India Assignment

The fisting was less pleasant, mainly because of the rings on his fingers, but it didn't last long before he was crouched over me between my thighs, and inside me, fucking me bareback. I pressed the heels of my feet on the ledge where his buttocks jutted out from the small of his back, palmed his shoulder blades, sucked in my belly to give him some place to rest his belly so he could use most of his seven plus inches, rocked with his thrusts, and gave him a good ride. He managed to get my feet to his mouth to suck my toes while he fucked me.

I gave him a second ride when he had rested, putting him on his back, straddling his pelvis, and leaning back with my palms on his knees to negate the effect of his pot belly and to let him get in deeper on a bouncing cowboy ride.

"Stay right there while I shower," he said, as he rolled out of the bed. That seemed peculiar. Was he going to fuck me again after showering, I wondered. He had really shriveled up after the second time. I thought he'd reached his limit and I'd given him a better draining than he usually got. He had a lot of cum for a man his age, and I had it all, deep inside me and seeping out and down my inner thighs.

He was on his cell phone when he came out of the bathroom. Ringing off, he dressed at the foot of the bed, putting his hand out in a "stay" motion when I made like I was going to get off the bed. Dressed, he answered the door. His son, Saanjh, was at the door. Behind him, I could see "Smith" in the corridor. Saanjh came in, his eyes going to me on the bed, and I immediately realized that this was a two-for deal. I hadn't been told that, and I don't know if "Smith" knew that was the way it had to be before he could get Saanjh to the heart of the debriefing, but I could tell what was expected of me by looking at "Smith." He'd clearly OKed it.

He confirmed it. "The son has given us good information," he said, looking at me. "Give him a good ride."

I came out of the bed and met Saanjh standing at the foot of the bed. He put an arm around my waist and pulled me to him in a kiss. "Smith" said nothing as Jagan joined him in the corridor and closed the door, so I knew this had been agreed to.

I don't know if what happened next was in the agreement, but my job was to accept that it was—and I can't say it didn't fully satisfy me.

Saanjh pulled a double wrist leather restraint and ball gag out of his pocket. As I surmised he wanted me to do, I struggled with him in getting those in place and me on my belly on the bed, with my arms over my head, my wrists restrained, and tied to the headboard. I struggled because I knew he'd want that, that it would get him worked up. And it did. I knew he wanted to assert physical dominance and I knew how he wanted to assert it. So, I struggled with him a bit at first, he slapped me hard across the face and threw me down on the bed, and both of us accepted that as all the assertion of control he needed before he bound me. After that, he didn't have to contend with any struggling, feigned or otherwise.

As I watched him undress, my eyes went big and I began to pant when I realized that his belt was strands of leather—a hand whip. He whipped me while I writhed on the bed—not enough to bring blood or to raise welts that could be seen for more than a day but enough to sting and let me know he cared—that he cared enough about the whipping that it had made him go hard. Then he came onto the bed, crouched over me, pulled me up to my knees, with an arm under my belly, but pressed down between my shoulder blades to keep my cheek and chest flat on the bed. He mounted me, thrust inside me, and fucked the hell out of me with vigor and a steady beat.

I don't know if he had the seven plus inches his father did hard, but he used every inch he had to melting effect. Like his father, he was thick enough to make me strain to stretch to his needs.

He rolled off the bed, leaving me there, panting hard, exhausted. He reached down and fished around in the pockets of his trousers. I managed to turn over onto my back on the bed, my wrists still restrained to the headboard, still silenced with the ball gag. I winced from the pain of the whipping. My eyes followed him around the room. What was he going to do next?

He came up with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and went over to the wide window set in an alcove and looking out toward the Arabian Sea. It was late, but the setting sun still was bathing the western sky down to the water in purples and reds and oranges. He leaned his back into one side of the alcove wall, with his window-side leg bent and the foot flat against the wall. Silhouetted against the sunset as he was, his body was magnificent—tall, muscular, broad-chested, and flat bellied. He had the thighs of a soccer player. His belly was flat, his cock and balls hung low, and I could believe now that he was over seven thick inches. All thoughts I'd previously had of Indians being small, thin men vanished. He lit up a cigarette and smoked it as he stared out of the window. He had the cigarette in the hand toward me and was holding the lighter out with the other hand, flicking it open, producing a flame, snapping the lid shut, flicking it open, producing a flame, snapping the lid shut. It was like setting up the pace and rhythm of a fuck.

He came to the nightstand and I thought he'd climb on the bed and fuck me again—and I both wanted that and, because I was exhausted from taking both his father and him, I wanted it to be over. I was afflicted with the condition of being taken higher into arousal and the satisfaction zone with each subsequent fuck, so, although my body might give out, my libido wouldn't. I might not want it until the man put it in me but when he did, I couldn't live without it. He didn't climb on the bed, though. He snuffed the cigarette out in an ashtray and went back to the window, took up the same pose as before, and lit up another cigarette. He tossed the lighter over on his crumpled trousers and, as he smoked, he took his cock in the other hand and stroked himself hard.

This time when he finished the cigarette and came to the nightstand to snuff it out in the ashtray, he did climb back up on the bed. He was hard again. He walked in between my thighs on his knees, lifted my ankles to his shoulders on each side, grasped me by the waist, and raised my pelvis to his crotch. He looked down into my eyes with an almost disinterested stare as if he was only doing this because the opportunity was here now and wouldn't be here tomorrow. His hands went to my buttocks, pulling the cheeks apart, putting the hole into position. I whimpered, but I lay there, exhausted, fully captive to whatever he was going to do.

He entered me slowly, moving slowly inside me—in and out; in and out. He picked up speed, and I lay there, spent, docile and unmoving, as he fucked me with increasing vigor, his eyes coming alive, his body animated, covering me and rocking on me, fucking me. I remained motionless, panting lightly, and moaning, while he released himself inside me and lowered himself on top of me, let my legs fall to the side, where they lay where they had dropped, and was kissing me in the hollow of my throat. I closed my eyes and held there as me kissed me on the throat and on the nipples and ran his hands up my flanks and over my body.

I had trembled and shuddered with the first fuck, wholly into it. Not now. Now I was just the vessel that he was stroking inside. I could feel him hardening again, and then he was moving inside me once more—he hadn't pulled out. He was virile; his stamina was first rate. His pelvis started rocking again. In, out, In deeper, out. With a sigh, I managed to raise my legs and hook them on his hips and, with effort, I started to rock my pelvis against his renewed thrusts. We were fucking again. Despite everything, I was being lifted to a higher level of satisfaction.

I lay on the bed, spread-eagled and moaning softly with a silly grin on my face long after he'd taken the restraints off me, showered and dressed, and left the room. And that's a lot for a prostitute to admit to. I couldn't say I wasn't well fucked and fully satisfied. I was awash in cum. Both father and son were big-time spouters. And I sure as hell had done the job I was sent here to do. The difference between the two was that the father treated me like a courtesan and the son like a whore.

It was only the first of two India assignments.

* * * *

They let me rest most of the next day. Jason Deaver put me on the Chennai Express, leaving Mumbai's Dader station at 8:30 that evening for the 1,300-kilometer train trip to Chennai, formerly known as Madras, on the Bay of Bengal on India's southeast coast. New Delhi Station had advised that there was a much lower risk I'd be detected by the local intelligence apparatus if I went by train rather than air. I, of course, had a private compartment and Deaver told me that, since no one was going with me to babysit me—which is what he meant even though he didn't directly say it—I should stick to my compartment for the twenty-three-hour train trip.

He didn't say that they'd deliver your meals to your compartment, and I found that they didn't. My dinner car call was for 10:45 p.m. I used the first two hours of the journey studying my assignment in Chennai. Again, I didn't have to do the information collection myself, and this time it wasn't a matter of collecting information. The Agency wanted to compromise a Tamil State minister, Chudar Kurusar, and put him to long-term collection and support in favor of U.S. interests. When he was on a trip to the UN in New York, the Agency had learned that Kurusar was partial to dancing blond boys. He'd gone on club crawls every night he was there, and each night he had zeroed in on good-looking young, flexible blond dancers who were willing to go into the clubs' back rooms with him. He often took more than one at a time.

I was a young blond, flexible man who had done some pole dancing in my early days and could dance a pole again if that was required. Sometimes it had been required, both in clubs and privately.

Kurusar didn't know it now, but we would be meeting. He would be on a seaside vacation at a business contact's beach house in a couple of days, where he was promised there would be a blond American dancer to entertain them. The businessman already was owned by the United States. I would give Kurusar a good time, which would be recorded, and then the station officer in the U.S. consulate in Chennai would take it from there. The Agency had some interests in supporting operations from Tamil State.

At 10:30 I made my way to the dining car for the last sitting. The diners were scarce and the waiters seemed to be exhausted and barely functioning. I was seated at a table for two, the diners across from each other, in an area with no other diners around. At 10:07 Dr. Deeran Chari appeared at the side of the table and said, "Do you mind if I join you?"

What could I say? I was flabbergasted he was there. He didn't wait for me to say anything. He slipped in across from me. Our knees almost touched under the table. I was trembling, which I knew was silly of me. He was looking terrific, wearing white silk Indian dhoti pants—made from one length of material—with a tunic on top of a more gauzy white material that permitted more than hints of his sexy hirsute chest to show through and that had a slit down from the collar in front that showcased the metal medallion around his neck. The medallion now clearly showed as a recognizable gay male top symbol, and his nipples and big aureole, still appearing rouged, shown through the shirt material against a berry brown body.

His feet were naked in sandals. The toes were long. I was sure that Jagan Mehta would have gone bonkers over them. I was doing so as well, thinking of the theory Jagan had introduced me to that the toes reflected the cock. The dhoti drooped in the crotch; there was no way to gauge the cock size. That only encouraged me to fantasize and assume something of mammoth proportions. I was a well-used prostitute; I needed a big cock if I was going to get maximum enjoyment out of the coupling.

"Fancy that we should find ourselves on the same train and with the same dining hour," he said, flashing me a smile that almost made me melt.

"Yes, fancy that," I said, letting my suspicion show.

"I live and work in Chennai," he said. "I'm a Tamil. I was brought to Mumbai because I lived far from there and I've done work for the U.S. embassy before—for your people, I think."

Was he inviting me to say I was Agency? If so, fat chance of that. I didn't ask the natural question. I waited him out, which didn't take long.

"And you? Why are you on this train?" he asked, putting the ball in my court again.

"I have time off before I fly back to the States," I said. "I've always liked madras material. I thought I'd check out where it came from. Chennai used to be Madras, wasn't it?"

"Why, yes, it was. I wish I had time off now and again to visit places on such tenuous contexts," he responded, a twinkle in his baby-blue eyes. He wasn't buying my impromptu explanation, which I'd tried to make a joke of. But again, if he expected me to make another try at why I was on a train headed south in India, he would have a long wait.

We were interrupted then by the appearance of our meals. These had been reserved as soon as we had gotten on the train. I had ordered the Western meal. Chari had an Indian one. He won in the better choice category, if only because I couldn't really agree on what the Indian train service thought would be a Western meal. He saw that I was disappointed and fed me with bits of his meal, extending his fork across the table and giving me a dissertation on what each tidbit was, what it was composed of, where it came from in India, and whether or not—more yes than no—I should have my water glass handy when I ate it, "Although a banana would be more effective," he said.

I found the act of being fed by another man, especially a man like Chair, very sexy.

At some point I had rested my forearm on the table and he'd grasped my hand with his, folding his thumb between our palms and rubbing my palm. That was a signal of a top to a bottom—at least it was where I came from. If I left it there, I was confirming I was a submissive and that I was interested in submitting. I left it there. The man had already had his finger up my ass, and I was highly sexed. The man had stroked me off and I had hardened and come for him. There wasn't any more to know on whether I was a submissive or would be a submissive for him. I'd already been there.

He broached the subject when the waiters had cleared our entrees and we were waiting for dessert and coffee or tea. "I was brought in to certify you because you were either going to cover a man or lie under him, and the sex would be raw, without protection. Is that not true?" he asked.

"Lie under him," I answered. "He covered me."

"And you did so—you lay under him?"

"Oh yes."

"So, you are submissive?"

"I think you know I am; you've already been there with me."

"Ah, yes I have," he said, with a smile. "I think we both enjoyed it too. I know I did. And you let men inside you without protection?"

"I am what I am called to be—either submissive or dominant. Usually submissive, though. And you were being told the truth when the man with me said we had a pill that would take the risk away. I don't think you'll be able to obtain a sample, though."

"You are a prostitute for men?" He had been rubbing my calves with a bare foot, having taken it out of his sandal. Now he ran his foot up between my closed legs, which opened for him and rested his heel on the edge of the seat between my thighs, placing the sole of his foot against my crotch. I reached down with a hand and held his foot closely pressed into my basket. I was, of course, already hard for him and he, of course, could discern that with his foot.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Legally no, though. In my country, there are such things as sanctioned prostitution. You could say I was an official escort, part of the accommodation for official visitors."

"You take money to lie under men?"

"Yes."

"You would take my money?"

"No, I don't think so."

"You were hard for me during the examination."

"Yes. You said I had to be for you to do your examination."

"But you would have been hard for me anyway, I think."

"Yes."

"So, why do you say you wouldn't take my money?"

"You arouse me. If you're a big-cocked man, I'd go under you without a fee."

Chari laughed. "I think that I will fuck you then—without protection. I think you will enjoy my doing so. Have you been fucked in an Indian style before?"

Before I could respond to the baldness of that statement in an openly bald discussion, we were interrupted and went silent again while the dessert and coffee were served. The two waiters serving us drew back to the pantry at the other end of the car and went into a deep conversation between them.

"Are you interested in what the Indian style of copulation between two men would be?" he asked, peering at me over the rim of his coffee cup.

I saw no reason not to be honest. I had been intrigued by the Indian style I'd experienced thus far. "Yes."

"Unzip your trousers for me," Chari said in a calm voice.

"Excuse me?"

"Unzip your trousers for me and take your cock out. I know it's hard. You know that I know it's hard."

"But why? Do you want me to jack myself off here?"

"No, I want to do it with my toes here—Indian style. I will fuck you more conventionally when we return to the compartments."

"Your toes?" What was it with these Indians and toes? "You can do that?"

"You won't know unless you unzip your trousers and take your cock out."

I did, and wonders of wonders, he could get the root of my cock between his big toe and the next one, and he stroked me off while I clutched the edge of the table and panted. He held my hand in his grip and rubbed my palm with his thumb as he was doing so. It wasn't a long trip. I'd already been panting for him. While he stroked, he whispered what he could do for me, what he wanted to do with me—what he intended to do to me.

"You have heard of the Kama Sutra, have you not?" he asked.

"Yes, of course."

"It's Indian in origin, you know. But perhaps you didn't know there are Kama Sutra positions for men fucking men."

"No, I didn't know that."

"I'm ten inches hard," he said. "It's a snake. It hisses for you. There are special Kama Sutra positions for men thus endowed. But the first time I fuck you, it's so powerful that all I have to do is give it all to you and hold and you'll come for me without being permitted to ride it. And after that you will let me do whatever I want with you—and I want to do everything. You won't be a hardened prostitute with me. You'll be a virgin, each time. You will moan and whimper for me like a virgin. You won't be able to play the prostitute with me. You will be totally undone."

"No. You couldn't . . . arousal to ejaculation requires friction," I said. "You couldn't bring me off just with ten inches of unmoving cock." I was a professional prostitute, for God's sake. I was trained to maintain control.

"You'll never know if you don't try it. Will you come to my compartment or do you want to go to yours?"

"Now?"

"Yes, now. The coffee came cold."

"Your compartment," I managed.

"As soon as you come for me and my toes. Don't worry, I can make you come as often as I want to."

I came for him, and lay back in the chair, arms dangling at my side, panting in shallow breaths. The waiters at the other end of the dining car, which now was deserted other than the doctor and I, were looking at us and smiling knowingly.

He was already right about one thing. I wasn't the in-control prostitute for him. I already was in the thrall of a master.