The Indian Doctor

Less than five months from the time the Master—I no longer could think of and refer to him as the Indian doctor—had initiated me, I had four more-or-less regular sex partners dominating me. I couldn’t use the word lover at that point, however. All of them were using me more for their own pleasure and needs than for mutual satisfaction. On Saturday afternoons, after tennis, I was shared in military, almost detached, perfunctory military style by the Thai general and his aide in the general’s office. This was more just an extension of the tennis match, part of the soldier’s routine combining calisthenics and clinical relief in getting their rocks off regularly. Although they were quite comradely about it, there was little affection there and certainly no foreplay. The general would take me first, often with me on my back or belly on the desk, and, as he pulled out of me and his cum was dripping out of me, Chumphon, his aide, would step in, penetrate, and pump me.

There also was little affection attached to my irregular couplings with my kinky boss, which uniformly occurred either in his office late in the evening, or on his boat off Phattaya. These fuckings were more about control and bondage equipment than they were about loving—or even about sex, really. The fuck itself wasn’t the game with my boss, it merely was the signal of my complete capitulation to his control, him waiting for me to completely relax within my bonds and totally surrender to his cock either in my mouth or my channel. We did not fuck all that often, but as far as this being an affair, he emotionally fucked me—and all of his other employees—every day with his management style of overpowering, controlling, and vanquishing.

The fourth, the Master himself, could not, in the first more than four months of my conditioning, be classified as a lover, either. He was the teacher and the consummate controller. The sex I had with those four men in the initial four months was instructive and it was interesting—I would even say addictive—but it was missing something. After four months, the Master showed me what had been missing, but I have cursed him ever since for doing so.

The visit I was summoned to was the usual routine at the beginning, with the exception that we were observed by two men. My thought was that the Master had brought them in to heighten my own sense of the sensual of having men watching me be fucked and showing in no uncertain terms that they wanted me too. In this, the Master was correct. I remained the narcissist I had always been, being aroused the most when the other men wanted to worship my body by fully possessing and controlling it—and using it as a vessel to sow their seed in. As I lay on the examining table, my limbs bound and my knees bent, with the Master in between them, manipulating my legs back and forth with hands on my knees, matching the rhythm of his stroking inside me, I turned my head and watched the reactions of the two men. What I saw, made me pant harder, arch my back and moan deeper, harden to a fuller, aching erection. I murmured my wish for one—or both—of them to come to the table and possess my throbbing cock with mouth or hand—or to let me make love to their cocks with my mouth while the Master fucked me. And though both were more than willing, the Master forbade it.

Both men were monstrously large, one being taller than the other, indeed much taller than anyone else in the room. They were both Asiatic—Turks, I thought. They had muscular bodies, making me think of wrestlers, and they both were brown-bodied and had black hair and otherwise swarthy, almost thuggish features. Both were ugly of face but beautiful of body. The taller one was smooth bodied, with a long, thick cock and a drooping ball sac that reached for the floor. The shorter, stockier one, was heavily hirsute, almost a bear of a man. His cock was below average in length, but it was of seemingly a beer can thickness, with a rosy red, apple-sized glans on it. His balls were of the two-hander variety.

The two masturbated themselves and watched me with leering eyes as the Master slow fucked me. As the stocky one stroked himself, his cock gained in length without losing in thickness. Their ejaculate came in such profusion that it almost reached the table.

They joined us for refreshments in the dining room. The Master introduced the tall one as Gemal and the short one as Sami. They seemed to understand most of what the Master said in that singsong voice of his as he filled in the silence with mundane monologue. Neither of the Turks said anything, though. They just sat there, drinking their beer, eating the peasant bread that had been laid out, and eyeing me like they wanted to eat me too. I found that arousing.

The Master then led me into the bedroom and made love to me on his bed. For the first time, in the melting preparation followed by a slow, side-splitting fuck that reached into the depths of my emotion, I could say that I had a lover. He stretched along my back, an arm under my shoulders, turning my face to his with a hand cupping the side of my head and playing my lips and tongue with long, deep kisses, while his cock deep stroked me inside and his other hand slow-stroked my cock.

He played me like a violin. Each time I approached ejaculation, he held me off, only to restart the fucking at a higher level of arousal. He had me sobbing and fucking myself on his now-still cock when, at last, he flooded me deep with his cum.

I laid in his arms, panting shallowly and luxuriating in how wonderfully I’d been played, as he murmured endearments and made postcoital love to one of my nipples with his lips, tongue, and teeth.

“Is this the way you would like it?” he asked.

“Sometimes. Sometimes, yes,” I answered. “But the other ways too.”

“Ah, yes, the other ways,” the Indian doctor said with a slight smile on his face.

All of this had been watched by the two Turks, and when the Master left me and said I could rise from the bed, he signaled to the taller of the two Turks as I came up on my knees on the bed, preparing to step out onto the floor, Gemal leaned in to me and shoved me in the chest , sending me sprawling out on the floor. Confused and shocked, I tried to rise. Gemal punched me in the face, and kneed me in the belly. I went down on the floor in a heap.

“Oh, please, no more,” I sobbed with a gasp, as I felt him wrapping his arm under my belly and bringing me up from the floor.

He laughed, and I could feel him standing and pulling me up into his belly with that arm wrapped around me. He was so tall that my feet didn’t reach the carpet. I writhed and blubbered against him as he entered me with his cock, and then dangled limply in front of him, moaning and groaning, as he pistoned me hard and fast and added his cum to the Master’s.

“Why?” I moaned as I lay on my back on the carpet, the Master crouched over me, supporting my shoulders with one arm, and ministering to the cut on my cheek with the other hand.

“You were too busy to notice, I’m sure. But you have never gotten as hard for anything as you did for the rough handling. You came twice while Gemal was working you. And now, I want you to come for me.”

I moaned and suckled his nipple as the Master gently stroked me to another ejaculation.

“The sweet and the rough,” he kept crooning in that singsong voice of his.

When I’d come, he gathered me in his arms and took me back to the office. He strapped me on the table, belly down, and I felt the weight of the stocky Turk, Sami, on my hips. I found out what it was like to have a churning beer can in my channel. And I discovered that Sami could ride continuously for nearly a half hour. Or, rather, I discovered that Sami and I together could ride for nearly an hour. After a good twenty minutes of Sami riding my ass, the Master told him to dismount and he unstrapped me and pulled me off the table. Sami went back up on the table on his back, his monstrous erection standing up from his belly—an apple atop a beer can.

“You may leave or continue, as you wish,” the Master said to me.

Castigating myself for my needs and lusts, I climbed onto the table, mounted the cock, and rode myself on top of Sami, with him thrumping my chest with his fists, to his eventual ejaculation, which was after I’d had another of my own and the cum of three men was dripping down Sami’s encased cock and onto his belly.

As I left that evening, the Master put a hand on my arm and whispered, “You may not wish to acknowledge what you want, but you were no more alive during sex than you were today, with multiple men and the sweet and the rough.”

* * * *

“I understand you want to party hard.”

“Excuse me?” I said. It was the interval in a stage performance of South Pacific at the Bhirasri Institute in Bangkok. Both my wife and I had gone off to find restrooms, and I was back to my seat well before she was because of the line that formed for the ladies’ room. The man who addressed me had the seat next to mine and hadn’t left it at intermission. I had been aware of the bulky black man sitting beside me throughout the first half, because he had taken up more than one seat. He wasn’t fat; he was big and muscular. I knew him slightly, as he sometimes appeared for tennis on Saturday at the nearby military academy courts. He was a captain in the Joint U.S. Military Advisory Group unit that was housed in a compound just around the corner from the theater, on Sathorn Road.

I had already worked out why he was at this performance. I hadn’t thought that musical comedy was his style. But when I saw the hunks cavorting on stage in not much of anything and looked at the program, I saw that the theater group had enlisted guys from JUSMAG for their chorus. He’d come to egg his comrades on, no doubt. I’d already been told that Bangkok, and JUSMAG, in particular, was a coveted assignment for military men who were secretly gay. In those days you had to hold such an orientation very closely. But it seemed like the upper ranks must have known the gay enclave that was being perpetuated at this post. It was evident that they looked the other way for soldiers who had a weakness for other men but a powerful family to back them and let such men have their Bangkok assignment.

“See that man standing over there at the far aisle?” the black captain said.

“Yes.” I knew of him too. He was director of one of the international companies here in Bangkok—a tall, well-built, distinguished-looking man who probably was just pushing fifty. He had a patrician face and elegant demeanor, in keeping with his Boston Brahmin lineage. Having seen his name in the theater program, I knew that he was the producer of this show too.

“He’s having a very special pool party for members of the cast this Saturday, and—”

“Ah, well my wife is going up country this weekend to help select crafts for a handicraft sale, and—”

“We rather hoped you’d be coming alone.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. Who told you that I—?”

“Here’s the invitation,” he said. “I see your wife entering the theater. Perhaps you should take a look at the invitation in privacy. And perhaps you won’t want your wife to see it—or to know that you attended.”

I glanced at the invitation enough then to see that it had the Master’s name on the backside of the envelope. I slipped it into my pocket, knowing that it was more of a command than an invitation. And I was right. When I was able to read it in private, it included a note from the Master, saying, “You will go. It will be both rough and sweet and will have variety.”

The host’s compound was on Sathorn, several blocks closer to the river and the city’s port than the JUSMAG compound. It was a large complex of buildings, some Thai-style pavilions, others more modern stuccoed buildings with blue-tiled roofs. The large terrace, rimmed with palm trees and encasing a large swimming pool, was in the center of the cluster of buildings, blocked well in view from the street.

I could tell what kind of party this was as soon as I arrived. Several Thai bar girls and a few Thai rent-boys were scattered around on lounge beds ringing the pool and were getting attention, according to preferences, from an all-male invitee list that certainly wasn’t restricted to the male chorus from South Pacific.

The host hovered around the periphery, watching his guests in various stages of undress and coupling in a detached, half-smile sort of way.

The black captain seemed to be in charge of the festivities. When he saw me, he guided me to one of the lounge beds, stopping en route to collect a tall, cool beer for me at a poolside bar. Even as he was telling me to make myself comfortable on the lounge bed and that I would be attended to shortly, one of the male choristers was very close nearby, eyeing me. When I did lay down on the lounge, he was leaning over me and tugging my Speedo off my legs.

“Excuse me,” I’d said. “What do you—?”

“Lay back and enjoy it. You are a special guest.”

The young soldier straddled the end of the lounge bed and leaned over my legs and began to give me head. My vision of him was obliterated by the figure of another hunky young soldier, who straddled the lounger at my chest and presented me with a plump cock to suck on. In short order, the first soldier raised and spread my legs, rolled my hips up, and was attacking my asshole with his tongue.

The man I was sucking off pulled out of me and left the lounge bed just in time for me to watch the first young soldier press the bulb of his cock past the rim of my hole, screw it in, and start screwing me in earnest. I turned my head to see that a line was forming behind him. The young soldier I’d sucked had inserted himself into the line behind my first “customer.” The black captain stood at the end of the line. He was naked, like the rest, and had a magnificent body, like the rest, and his dong would have reached almost to his knees if it wasn’t standing up proud and erect.

I lost count at five of those who fucked me, in succession, on that lounge bed. The black captain thrust inside me sometime after I’d stopped counting. He left me moaning weakly, with my arm slung across my face and me unable to close my legs. When I opened my eyes, shadows were stealing far in from the surrounding compound walls and I was staring at the still-full tall glass of beer—which no longer was cold—on the patio table next to the lounge bed. Beyond that was a Thai male servant with a sarong tied at his waist and staring intently at me.

“You come into the house and refresh yourself, yes?” he asked me with a concerned voice once he saw that I was awake.

I groaned as he helped me from the lounge bed. As I stumbled toward one of the more modern buildings, I looked around the pool area. Most of the guests had either left or had moved to the bedrooms inside the house. Only a few remained, wrapping up their last fucks on the lounge beds. The black captain was making a Thai bar girl squeal. I knew how she felt; he had made me squeal too.

I was led into a large, luxuriously appointed bathroom. Its bathing choices included a sunken bath tub Jacuzzi, a shower big enough to wash a car in, and a white-enameled claw-footed tub. After handing me a cold beer and watching me drink it, the Thai servant decided all on his own to put me into the claw-footed tub, which was filled with steaming water and soap suds.

I laid back in the tub while the Thai servant sponged me off. I was nearly asleep when I heard the voice.

“Mind if I join you?”

It was my patrician host. Naked. His body was thin but in marvelous condition for his age. He stood there, looking cool and elegant—very much like many of the New York older male models I knew, and wanted to be able to age like—with the only incongruity being that his cock was oversized for a body that otherwise was in perfect proportion—and he was erect—and  he had an extra large ring pierced in the head of his cock.

“It’s your tub,” I answered.

He fucked me slowly in the tub as he knelt between my open legs, which were hooked on his hips, working my prostate and channel expertly with the cock ring. Before he entered me, he placed the palms of his hands under my buttocks, raised my groin to the surface of the water, and gave me slow, sensual head until I came. After that he could have done anything he wanted with me.

After he ejaculated, he leaned back into the far end of the tub, still inside me, and gave me a melting smile. “Will you be able to stay the night?”

“I’ll have to call home and tell the maids to stay with the children.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

“I will be very good to you,” he murmured.

“I know you will,” I answered. And, indeed, I did know that. I knew that this was the “sweet” part of what the Master had said would be sweet and rough.