Slippery Sloping

He made the point in the morning again, coming out of the bathroom, obviously after another downing of pills, erect and ready to go.

He put me on my back at the foot of the bed, grasped my ankles, wishboned my legs, and made me suffer the assaulting stretch of that beer can cock again. When he was in, I took over the duty of holding my legs raised and spread, and he worked my cock and body while he fucked me in shallow jabs of his shaft. Our learned with him that length isn't everything. I arched my back, writhed, groaned, and grunted, and cried out my suffering, and none of that was feigned. He laughed, clearly satisfied with the damage he could inflict.

The only allusion to his previous failure was then to ask me, "What are you going to tell them at your firm about me?"

"That you're a high-performing stud," I answered, which, of course, was what he wanted to hear and that satisfied him.

"Tell Bradford I'll go with your firm," he said when he came out of the bathroom, showered and dressing, in the morning. I lay flat out on the bed, legs spread, still panting and moaning low. "But I want them to assign you to my account and I want weekly sessions with you to go over the books."

I guessed I could mark that up as a successful assignment. He was strutting like the cock of the walk when he left the bedroom. I now had my first major client account. And I never, never mentioned to anyone ever again that he hadn't initially been unable to perform.

* * * *

"Lift your arms above your head." I did so, and Singh rose up over me from his cross-legged position between my spread legs as I lay on my back on the divan on the terrace. He hovered over me, fifties, large bodied, pot belly, muscular but drooping pecs, fair-sized erection with lemon-sized, low-hanging balls, salt-and-pepper hirsute, with beard and head hair now undone and cascading. He had tied off my wrists to the top corners of the bed. We were both naked. I was already lightly panting.

Jared Bradford had told me that one of the company's directors, Haashim Singh, an Indian Sikh, fabulously wealthy, wanted instruction in tennis. After seeing me and conversing with Bradford, he wanted contact with me for other reasons as well.

"Singh is a master of tantric sex arts," Jared said, giving me a pointed look. "That might have interesting applications for us."

I almost laughed. Bradford hadn't done anything with me but the missionary position, and a standard one at that. Learning variety of any sort then would be an improvement of our sex life, so I'd just nodded my head and agreed to teaching the man tennis in exchange for what he could teach Jared through me.

The Sikh company director lived on the upper levels, high on the side of Victoria Peak, in a house perched on the side of the mountain, with a stunning view of Hong Kong below and across the water to the Kowloon mainland. The house had its own tennis court.

I was here for the weekend. I hadn't been here for more than an hour and we were about to have sex. I was tied up and ready to go.

Singh settled back down between my spread legs, going into a cross-legged sitting position. He lightly grasped my knees and spread my legs even further apart, bending them and setting my feet down, flat, on the surface of the divan. His gaze lowered to focus on my genitals, which was very disconcerting to me, to be so vulnerably positioned, with the man who is about to fuck me just sitting there, placidly, cross-legged, his hands gripping my knees and spreading my legs open, and just looking at my cock, balls, and hole. The pose lasted for a few minutes and I tensed and panted a little harder and my cock lurched and started to engorge. Singh already was in massive erection.

"Relax," He directed. "Let all of the tension flow out of you."

When I had managed to do so--or, at least made an effort to show him I had--Singh murmured, "Slowly, gracefully, in peace." He slowly leaned over and down and softly blew on my genitals. I quivered.

The tantric master lifted his head. "Relax. Be at peace." My cock was bobbing and engorging, though.

Ignoring that, twice more Singh leaned over and blew on my genitals. I moaned and my hips involuntarily began a slight rocking motion. I groaned and jerked when on the fourth dip, Singh took, first one of my balls, and then the other, in his mouth and gently rolled them around in his cheek. When he came off the second ball, he murmured, "Slow, gentle. Learn not to make quick movements in reaction. A smooth, burbling stream."

I sighed and fought my natural reaction when the next lowering of the head had Singh's mouth opened over my quivering erection and the tantric master's tongue tip lapped at my urethra slit. My body shuddered and shimmered, all thoughts of relaxing abandoned, and the rocking of my hips became more pronounced. Singh's hands on my knees began to gently, slowly sway my bent legs back and forth, using my flexibility to take the knees to the mat on either side at the greatest extension, emphasizing the sensation of total vulnerability, openness, and surrender. With an unexpected sigh, I came in Singh's throat.

"Sorry," I muttered, totally anguished.

"No, don't be," Singh said. "That was as determined and it was good--a natural flow. That is what you must strive for each and every time. No anger, no heat. Just a natural, flowing release of your essence. You did well. You are a lovely young man. You have a beautiful body. Your essence is delicious. We will have a wonderful weekend."

I shuddered. But I also shimmered. He was nothing to look at, but he was a sex technique master. I looked up at the bound wrist of my right hand, thinking that we were done here for now. But I was wrong.

Singh rose up on his knees between my legs. He gently took hold of my ankles and moved my feet to be lie flat against his chest. He moved the underside of his cock, which was in erection, to my puckering hole and gently rose and fell on his knees, causing his cock to rub over my anus, focusing on my panting and moaning, until I was open enough for the cock to slide in.

"Yes, yes," I murmured, rocking my pelvis. "Fuck me. Screw me."

"Think of it in calmer, more natural, gentle ways. Think of it as meld, merging, becoming one. Don't think in terms of fuck and screw. Think gliding, merging, becoming one, receiving my essence, becoming bathed in it."

OK, I thought. Meld me, merge with me, become one with me. In other words, put it in and fuck me.

He slowly penetrated, gently stretching and opening my passage, which was well open, since Trung had been giving me attention. Singh fucked me in long, slow, gentle glides until he stopped moving and his seed started flowing. I could feel him inside me--deep inside me, his cock not being a big as Trung's or as thick as Dodson's, but a divine combination of both--flowing. He was trained to prolonged flow. It seemed to go on forever as I held steady, not daring to breath, wanting him to just flow and flow and flow.

He gently gripped my knees and returned the bent legs to the full side extension, knees pressed to the mat on either side, returning to the position of full vulnerability of the groin. He held for a few minutes, but both he and I felt him going turgid again inside my passage. I arched my back, panting and moaning as a slide, in and out, in and out, recommenced and Singh gently fucked me again--rest and then repeat again. I lay there shimmering and moaning.

He took me to the tennis court after that and we played a match. He didn't really need tennis lessons. It was fully clear now why I was here. But we did play. He was good, but I was better even though he had exhausted me with his tantric sex session on the terrace overlooking Hong Kong harbor. We played only in langots, the Indian form of loincloths, and although his body was heavy and old, he moved with grace. He had put his hair up under a turban and captured his flowing beard in a net, strung from ear to ear, to keep it out of the way while we played. He complimented me on my tennis play and of the beauty and flexibility of my young body. He did not ask me if I'd enjoyed the tantric fuck before we'd come to the tennis court. He didn't have too. The reaction of my body had told him I had. Each time when his flow started, I trembled and came as well.

He fucked me again, there in the grass beside the court, after we'd played a match, which I barely won.

"This is the basic tantric position, called the Yab-Yum," Singh said, as, pulling off his langot, he went down into a cross-legged sit on the grass, gently taking my wrist in one of his hands and releasing my langot with the other, as he pulled me down into his lap, facing him. As I came down, he was putting his erection into position at my entrance, and, just like that, I was beginning to descend on his hard pole.

"Gently. Open fully to it. Make it fit perfectly," he murmured. He placed the palm of one hand on my tailbone and slowly, gently, but relentlessly, he pulled my passage onto and ever-more-deeply possessed by his thick, throbbing shaft.

I shuddered, murmuring, "Yes, yes, yes." No pain. Complete pleasure.

Once deeply possessing me and embracing me close, the two of us facing each other, Singh spent the next twenty minutes gently manipulating my body around, forward and back, side to side, up and down, moving my passage to fuck itself on the cock, the shaft kissing and caressing every square inch of my passage as it sank down, down, down, pulsating and throbbing into my core. He was humming; I was purring. He held me motionless and panting and moaning, gently but firmly, as his flow started and continued. Again this initiated my own flowing release.

When we both were spent, he gently pushed on my chest and I reclined my torso, my shoulder blades and the back of my head resting on the grass. He used his hands to massage my torso, spending considerable time on my pecs and nipples as I felt him coming to life again. When he was in possessing erection inside me again, he pulled my torso up to his chest, embraced me close with one arm, while the hand of his other hand palmed my tailbone and controlled the pull and release of the movement of his cock inside my passage. With a sigh, we flowed together.

We ate dinner at the downslope edge of the terrace, watching the lights of the city coming on below us in the gathering twilight. We were bare-chested in silk dhotis tied around our waists. He quizzed me on my past, concentrating more on my tennis, my dancing, and my collegiate work with gymnastics. I had an MBA in accounting and I worked in a firm he was a director of, but his interest was obvious focused on my looks, shape, flexibility, and my history with men.

"You are only the fourth," I said.

"In size?" he asked.

"On balance, above average," I said, seeing no reason not to be honest, and actually a bit surprised that he had measured up in that department.

"And in technique?"

"Unsurpassed," I admitted, which obviously pleased him.

"You worked well with me as an older, not-quite-so-fit man."

"You are quite fit enough where it counts," I said. "And I like older men."

That pleased him as well. "All of your men have been older?"

"All but one," I answered.

"But he is best, I am sure. There is nothing like young cock. Be honest with me."

"Yes, he is best. He is a sailor."

"Ah, yes. Forceful and demanding. With me it is a flowing, burbling brook. With him, I think it must be a raging storm at sea."

"Yes. The cock is young, yes. The sex is vigorous. Older men have experience and technique, though. Your technique is the best. Do you have any idea how often you have come--that I have come?"

"When we have the experience we strive for, there will be only one, long, prolonged coming--with the two of us joined in receiving it. Coming should not be an event; it should be a rolling experience in waves. That is what I strive with you."

"Successfully," I acknowledged. Wow, I thought. That was some goal. "You could make me come without me touching myself or you bringing me off with your hand."

There was significance to that, as we'd finished with the meal, and he was leaning into me, handing and stroking my cock.

"If you had a life of serving older men...?"

"I'm fine with older men," I answered

"I have you hard again."

"Yes, you do."

"I had not intended to overwork you today, but..."

"Take me to the divan and fuck me again," I whispered. "Take me, use me."

I was sitting on Singh's crossed legs, facing him, on the divan. Singh's cock was buried in my passage, and upon Singh's command, I raised my legs straight up in front of the man. Singh picked up a gold cord, bound my raised ankles together, and moved them over his head so that they were bound together behind the tantric master's neck.

Singh, quite flexible for his age himself, rose up to his knees, bringing my penetrated pelvis with him. Grasping my hips in his hands, Singh slowly, gently raised and lowered my hips, which moved the man's cock in my passage. When I was moaning and panting, Singh stood on the surface of the divan, stretching my body out further, streaming it down the man's body, and putting my weight on my shoulder blades. Singh continued slowly raising and lowering my inverted body on the buried cock until the Singh's flow started. Singh was an expert in the art of the tantric. He had trained himself to gently flow and flow and flow. I moaned as he flooded my core with cum.

My body shimmering and trembling, I groaned, and I too flowed.

Late that night, in the darkness, on Singh's bed, I moved my hips up and down, in the Kama Sutra position of the Crab, Singh on his back, holding my waist between his hands, while, facing the ceiling and stretched over his body, I supported my body hovering over his with my hands and feet on either side of his body. His cock was buried deep up inside me. He came with a sigh and gently moved me off him and to the side.

"You can go all day and night," he murmured, in approval. "You have a beautiful, flexible body, and your endurance is top notch."

"Given the right man, I can go long. I can go long with you." I did go all day and all night with Trung. I'm a damn fine accountant too, I was thinking. But this man didn't want me for my accounting abilities.

"Can you do it for the right reward?"

"I have so far," I said, being honest. I had gotten here on my back, with my legs spread open for men. There had only been four of them so far, but I'd used three of them to get ahead. The third used me at will, but I used that to be able to take the rest.

"I wish to make a proposition to you. How much does Jared Bradford pay you to be his assistant and to take his cock whenever he pleases?"

I named the figure, and Singh laughed. "I own a brothel and escort business down in the city. I will pay you twice that plus tips to be in my rent-boy stable. Give me your beautiful, flexible, enduring body and I will make you rich."

Twice that? Apparently, accounting wasn't the most lucrative path to riches.

Morning was dawning. I was lying, naked, on my back on Singh's bed, my knees pulled up tightly into my chest. Singh, hovering over me, placed a pillow under the small of my back to lift and roll my pelvis up, exposing my now-gaping, puckering hole.

Kneeling behind me and putting his hands on my thighs to press them closer into my chest, Singh blew on my genitals, causing me to moan and my cock to start to harden. My moaning deepened and I panted as Singh tongued my cock, balls, and anus until my hips twitched and tightened. I was about to jerk and release, when Singh said. "No, relax. Just let it flow."

I relaxed, Singh slid his mouth down my cock, the flow came, and Singh accepted the flow in his throat.

Singh rose and knelt in closer between my spread and quivering thighs. He took my ankles in his hands and extended my legs, raising them to pull my weight more onto my upper back, raising my pelvis. He held my legs closer together, restraining them with golden cords around the thighs and ankles. The effect was to restrict the opening of my anus, and thus making the entry and progress up into the passage of Singh's erection tighter than in earlier couplings.

Singh didn't quickly force entry but penetration took time and effort and I suffered. The thick, long erection inched in as my channel slowly, begrudgingly opened up to accept him. It took time.

Merely inches in and my groans filling the room, Singh leaned over and whispered. "We have all the time in the world. We will take as long as required."

I moaned and groaned and sighed as the man took deep possession of me. When he was fully saddled, Singh released the bonds on my legs and ankles. He manipulated my legs, holding them straight out from my body to open the passage more, pulling them in to restrict the passage, and rowing them until first my and then his flow started, bringing sighing peace to us both.

I lay stretched out against him; my buttocks nestled into his groin. "Yes," I murmured.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I will give you my body for the salary you have offered."

Four men. I had come to this on the strength of going under just four men. Now I was going to have as many men as I could handle. My office was going to be a bed.

* * * *

Even though he'd seen my photo and had signed up for me, Jared Bradford expressed surprise when we met up before going into the Kowloon restaurant dinner of his gentleman's club before going to exclusive wrestling matches at a male brothel--not the one I worked in--that his club was sponsoring. It was a gala evening. Club members were permitted to bring dates, as long as they were male. Jared had turned to the escort service I worked for for his date and had picked me out of the Internet dating pages.

"You're looking good, Craig," he said. "Very good. You wear a tuxedo well. I wondered where Haashim Singh had hidden you away after swiping you from under my eyes. I thought he was keeping you for himself in that mansion up on Victoria Peak."

"No, he didn't keep me for himself," I said. "I'm surprised you engaged my services." I was expensive now. I once was at his beck and call sexually for the mere cost of a job that someone else paid for.

"Shall we go in?" he asked.

He was a gentleman during the dinner, introducing me to others as his former assistant at the accounting firm, making no reference to where I had gone from there, and, certainly, even though his club was centered on older men fucking younger men, he didn't reveal that he had initiated me in sex and, for a while, had owned my tail. I'm sure some of the men present assumed Jared was fucking me, although I think they'd be surprised to know he was paying big bucks for me to attend this dinner and the wrestling matches with him.

The wrestling matches, conducted in the lower level of a parking garage of a skyscraper in Kowloon still being constructed, were interesting. There were three matches, the well-built young men of different nationalities--Chinese, Korean, Filipino, Australian, and Russian--wrestling in langots and less in the ring. The loser of each match was fucked on the matting, in the ring, by the winner. As the match progressed, Jared became more touchy feely with me, as did those pairing off around us.

When suggestions were made that some of us more on to a gay strip club afterward, Jared looked at me and I gauged his look correctly to mean he wanted to take me back to his apartment.

He fucked me on his bed, where he'd done so so many times before--for free. This time he was paying a high price for it.

As always, he covered me in the missionary position, me on my back at the foot of the mattress, holding my legs raised and spread and him, after kneeling between my thighs, tonguing my anus and sucking my balls and cock, rising over me, penetrating as I panted hard and clutched his buttocks, and fucking me in long, deep slides.