India Assignment

"Lie back on the bed and cough when I tell you to, please."

I did so, a little embarrassed I'd gone hard, but since the doctor was examining me to certify me clean to have bareback sex with a man, and he undoubtedly knew that, I didn't know why I should be embarrassed. Maybe it was because the doctor was a hunk and a half and told me up front not to worry about the reason I was there—that he was gay himself. Somehow that revelation didn't help me not become aroused at his touch. He had a gloved finger up my ass and had already had his hands everywhere else on my body, including stroking me hard with a gloved hand, so there wasn't much more intimate he could get with me. Well, there was, and perhaps the embarrassment was that I fantasized him doing it—doing it all to me. While he had a finger in me, I closed my eyes and imagined that it was more than a finger. And I just let myself engorge and throb and then, under his stroking hand, shoot off.

"Ah, very good. A healthy discharge," he murmured. "Can you . . . quickly? Ah, yes, you can. Very good. Very good indeed."

He, Dr. Deeran Chari, had said he was from South India, in the state of Tamil Nadu, which explained why he was a dark brown. But he also was taller and huskier, harder bodied, than I thought of an Indian as being, with muscular arms and a handsome face, with an aquiline nose, a black beard, and, strikingly, milky-blue eyes. His hair was groomed on top, but the sides were pulled around and tied into a bun at back. I wondered how far it would fall when that bun was undone. Would it go to his shoulders? To his waist? Would he look any sexier then than he did now? His features were strong and his forearms were hairy. His cotton shirt was thin enough that I could see that he was hirsute, with curly hair swirling on his pecs and down his clearly cut six pack to his flat belly. A medallion of some sort on a chain nestled between his bulging pecs. Either he rouged his nipples and quarter-sized aureoles, peeking out from swirls of fine hair, or they were naturally rosy. They shown through the gauzy material of his loose-weave shirt.

All of this was contributing to me becoming hard again while he continued poking and prodding me. He held my cock in one fist while doing his work with the other hand—the work that purposely was making me harden and come.

I was a male whore who had been held back for three weeks to be prepared for this assignment. Yes, I was horny. Getting it would just make me hornier. Sam Winterberry understood that about me. But the man was just a doctor they'd brought in. He wasn't going to lay me right here with Winterberry and Deaver watching.

Was he? I began to wonder what sort of fee deal Winterberry and Deaver had made with the doctor. I had no doubt that sexual privilege would be included in the deal if that's what the two needed to get the deal done. And what did I feel about that? With this particular doctor, it would be just fine with me.

We were in a hotel room high up in Mumbai, India's, Taj Mahal Tower Hotel, my having arrived here the previous day, escorted by the chief of the Agency's Candy Store unit, Sam Winterberry, to do a couple of jobs in India, one here in Mumbai, which once had been Bombay, and the other one down on the eastern coast, at Chennai, which once had been named Madras.

The mark here in Mumbai had insisted on a tryst with a young blond male, with classic Westerner looks and a great body, as part of his compensation for spilling his company's guts on middle-man work with Russian and Chinese munitions exports into the Middle East. I was the answering product off the Candy Store shelves for that. He had also insisted on barebacking and on having a certificate of being clean. The Agency had pills for that now, but the man had insisted on the certificate.

Once the doctor had been brought into the hotel room, where Sam Winterberry and the handling agent from New Delhi Station, Jason Deaver, were standing off to the side and observing, Deaver had tried to get Doctor Chari just to sign the certificate, telling him that the Agency had the scientific answer for this well in hand without an examination, but Chari had insisted a full medical check in addition to the blood tests, which he could have processed in a couple of hours, apparently the reason why he was selected.

Deaver had argued, but Winterberry had interjected and said, "Just get on with it. Drake's going to be fucked anyway. Let the doctor do whatever he wants, as long as we have a certificate before dinnertime." I was finding that what the doctor wanted was to get his jollies making me fire off for him.

And so, here I was, lying back on the bed, with a dreamy-looking doctor's finger up my ass and his other hand holding my cock. I didn't mind. The central part of my job was being fucked by men, so a doctor being overzealous in an exam that normally was handled just with a blood test, was no big deal. A bigger deal was watching Sam Winterberry watching me while the doctor had his hands on me. Winterberry's approach to recruitment was to put the man or woman through their paces to determine they could do the job. I knew the look Winterberry was giving me.

And, sure enough, after the doctor declared he was satisfied and was ushered out of the hotel room to put in a rush on the blood sample, Winterberry told Deaver to leave as well.

"Don't dress just yet," he said, as he shut and locked the hotel door. "Stay right there."

When he turned, he was unzipping himself. I sat up on the end of the bed, as he saddled up to me, took his hard, thick, long cock in my hands and then in my mouth, and gave him head. I knew Winterberry's procedures and demands.

He obviously had faith in the Agency preventative pill, because when he turned me, belly down, on the bed and, crouching over me, holding my wrists to the silk bedspread above my head, mounted, and penetrated my channel, he wasn't sheathed. As always, he was thick and long, strong and vigorous. I arched my torso off the bed and back into his chest. He buried his face in the hollow of my neck and held a ridge of my skin in his teeth, holding me in place as psychologically as he did physically. He fucked me hard and deep, as Sam Winterberry always did with his Candy Store agents, making sure I understood who was boss. Most likely he was remembering too that the first fuck just added to my arousal for the next one.

* * * *

Dinner was just for two in a private room of the hotel's Shamiana restaurant. My job was to charm the man and to let him know, in any way he seemed to prefer, that I would be happy for him to cover me and that I'd show him the best of times. Jagan Mehta was a mixed bag. He was ugly as sin, short, and fat. He wasn't overly obese but he was dough-boy pudgy. He was about fifty and berry-brown, although not as dark as the doctor who examined me in the hotel room had been. When he talked—and before he became comfortable with me and his little habits flowed away—he had a silly grin on his face and his head swayed from side to side like a bobble doll. Throughout the meal I had to try to forget the sexiness of the doctor and prepare myself for the target. I had to give this little man a good time.

As the meal progressed, though, that became easier to contemplate. In my job, I'd been fucked by a lot of old, fat men. No matter what was said publicly about the business of intelligence, my Agency, like nearly all of those of other countries, combined the two oldest professions in history—spying and whoring—to gather vital information and conduct operations. I took targeted men—and women, as necessary—however they came because of what they knew that was of intelligence value, and you didn't normally become of interest to the Agency as a young or trim man. It was usually men of experience in age and who were self-indulgent and able to feed their excesses. To sell your nation's secrets to get young male ass required a certain amount of greed and overindulgence. That didn't mean you didn't have a lot of experience of dominating young men in bed, though. Some of these men were men of command, intelligence, and charisma as well. Jagan Mehta was one of those.

My job in this assignment wasn't to take Mehta's valuable information on Russian and Chinese arms sales into the Middle East from him. I sometimes got that end of the assignment as well. Here, though, I was just to take his cock. My services were part of the incentive, the reward. I was just supposed to lay under him and sheath his shaft to reward him for services already rendered.

He came dressed like a maharajah, in beige silks, a turban, and glittering gems on his fingers. I thought he'd be a shallow dandy who thought he was a sexual being. He soon disabused me of that, though. He was personable and sharp. He talked nothing of the topics we the Agency valued him for. He talked broadly on all sorts of other topics and both showed interest and sensitivity to me and respect for my own views. He treated me like I was a courtesan rather than a whore.

I wasn't a dummy on foreign affairs topics. I'd come to the Agency with a master's degree in the subject. Unfortunately, I'd also come with a weakness for men's cocks and with the looks that men wanted in a male whore. The Agency had ferreted that out quickly and turned me over to Sam Winterberry. In all, though, the job had been a good fit for me.

Over dessert, Mehta got around to more explicit questions, but by then he was comfortable enough to drop his irritating mannerisms and I was comfortable in talking with him, mellow with the idea of being with him in bed, and prepared to see this through without any stress. He had moved to beside me when the dessert and coffee arrived, and felt me up. I became more at ease by the expertise he exhibited in being able to get a good feel without making it obvious he was doing so. The restaurant was very discreet; the serving men obviously knew Mehta was being intimate with me, but the impeccable service continued as if they didn't notice.

"I would say nearly seven inches," he said.

"Yes, a bit longer hard," I answered, looking directly in his eyes, not flinching even though he wasn't doing his estimate just from a feel outside the material, but had masterfully gotten me unzipped and was holding my cock in his bejeweled hand. I willed myself to get hard for him to convey that I wasn't shy for him, and I managed that. I wondered briefly is I was expected to be the top in this encounter. I could go with that, if need be, although most of my marks wanted to be the top.

"I'm nearly eight hard," he said. "That's what you'll have to take." So, that cleared that question up.

"That's good to know," I replied. And it was good to know. Many men say that inches don't matter, but that's usually men who don't have them. To a prostitute, especially a submissive one, knowing how many inches you have to take is important. It's important in terms of the john's enjoyment—the best positions to maneuver him into for the size he is—as much as in terms of what the submissive can sheath and provide good friction for in the fuck. It's usually a surprise, but if it isn't and you know the man will be unusually long or thick—or small and thin—you can prepare better.

It also is important information for a seasoned male prostitute as I already was. We took cock often enough that size mattered. If the cock was small or even regular sized, we knew we'd had to do a good bit of acting and we prepared for it. For a cock the size that Mehta had declared, we could go with the natural pleasure of the unusual stretch.

There are positions that accommodate big cocks better than others, and you need more preparation for such a cock—more lube and more patience and foreplay in getting open for it. You even need different size condoms. If he's small, there are positions for that, albeit more limited. The bottom line, for the male prostitute, is to maximize his pleasure, which is aided with foreknowledge of what you have to work with. To be forewarned on extra size is to permit a seasoned prostitute to adjust at the time of penetration and to ease the deep fuck. Big-cocked men were surprised and pleased when a man was able to sheath it all and work with it.

If the man is small, you can move into penetration almost immediately. Often the first ejaculation is fast and not fully satisfying, as the john will be concerned about his size and ability to perform. But a good prostitute will build on that, make him more comfortable, a bit longer and thicker, and more satisfied and assured in subsequent ejaculations. But if he's big you'll want to take your time. He'll need to as well, even if he doesn't want to. He can do himself damage if he tries to force a channel not yet open enough to take him.

At the other end of the spectrum, a seasoned prostitute is likely to prefer the bigger cocks. Arousal and satisfaction are tied to feeling the cock, being challenged and stretched by it and not having to work with producing satisfaction in the john from a small cock. I preferred at least eight inches myself—or five and a half in circumference, if he's thick but not long—to be able to really get into the fuck and to groan and moan as I should to give the john pleasure and the feeling of being a man. I wanted to pant and moan naturally, to suffer a bit at the stretch of it to begin with but when we get into the pumping, I wanted it to both stretch and glide. Nine or ten inches long and over six inches in circumference, though, and the man owns me. He can do anything he wants with me. I'll be lost to the total possession no matter what the john looks like or his body size. My mind totally goes to what's inside me, stretching and working me to the limit. And I have the experience to give such a man a good time.

I didn't know any man, prostitute or promiscuous or just normal, who didn't know his length inches soft and hard. Those who don't most likely don't have even the average and don't want to talk about. A nine-inch man will make his measurements known. What they don't all know, but that is the most important, is how must girth they have, what the stretch will be. Receiving warning of eight hard inches, as Mehta had done, was enough to arouse me. It went a long way to make up for what he lacked in musculature and good looks. In the dark, nothing matters more than a good-sized cock.

"Do you have experience with Indian men?" he asked.

"No. You will be my first. I'm looking forward to pleasing you any way you like."

"I am not cut. Have you been docked before?"

"Yes."

"Fisted?"

I paused at this, but I had been, so I gave him the correct answer. As he'd worked up to asking this, I was thinking this might be central to what he wanted. "Yes. Is this what this is all about? Can you not find Indian youths who will take your fist? I'm just curious. You, of course, can do anything you want with me."

"I find what I need here. But an American. A beautiful young blond. I've always wanted to—"

"Yes, of course."

"It wouldn't be too challenging, as you can see." His hand had come out of my fly and he'd zipped me back up. He lifted that hand and bunched up the fingers to show that they were long, but thin and that the space across his knuckles was narrow.

"Of course, you have several rings," I said.

"Yes, I do, and I rarely take them off." He was smiling. I was beginning to think that this would be more taxing than I originally thought it would be.

"Do your toes match your cock?" he asked.

That confused me a bit. "I'm not sure," I answered. "I haven't given it much thought, I'm afraid. I don't know what you mean by 'match.'"

"Have men sucked your toes before? Does that arouse you? If he has his cock inside you at the same time, do you open up more? Are you flexible enough to have your toes sucked by the man fucking you as well?" He was breathing heavily. I thought that talking about it likely was as arousing for him as doing it.

"There's a position where a man can fuck you and suck your toes at the same time?" I asked, incredulous.

"More than one," he answered. "Several if you are flexible—and you look like a very flexible young man."

That certainly got my attention and upped my arousal factor. "Not that I recall," I answered. "I don't remember having my toes sucked. So, I can't answer the other questions you ask about my reaction to that. Will you be fucking me while you suck them? Will I be on my back, moaning and rocking my pelvis against you, taking you deep while you're sucking them? Do you want me to stroke my cock or rub your nipples while you're doing it?"

I was purposely arousing him, and the look he was giving me and the deep rumble I heard coming up from his gut told me I was succeeding. I wanted to hurry him along here, get this moved upstairs. It was having the desired effect. His eyes were slitted, he was licking his lips, his hand had gone to his crotch.

"Ah, virgin toes. I am in heat. Perhaps we should go and meet with your Mr. Smith now."

"That would be good," I said, rising from the table.

Smith was the name Deaver had given him. I, of course, was John Jones. Mehta was a smart man. He knew both names were fake.

We met up with "Smith" in the Harbour Bar. He was accompanied by a young Indian man, who I was surprised to be introduced to as Saanjh Mehta, Jagan's son and assistant in his business. It turned out that, while Jagan apparently was going to take the reward for what he had already given up to U.S. intelligence, Saanjh was the one who was going to give up more of the information the Agency sought. He obviously had already given some or we wouldn't have reached this stage of the debriefing.

What surprised me, though, was the Saanjh in no way looked like his father. He was taller than his father, taller than I am, heavy without being fat, so, muscular, and he was quite presentable of face. And where his father exuded conviviality, the son seemed less congenial, more up tight, and thuggish.

We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes before "Smith" looked at Jagan and received the nod of acceptance of the offering that was me. Then he said, "If you like, John here will show you his hotel room and Saanjh and I will stay here and continue our discussions, in a more detailed manner."

"Quite fine," Jagan said, standing. "Shall we?" he asked, looking at me, suddenly with lust in his eyes.

"Yes, of course, whatever you want," I said and also stood, catching the flash in his eyes.

Jagan turned out to have something more than seven inches hard and more than the magic five inches in circumference. He took his time getting around to using them up my ass, though. He seemed pleased with my blow job, as I sat, naked on the foot of the bed and he, also naked, short, and potbellied, stood in front of me and I took him in my mouth and held his hips in my hand. Closing my eyes helped me give him a professional suck. I could concentrate on what was a very nice cock and filter out the rest of his body.

He hadn't asked me how I liked prolonged eating out of my ass, but I liked that part just fine. I had just lain back after sucking him off and taking his cum in my throat, and moaned—convincingly and genuinely—as he knelt behind me, holding my legs raised and spread, and attacking my hole with his lips, tongue, and teeth. Periodically he'd stand and suck my toes, which tingled and which was a new, pleasant experience for me. He must have been pleased with the length of my toes, because he hummed happily while he sucked them.

He hadn't lied about being uncut. I was cut, but that didn't stop him from putting our cock heads together, pulling his foreskin over them both and a good distance down my shift, and then stroking them together as I moaned and rocked my hips up and down, and eventually came, flooding his bulb with my cum. He had held off for later, whispering to me the Indian secret for staying in check, a helpful hint that I promptly forgot as he was telling it to me as I was building up to my climax and had asked if he was going to come as well.