The Indian Prince Ch. 01

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Young male U.S. spy assigned to seduce an Indian prince.
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Part 1 of the 7 part series

Updated 10/29/2022
Created 05/10/2013
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sr71plt
sr71plt
2,992 Followers

This is a seven-chapter novella, one of a series of gay male CIA Candy Store unit—using sex in spying—espionage and intrigue novellas, which will post in seven chapters to Literotica with a completion date two weeks after the posting of chapter 1

This series includes MFM, MF, MM, and MMM couplings.

"The Rawal wishes to know if you play tennis."

"Certainly," I answered. And, of course, I did. The angle had all been researched.

"Perhaps a game at 4:00 p.m. on Tuesday on the palace courts, then?"

"Yes, yes, of course, I would be honored." And, of course, I would be. I turned to where I could see Roger Allard, the U.S. chief of station in the remote suzerainty of Sravasti, and saw him give me a smile and a thumbs up.

I turned back to the Kshatriyas, the term in Sravasti for the crown prince's—or, as known here, the Rawal's—chief adviser. "The Rawalina is a beautiful woman. But her skin is so fair; I'm surprised she came this morning. This must really be boring for her." I almost choked off the last few words, as Roger's thumb had gone down and he was giving me a little frown.

"That is not the Rawalina," the Kshatriyas said. "That is the prince's mistress, not his wife. You are correct that the Rawalina would not appear here today."

The prince's chief adviser, Mir Yusaf Adil, spoke in a firm tone, but I didn't notice any tensing up or disapproval in his voice. Indeed, he was still smiling, and he had a firm grip on my elbow that didn't waver. I could say the same for the stiff, taller, and bulkier graybeard who was standing beside him. That was the king's adviser, General Ambedkar Sungar, who Allard had warned me to avoid but not to cross. He was being checked out, upon intelligence received, for possible ties to Al-Qaeda.

We were on the tarmac of the hidden airstrip in the miniscule Indian domain of Balrampur, a strategic almost-autonomous ministate lodged under the belly of western Nepal. It was hot as blazons standing on the asphalt under the summer Indian sun, which was why I was surprised the Rawal—the prince—had brought a woman to this exercise. She was all decked out in a red silk sari, head scarf and all, that was only marred by the large-lens sunglasses almost obliterating her face. Still, she looked like the nearest thing to a cool cucumber of any of us out here, if more than a little bit bored.

The bored part I could easily understand. We had brought the prince out here for a look-see at the Fairchild Magnus photoreconnaissance plane we'd just received in the inventory. We thought a ten-minute inspection and that would be that, but we were being dumb there and should have known better. The prince had gone over the aircraft more carefully and in more detail than even our persnickety ground crew had done when it arrived. We'd all been standing out here in the sweltering heat, in formation, for the better part of an hour.

I was here because I'd flown the Magnus in. I did fly photorecon now and again still, but that wasn't the reason I had flown the Magnus in to our secret airbase in Balrampur.

As I noted, somebody should have known better about the interest the prince would show in the aircraft. The Rawal of Balrampur, Bhadur Khan, had been a problem since his early teens. He had been rebellious and stubborn and never bright about anything but mechanics. He lived and breathed military and airplanes. As the future Badshah of Shwetambar, the virtual king of the satrapy of Balrampur, however, he was both a potential thorn in the side and a future ruler to contend with for both the people of Balrampur and, as misfortune would have it, the United States.

With U.S. help, the unruly Rawal was kept under somewhat reasonable control by feeding his passion for military equipment, especially airplanes. Not yet twenty-five, he had been a student at nearly every military academy that the Western powers could put him through, including Sandhurst in England and even, as a special student, the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. He actually had a talent for piloting planes, and his various handlers kept him focused and only an occasional danger to others by steeping him in military gadgetry.

The Fairchild Magus photoreconnaissance plane was just such a new gadget. And, conveniently—or, more precisely, as a major foreign policy headache—a major secret U.S. photoreconnaissance base, from which surveillance was conducted over Pakistan and Afghanistan in the east, Tibet to the north and, at one time, Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos to the southeast, was hosted in Balrampur by the Badshah of Shwetambar.

Most who look at modern-day India see a unified country that rose out of a collection of princedoms in which various maharajas of various titles ruled as if feudal kings. This is a surface understanding, though. To a large extent and in all practical purposes, many of the fiefdoms continue to exist—with their traditional ruling families reigning more or less as they had always done down from the Mughal era.

Balrampur, a small but strategically placed satrapy, thus was of paramount importance to the United States—and, indeed, to the allies of the United States. Its ruler, the Badshah of Shwetambar had always been a steadfast friend of the United States. But he had not really been seen or heard from beyond his inner court for several months. Anyone who tried to get to the Badshah ran squarely against a stonewalling General Sungar, who exercised the privilege of taking the matter to the Badshah and returning with his answer. Increasingly, the Badshah's son, the Rawal, who was rumored also to be under the sway of Sungar, was becoming the focus of concern and hope.

And the Rawal had eclectic personal tastes.

"Is there something I should know or bring when I come to tennis on Tuesday?" I asked of the Kshatriyas, Mir Yusaf Adil. Since Sungar was standing close, I didn't try to whisper below his hearing—but Adil was the prince's man, so I was within propriety to be querying him on the matter.

"Only that you lose at tennis—and at anything else the Rawal desires of you," Adil answered, a sparkle in his eye. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," I answered. And indeed I did. Roger Allard had let me know in no uncertain terms what I would be expected to be prepared to do on this special assignment I had drawn. As I noted, I hadn't just been needed to fly the Magnus in. I was also here because I was an agent of the CIA's Candy Store unit.

I took another look at Adil. He was older than I was, but certainly not yet forty. He was so darkly handsome, slender, and sensuously graceful that I rather regretted that my assignment was the Rawal rather than his Kshatriyas. The Rawal was quite presentable in his own right. His dedication to exercise and developing his body was only second to his passion for aeronautics. And he was taller and more solid of body than most of his subjects were. His mother had been of high-caste, mixed Persian and Indian origin, which had squared his jaw and given the Rawal an almost Western look, although his skin was as dusky as others from this region of India. Adil could have been a Bollywood hunk star. The Rawal unmistakably was a solid, rugged military leader type.

It's just that the Rawal—the prince—wasn't all that bright, and he had a dogged look about him that was half pout and half warning that he could explode in an act of craziness at the least provocation.

The way the Rawal had looked at me as we were together in the cockpit of the Magnus and I was showing him how the controls worked assured me that he was interested. It was my assignment to make him interested. But it also sent a chill up my spine. I got the distinct impression that his interest was completely self-centered, with a streak of cruelty—that there may be a way I could serve him, but that there would be no reward or consideration for me in it.

But this was the job. This was what my specialized section of the Agency was designed for—to serve the baser instincts of men and women alike to suborn their cooperation.

When I had been called into Sam Winterberry's office in Langley and he'd told me I was flying a Fairchild Magnus, a follow-on from the Fairchild Merlin photorecon plane, into Sravasti, India, my initial responses were "Where the fuck is that? I've never heard of such a place" and "I'm no longer in the photorecon business. What's the angle?"

"I'm glad you haven't heard of Sravasti, Craig. Our operation there is one of our best-kept secrets and we like it to stay that way. It's the capital of a small Indian state called Balrampur, near the Nepal border. We have a consulate there. But what the consulate really is fully composed of is a CIA station."

"A consulate? Or even a station. Why would we need either there?"

"For the same reason we need you to fly one of the new Fairchild Magnuses there. We have a secret home strip there for photoreconnaissance over several high-profile target areas there. So we take a great interest in Balrampur."

"But why me? Doesn't the Agency have any other jet jockey available to go there? I haven't even checked out on the Magnus. That has come in since my time in that field."

"For us to stay in Balrampur, we must keep the local potentate in our pocket. In this case, the local potentate is the Badshah of Shwetambar, and as far as we know, he might be dead. His people—meaning one person, really, his closest adviser—haven't let us at him for months, and he's old and feeble—and there has been a rumor of a bad heart for some years. We even have intell claiming his wife is slowly poisoning him. She's from a rival family for ascendance in Balrampur. She forced her son, the Rawal, to marry her niece last year—which led to the Rawal ending all communication with his mother."

"And you want me to revive him—this Badshah?" I had meant it as a joke, but there wasn't much humor in Sam Winterberry and I certainly hadn't drawn any out of him now.

"Well, this does bring us to the reason why we are sending you in with the Magnus. You are the only one cross trained in what we need there at this moment."

"Ah, who needs to be fucked then?" I asked. If we weren't going to have a mirth fest, I thought we might as well get down to brass tacks.

"The Badshah's son is a man of wide tastes. He's also been very hard to handle. He may stand in our path, though, as soon as there is a change of rulers in Balrampur. He needs to be handled. And so do any of the advisers around the Badshah and Rawal, as necessary. The primary ones all have the taste for it, we understand—in the dominant position."

"Ah," I had said. And that was my assignment.

It wasn't until I got to Sravasti and was sitting in the consulate cum Agency station with Roger Allard, the chief of station, that I learned how delicate the mission was.

"He what?" I asked, taken by surprise.

"He shot and killed his wife's secretary last month. He is unpredictable and volatile. He was rebelling against having been forced to marry his cousin."

"I've heard that the marriage was arranged by his mother to further her own family's interests. But why shoot the secretary?"

"He either got in the way or he was doing something the Rawal didn't want him to do."

"Ah, a male secretary. Fucking the Rawalina perhaps? A jealous rage?"

"We doubt it. The marriage was arranged entirely by the Badshahrina and, we understand, was barely consummated. As far as we can determine, the Rawal never has been impressed by his wife, which is probably a gross understatement of his hatred for the whole idea of being married to her. We doubt he cared whether the secretary was fucking her. The most likely situation—and the one feeding the rumor mills throughout Balrampur—was that the Rawal was aiming for his wife and the secretary just got in the way."

"Ouch. So, somewhat of a nut job then."

"I wouldn't say that outside of this office. They take lese majeste very, very seriously here. It's the same as high treason would be in America. We need to keep him calm, concentrated on the pursuits that interest him, and on our side. We've run out of foreign schools to send him to. The palace wanted him back home—probably because his father's demise is imminent, if it's not already passed us by—and we have to think up new ways to contain and control him here."

"And that's where I come in?"

"Yes. If we can we want to get you as close to him as possible. And as important to him as possible."

"You don't perceive this as a short-term assignment, do you?"

"Not if we're successful."

"And here I wasn't told to come with more than one suitcase."

"If we're successful, you won't be needing much in the way of clothing."

"When and where do we start?"

"In less than an hour and out there on the tarmac, where you parked the Magnus. The Rawal is coming today to inspect it—and, we hope, to inspect you as well."

"Nothing like jumping right into an assignment," I said. I was sitting and looking at a photograph of the Rawal. I briefly contemplated whether I'd mind being fucked by him. I'd taken on uglier—and certainly older and less fit—assignments before. But I couldn't tell. There were aspects of him that were attractive, but even in the photograph I could see the edge of cruelty and insanity. Perhaps if his was the only visage in the photograph I would have found him quite acceptable. But it wasn't. Standing behind him was a far more alluring man, older than the Rawal but much more darkly handsome and arousing. His presence in the photograph made it difficult for me to concentrate on the Rawal.

I learned within the hour that the other man was the Rawal's chief adviser, the Kshatriyas, Mir Yusaf Adil.

sr71plt
sr71plt
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3 Comments
AnonymousAnonymousover 10 years ago
Should be reclassified under GAY

Not Group sex but Gay sex-- nicely written series but in the wrong classification

AnonymousAnonymousover 10 years ago

Rad'l, if you don't understand it, it isn't well written.

Rad'lRad'lalmost 11 years ago
Don't understand it -

don't know where it is going but - well written nevertheless. Thanks.

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