong tone. As he was rising up into me, he told me how lucky I was that his cock was thin and that my channel wouldn’t be unduly stretched the first time. He didn’t say anything about how incredibly long it was or that I would feel that it was straightening my intestines out with the goal of entering my stomach.

He rode me, slowly pumping me deep, for a good thirty minutes, drawing out his pleasure with the virgin as much as he could, I suppose—although later I was to find that he could ride for as long as he wanted to and ejaculate as and when he wished. He was braced on his knees behind me and either kept his hands hooked over my shoulders or palmed flat on my shoulder blades as his cock worked me. He continued chattering away in his singsong voice, no doubt—with the help of the drug he’d given me—keeping me calm and mesmerized. I could tell that the experience was quite arousing for him too, because he came quickly (for him—he was the master of self-control). His ejaculation felt like a warm fountain spurting inside me, sort of a foreign tickling sensation. I hadn’t realized that I could feel cum inside me, but I could. But then, of course, I’d never imagined I would have cum inside me.

I was now fucked.

This was in the late seventies in Bangkok, a good five years before the first cases of AIDS sent most gay men—not very many in Bangkok yet, however—to the use of condoms. In those days most fucked bareback without a thought that someday there would be consequences. The Indian doctor certainly did, with the comment that all things that could be done naturally, should be. He also said there was a different, more arousing sexuality to skin rubbing on skin. Years later when I too moved exclusively to using condoms, I acknowledged that he was right. No fucking was as memorable to me as those early, barebacking years.

Some men are multiple spouters—I am one of those. The Indian doctor wasn’t, though. Although he could harden and ejaculate at will, when he did ejaculate, it was in a single, powerful jet—producing more cum, though, than most could in multiple spurts. And once in there, I could feel it. And after an evening with him, it would be dripping down my legs when I walked away from him.

He held there for a while, straddling my hips, on the massage table, his cock buried to the hilt, massaging my muscles again and telling me what a lovely young man I was. I felt him go flaccid inside me. But he just kept massaging me, not letting me up. And I felt him start to engorge and fill up my ass canal again. I didn’t feel sore inside, but the deadening was wearing off on the rim of my ass, and I felt a little chaffed there. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to let the virgin get away with only one screwing.

He pulled out of me and walked down the table on his knees, pulling me with him, until we were both standing on the floor at the edge of the table, and then he bent me over, my chest on the table, my legs held close together, encased by his thighs. He folded himself over me and slowly entered me a second time. This time I felt some pain at the entry and let him know he was hurting me, that he was too filling this way. That I needed to widen my stance. He shushed me like one would do a fussy baby and just kept plowing up me. He said he wanted briefly to let me feel another type of fucking and that he knew I’d enjoy it. He squeezed my thighs between his, which tightened my canal around his cock even closer, and then he took me in long strokes, nearly all the way out, and then all the way back in. He did me for about fifteen minutes this way, and I was very vocal with this one, arching my back up to him and writhing my hips around. This is where I first experienced pain mixed so heavily with pleasure that I was yelling both that he was hurting me and pleading with him to keep pumping me. He claimed to really like my reaction to that position—and chose to keep pumping me.

Then he turned me on his cock, while pushing on my spine onto the massage table. He spread my legs, and, saying this was yet another style I might like, he gave me a mixed-routine fuck. He’d pump me from the front with fast shallow strokes for five minutes, then take the root of his cock in his hand and rotate it around inside me, hitting all the walls with that bent knob of his. Then back to the short, fast strokes. I did a good bit of grunting and moaning for him in this position—and wondering if it was going to ever stop—not at all sure I wanted it to. He went deep then for about three plunges and he had come again.

We showered together and that’s when he went down in front of me in the cascading water and sucked me off. He did it quickly that afternoon. In later sessions he showed me he could drive me wild with his tongue and mouth work on my cock.

After drying off, he took me to his bedroom and pushed me down on the bed. By now whatever drug he’d given me had worn off, and I was fully aware of what was happening. But now it no longer mattered. I was no longer a virgin to a man fucking me. I was way past that. The “so what?” thought had permanently taken residence. And he continued to tell me how beautiful my body was and that he couldn’t help himself in the face of how luscious and ripe I was. I hadn’t lost my weakness to being told how good I looked.

Whatever. I’d already been fucked. Doing it again wasn’t going to deflower me.

After lubing up my hole and his cock, he fucked me again in a side split—me on my left side, he on his left side behind and under me, his left arm under and around me, with his palm fanned out over my belly, his right hand holding my right leg up in the air, and his cock stroking up into me from behind and below. During this, he started showing me that men could exchange sensual mouth kisses. After he was done with me in that position, I was exhausted and slept in his arms for over an hour, with his cock up my (now throbbing and sore) ass.

So, it took me a hell of a long time to get around to any “firsts,” but then my real first was a doozy.

The Indian gave me ointments and lubricants to cut down on the “getting used to it” pain, and a collection of ever-larger butt plugs—that didn’t stretch the rim too much, but that stretched the first three or four inches inside, so that big cocks could get in and not do too much damage.

At the door, he told me to use the ointments faithfully until we met again. It was only when he shut the door and I was standing alone in the hallway—but not really alone, a small Thai man was peeking at me from around the curtains covering the door to the maid’s room adjacent to the apartment’s front door—that the glorious horror of what had just happened to me struck. I began to tremble. He had said that we would meet like this again. I had no intention of that happening. There was no erasing what had happened. But I still could control myself. I didn’t ever need to do it again. Or so I told myself.