The Indian Doctor

I stopped going to play tennis on Saturday mornings. Instead I went to the compound on Sathorn Road, where the host and one of the men living with him, the black captain, had a private tennis court. The host didn’t play; he’d sit there by the court, under an umbrella, sipping his martinis and watching the black captain and me play. They had other men living with them in the compound, but whenever I was there, the other men would evaporate.

We played only in jock straps—which gave me an interestingly shaped tan. The black captain fucked me rough in the private locker room after our matches—with the host watching us. The black captain had a plow belt he liked to use on me. He was much taller than I was and, bent double, I dangled in front of him, my belly supported by the padded center of the strap and my feet waving at the tiled floor, as he pulled my channel on and off his cock with the strength of his grip on each end of the strap. This fucking reminded me both of my boss and his toys and of the Turk, Gemal, standing and screwing me like I was a rag doll swinging on his cock.

After lunch, the host would take me to his bed for the sweet part of the coupling. He’d place a pillow under the small of my back, and as he slid into me, I’d raise my hips farther to give him the perfect angle to work my prostate with his cock ring—and I’d be mounting the stairs to heaven.

The Thai general and his aide didn’t seem to note my absence—at least neither attempted to contact me when I stopped showing up on Saturdays—which was a little disappointing to me. But in the long run, I appreciated not being involved in a scene over it. My boss had already zeroed in on a new, younger employee, who, upon my observation, acted like he was ravaged each time my boss tied him up and fucked him. So, there were no hard feelings from the boss, either, when I began stopping at the host’s compound after work rather than staying around to play under my boss.

Being curious on how the JUSMAG captain had contacted me, with an invitation including a note from the Master, I asked the Indian doctor about that in one of the last sessions I had with him.

“Those men are clients of mine,” he said, answering me without the least bit of embarrassment.

“General Krit, and my boss, and the black captain?”

“Yes, all of them. They pay me to procure interesting, refined, and lovely men, like you—men who will give them anything they want—for them to fuck.”

“You decided while initiating and developing me to match me with men who would pay you?”

“No. They told me what they would pay for and I procured and developed you into what they’d already told me they wanted in a man to bed. You have been trained to meet their individual desires. But you have benefited from the arrangement. Don’t try to tell me you haven’t.”

I didn’t respond to him, and in not responding I was agreeing with him.

“I can stop recommending you, if you wish. Is that what you wish?”

Once again I didn’t respond in the negative, so the recommendations continued for the next year, and I was covered by a variety of very capable men.

I don’t know if I would have grown tired of being pimped by the Indian doctor. My life with the Master took care of itself. The notes summoning me to his presence or to assignations with other men simply stopped arriving after a year. When I built up the courage to knock on his apartment door, it was answered by a female maid who told me that a Danish family connected with one of the United Nations offices in Bangkok now lived in the apartment.

My relationship with the men living in the compound on Sathorn Road continued, however. I came very close to reordering my whole life—of leaving my wife and children and moving into that compound. Several of the American servicemen living there who bedded with men struggled hard to remain there for as long as possible. I could have been one of those men, albeit a civilian. For some reason I could imagine the Master smiling and nodding his head at that, my transformation under his instruction complete. But sanity returned to me in the form of a transfer to Washington, D.C., where my company had a small lobbying office and where my skills as a model and spokesman were said to be needed. I think it also helped that the Master no longer was there, controlling me and giving me to other men. If I am honest, I have to acknowledge that I would never have broken from his chains in Bangkok—he had to be the one to set me free.

Life in Washington, D.C., was good. I was kept busy, my wife immersed herself in various charities, and the kids loved their elementary schools.

When the invitation came to attend a benefit a concert, I assumed it came from one of my wife’s charity concerns and she assumed it came through my lobbying work.

The Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington put on a terrific concert. During the first half, I just closed my eyes and let the rich male voices in harmony sweep over me. At the interval in the lobby bar, where I had gone to refresh drinks while my wife talked with a community organization acquaintance, a handsome young chorister—I could tell he was a chorister because they wore tuxedos and most of the men in the audience didn’t—stopped me, smiled, and handed me a note.

The note gave a date—the next Tuesday—and a time—7:00 p.m.—and a location. My hands trembled as I recognized the handwriting. I also recognized the name of the senator I was to meet. I had heard rumors about him, and the few times I had been at Washington parties that he also attended, I fancied that he looked my way more than was normal. Now I knew.

When the concert started up again, I searched the faces of the chorus. The Indian doctor was in the bass section, third row up, four from the end. The conductor hadn’t taken up his baton yet, and the Master was staring right at me, a cruel little smile on his lips.

I feigned sickness—I really did feel sick—and we left the auditorium before the singing started again.

I did my best to pile on work or home activities for the next Tuesday, but to no avail.

The Thai male servant from Bangkok—more fully dressed now in white shirt and long trousers—met me at the door of the doctor’s office in the Watergate complex. The senator was waiting for me in an examination room.

The senator fucked me strapped to an examination table in his office, a pillow under the small of my back to give his cock the best angle on my prostate, and my knees bent with my feet strapped flat on the surface of the padded table. I let my mind drift as, with hands on my knees, he manipulated my legs back and forth to the rhythm of the fuck, a technique he must have learned from the Master. I wondered what the Master had planned for me this evening after the senator had taken his pleasure. When the politician left, though, the Master entered the examination room and took his pleasure as well.

As always, he fully used and satisfied me.

I had, in fact, not been released from his chains in Bangkok. His control and his pimping me out resumed in Washington. Truth be known, it probably would have resumed anywhere he wished it to.

-FINI-