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Burt Blackmore stood next to his son’s friend and Columbia University classmate, Sam Nadler, at the top of the entrance stairs at the rambling Thai-style house on stilts to watch the last of the party guests take off in their separate groups. Nadler wasn’t going to be going anywhere, though, and he knew it, because he was standing close to the hulking surgeon, who had a beefy hand down the back of Nadler’s trousers far enough to have his middle finger up Nadler’s ass.
Sam knew his host was going to fuck him. Blackmore had fucked him before–and more. Nadler had let the man fuck him often enough that he had privileges to assume he could do in as and when he wanted. He was a rich and powerful man. Nadler fell in with that.
Blackmore was on a high from a successful party. He wanted to do more to Sam today than he’d done before. He wasn’t just going to fuck the redheaded nineteen-year-old. Sam was going to suffer, and be grateful for the experience, in new ways. He would have much to tell his friends about Thai sexual practices when he returned to Columbia University. What had drawn Blackmore to the young man was that Sam liked being taken in new ways–and to suffer. Sam was a masochist, but he also was resilient and robust–and he had an appreciation for the nasty. He had been fucked with giant dildoes, bound, doubled, fisted–these last two one evening when Krit Thanawat was visiting–and whipped. He had bounced right back, ready for new extreme experiences.
Blackmore had had an arousing day. He had something special planned for Sam today. Sam knew it. Blackmore had whispered a hint of what they were going to do in Sam’s ear, and the young redhead had blushed, shuddered, and groaned–all of which turned him on, however. Sam hadn’t even known you could fuck that way.
Men were getting into cars in the courtyard of the rambling Thai-style mansion. Suket Blackmore and Judy Taylor had already left together for who knew where? The men at the party didn’t care. The bisexual men, The Major and Cowboy had already had Suket earlier in the day and Judy Taylor was such an obvious hard-edged, prickly lesbian that neither of those men were that interested in bedding her again. But Suket? To biblically know her was to want to know more of her. Both had had her several times, but that wasn’t enough for them. Not the same for Judy Taylor, but there was a bit of jealousy about what the two women might be off doing. What was most likely was that the women were going back to Taylor’s apartment to see if she could ravish Suket as well as The Major and Cowboy had done.
Below where Blackmore and Nadler stood, Nadler quaking at what was to come and licking his lips because he reveled in being used hard, the convoys were forming up. Cowboy was taking Brad Blackmore and the French cameraman, Jacques Boyier, off in one car to show them what slumming in Bangkok looked like. As they were leaving, Intorn, the Thai drama student who had come with Vince Burnett, came tripping down the stairs and entered their car.
Vince Burnett didn’t seem to mind. He’d been in deep discussion with the writer and producer, Deric Washburn, who seemed to want to talk to him about business, and Burt Blackmore had lent them his Mercedes to go to the bar at Vince’s hotel. The actor Gary Jones, who also was staying at the Ambassador Hotel, went with them.
The largest contingent left the compound in two cars. The Major had declared that the party would continue as a swim party at the JUSMAG single officer’s housing compound off Sathorn Road. The Major; the UN officer, Magnus Amundsen; and the actor Paul Cummings went in one car and JUSMAG lieutenant Ben Singleton, Thai Air Force colonel Samui Timruang, and embassy cultural officer Tim Temple went in another car.
As they left, Krit Thanawat came out of the house and left alone. He had left the third nineteen-year-old Columbia University student, Matthew Morris, lying on the bed in his room, still panting, on his back, with his arms akimbo, his legs bent and spread, his eyes glazed over, and his mouth blowing bubbles. Matthew thought he’d had it all from Krit, but Krit thought otherwise and was anxious to get the young man in his clutches again, more privately, where Krit would be totally in control. He had told Matthew as much, and the best Matthew could do or say in response was to shudder and grown.
Matthew wasn’t alone for long, though. The actor Joe D’Amato came upon him after having fucked Intorn in a hall and then explored distant wings of the house. Taking advantage of Matthew’s exhaustion and vulnerability, D’Amato walked over to the bed, unzipping and releasing himself on the way, grabbed Matthew’s ankles, and pulled the young man to the foot of the bed.
Matthew whispered, “Oh, shit. Fuck,” but he didn’t deny the actor, who had fucked him before on the set of The Deer Hunter. Ever the show-off actor, D’Amato stood on the bed, hovering over Matthew, between the young man’s spread thighs; rolled the young man up on his shoulder blades; grabbed eryaman escort Matthew’s ankles and spread his legs wide; put his own dick in position, the bulb just inside Matthew’s now-gaping hole; penetrated down into his hole; and jackhammered the hell out of him as Matthew arched his head back to stare at the bed’s headboard, flung his arms out, grasping bunches of bedspread to hold himself steady, and took D’Amato’s cock–and took it and took it.
When D’Amato was done, he left Matthew lying there, moaning softly, and made his way through what seemed to be an empty compound, other than the servants scuttling around to clean up from the party. Whistling, he let himself out of the gate and walked toward the lights of the city. Long before that, though, Burt Blackmore had drawn Sam Nadler away from the top of the stairway down from the reception pavilion to the parking area with an “I think it’s time we visit my examination room.” Sam had shuddered and smiled and allowed himself to be guided into the bowels of the mansion by Blackmore’s hand on his lower back.
Blackmore was so worked up that he had to get his rocks off first. He put Sam on his knees on the examination table, the young man’s chest flat on the surface of the table, with his arms pulled down on either side and strapped near the base of the table. His ass was in the air, his ankles strapped to the back edges of the table. Blackmore mounted from above, penetrated him, and rode him hard. He had a riding crop and beat Sam on the buttocks and thighs as he rode the young man to an ejaculation. He commanded Sam not to come, though, and Sam obeyed him, writhing under the heavy man as he was able and letting Burt know how much he was enjoying the rough ride.
After he’d come and was calmed down, Blackmore climbed off Sam and unbound the young man. He took Sam into his arms and kissed him. Sam lay, relaxed in his arms, mellow, not really realizing what was coming next. Blackmore rebound him on the table, on his back, a wedge under his lower back to roll his pelvis up, and a strap across his throat to keep his head arched back over the top of the table. His arms and legs were dropped off the sides of the table and bound at the wrists and ankles. The young man was immobilized and unable to move a muscle.
The surgeon hummed as he moved around the room, collecting his tools of sexual torture. He worked Sam’s body with feathers until the young man’s involuntary laughter subsided into sobs. Blackmore wanted to come again then, so he came around to the head of the table and face-fucked the young man with his cock, while he clipped pinchers connected with a chain on Sam’s nipples and pulled on the chain. As he moved his cock in Sam’s mouth, he massaged the young man’s throat with his hand and Sam was able to take the cock deep. Sam alternated between gurgling and gagging on the cock and begging for mercy, while actually being in seventh heaven, as Blackmore worked his nipples.
Then, for something new, something Sam hadn’t experienced from him before, Blackmore pulled out his case of sounding wands.
He explained what he was going to do with them, showing each metal rod, graduated in length and thickness, to Sam by displaying them in front of the young man’s eyes.
“These are sounding wands. They are going to be inserted into your urethra channel one by one, from the smallest to the largest I want to use. You’re going to want to hold really still and you’re going to want to come. But you can’t come until I tell you you can. If you disobey me and come, we will have to start from the very beginning again.”
“What in the fuck is a urethra?” Sam asked.
Blackmore laughed. “It’s in your dick, Sam. It’s the channel in your dick that you piss and come out of. Your cum flows up through it to get out. I’m going to fuck your dick, through your piss slit–in layman’s terms. And when we get into the long wands, we just might be dipping down into your ball sac.”
“Shit, my dick won’t take those thick things. You’re teasing me,” Sam answered. But he was sweating and his voice was quaking. Blackmore had done him in rough and kinky ways before. Always before he’d liked it. But this… fucking his dick with those rods? That was something else.
Blackmore laughed again, but it was a deeper, hoarser laugh. “No, I’m not teasing. Yes, I can fuck your dick with these rods. And I’m going to, whether you like it or not. There isn’t anything you can do about it now. It will be done, and if you want to make a fuss about it later, there’s a khlong right outside the door and I have servants who would do what I command and think nothing of it.” He took a leather string, wrapped it around the base of Sam’s balls to pull them into a tight sac. He patted them to hear Sam cry out and squeezed them to hear the young man cry out louder.
Sam was whimpering when Blackmore picked up the thinnest of the sounding wands and said, “Now we begin.”
“No, please. It’s too much,” Sam begged.
But they did sincan escort begin and it wasn’t too much–not for sturdy, masochistic Sam. By the time Blackmore was spinning the third-smallest rod into the urethra channel, Sam was adjusting to it and enjoying it, harmonizing his low moans and groans to the doctor’s humming. But Blackmore had been right. The movement of the wands down into his cock channel made him want to blow. He whimpered his need.
When the fifth of the sounding rods had been inserted and Sam was babbling how hard it was being in holding back–that, yes, it had him dancing on the clouds but that his need to release was just too much, Blackmore said, “You’ve done well for the first time.”
For the first time? Sam thought and trembled.
“When I pull this one out, you may erupt,” Blackmore said. “Next time we do this, we’ll go further.” Then, to be cruel, he twirled the fifth wand in a little further before pulling it out. As it exited, Sam ejaculated with a cry of release.
“Shit that was hot,” Blackmore said. “I can’t resist. Just one more.”
“No, please,” Sam pleaded and then, as the sixth one twirled in, he whimpered, “Oh, fuck. Yes, Oh, shit, yes. Fuck me with that stick!” as a secondary ejaculation burbled up around the sides of the wand.
“Now you’ve got me going,” Blackmore declared, as he climbed up on the table between Sam’s spread and bound thighs, pushed his knees under the young man’s raised buttocks, hovered over him, penetrated him, and fucked his hole. He’d left the sixth wand buried in the young man’s urethra channel while he fucked him.
Sam lay there, panting and reveling in the most demanding fuck he’d ever taken. This fat monster of a man was the best top ever. And he wanted some more of this sounding fucking–just not right now. His balls ached and he didn’t know if he’d even be able to walk away from here… if Blackmore would let him.
After Blackmore unbound Sam, helped him off the table, and embraced and kissed him long enough to know that the young man was now fine with the sounding and even would be willing to have it done again, Sam hobbled off to his room. Blackmore sat for a while in his examination room, at his desk, knocking back shots of whiskey. He was antsy. The sounding of Sam had revved him up. He was full of nervous energy and had a hard on again. He stroked himself off to a release but that didn’t assuage the sexual heat he was in.
He wondered who else might still be in the house. Had they all gone off to other activities? He went over the guest list in his mind and ticked it off against those he’d seen depart earlier. Having gone through the list a couple of times, he stopped, laughed, rose up from the desk, and walked the corridors to Matthew Morris’s room.
He found Matthew still stretched out on his bed, exhausted from being fucked by both Krit Thanawat and Joe D’Amato. He was lying on his back, arms stretched out, legs together but bent, feet flat on the mattress. His eyes were open, fixed on the open network of wooden beams in the sloped ceiling above his head, murmuring to himself.
His eyes tried to focus on Burt Blackmore as the naked fat man entered the room and approached the bed. With a sigh of acceptance, Matthew spread his legs and weakly raised his pelvis, resigned to another cocking visitation. The man hadn’t fucked Matthew yet, but Sam had told him all about how demanding their host was, and Matthew had already become resigned to ending up in the big man’s bed at some point during their stay in Bangkok.
Blackmore didn’t present between the young man’s legs. He reached down, gathered Matthew up in his arms, draped the young man, belly down, over his shoulder, and marched back to his examination room. He strapped Matthew down on his back on the examination table, his head arched over the head of the table and his arms and legs draped over the sides and secured.
Matthew was too weak to do more than ask what his host was going to do to him. He moaned when Blackmore showed him the sounding wands and explained what they were for.
“You friend Sam loved them,” he said.
Matthew groaned. Sam liked a lot of sex acts better than he did.
Moments later, one of the servants was walking in the hall and paused when he heard his master call out “two,” which was followed by a weak cry by another man. He stopped, heard “three” and another little cry, and then a “four,” a cry and his master say, “No, don’t you dare come, or we’ll have to start all over again.” The servant didn’t wait to listen to more. He just shook his head and scurried on down the hall. It was never healthy to think too hard about what went on in this house, especially if the master was involved.
* * * *
“Off to Soi Cowboy,” the man who gave the street its name directed the driver of the car Cowboy; Brad Blackmore; the French movie cameraman Jacques Boyier; and the belatedly added Thai drama student, Intorn, had piled into as they drove out of the Blackmore compound etlik escort to proceed with the night’s activities.
“Que diriez-vous quelque chose de plus intéressant?” Jacques spoke up.
“What the fuck did he say?” Cowboy asked Brad Blackmore. “He’s been spouting French fries all afternoon and you seem to know what he’s saying.”
“He’s saying we should do something more interesting,” Brad said.
“More interesting than an evening on Soi Cowboy under the guidance of Cowboy himself?” the man with the name asked in a clearly wounded tone. “Balls to that.”
“Your whore houses are very nice,” Jacques said, “but they are a bit tame for what I have in mind for us.”
“So, you speak English,” Cowboy said.
“When I have no one civilized to talk to,” Jacques said. “I’ll be flying out in a couple of days and I would like to really celebrate before I go.”
“You don’t have male cat houses in Paris?” Cowboy asked. “I find that hard to believe.”
“None as satisfying as yours on Soi Cowboy,” Jacques answered.
“What do you have in mind?” Cowboy asked, clearly pacified by Jacques’s compliment.
“The smoke houses in Khlong Toei,” Jacques said.
“What do you know of those? That’s a rough section.”
“Smoke houses?” Brad piped up and asked. He clearly was interested. Intorn was sunk into a corner of the backseat, looking a bit dreamy-eyed, as Jacques had a hand pushed under the waistband of the small Thai’s trousers and was playing with the young man’s cock.
“Hashish,” Jacques said. “Have you ever been fucked by a man high on hashish. A hard-bodied sailor in port for the first time in months?”
“No,” Brad answered, but he didn’t lose interest.
“The Khlong Toei docks are no place for someone like Brad,” Cowboy said.
“Even with a big black stud like you to protect him?” Jacques asked. He laughed. “You can fuck him at a hashish house as well as on Soi Cowboy. That’s clearly what you are going to do–and Brad clearly is going to let you.”
Cowboy, in fact, did have Brad in an embrace in the opposite corner from where Jaques had stripped off Intorn’s trousers, unzipped and released himself, and was maneuvering himself between the young Thai’s thighs. Intorn didn’t seem to mind. He was spreading and raising his legs. He’d have a story to tell up North when he’d been laid by this sexy Frenchman who was part of The Deer Hunter production crew.
“Let’s go there,” Brad said. “I haven’t done anything as rough as that sounds since I went slumming in New York’s Harlem. I’d like a taste of rough Bangkok before I have to go back to New York.”
“I’ll give you something to taste,” Cowboy said, with a laugh. The two already were stroking each other’s cocks. Cowboy cupped the back of Brad’s head and guided the young man’s face down into his lap. Brad went down willingly and went down on Cowboy’s legendary cock with relish. “So be it. Udom,” Cowboy called out to the driver, “several times around Lumpini Park please and then to Sarap’s House in Khlong Toei. Yes, just like that,” he then murmured, speaking to Brad rather than the driver. “Such a sweet, soft mouth.” He looked over into the other corner of the backseat, were he viewed Jacques’s now-bare back, with Intorn’s berry brown legs rising on either side of the Frenchmen’s torso. The cameraman’s buttocks were in motion and he was crooning in French.
“Ouvert à moi. Tu es serré, petit. Prends-le. Prends-le.”
If Cowboy was interested and asked for a translation, he’d be told that Jacques thought Intorn’s channel was tight, but that he wasn’t complaining. But Cowboy was more interested in the expertise Brad was exhibiting in giving him a blow job. The young man’s expertise was considerable, and Cowboy wasn’t complaining about that.
The hashish den was as rough and seedy as Cowboy had said it would be. Sarap’s was in a section of a warehouse near the docks. Jacques had been there before, which surprised Cowboy. The big black bull had assumed that the Frenchman was just blowing smoke, but it turned out that he knew how to smoke.
The warehouse floor was strewn with padded platforms where the clients reclined and smoked or, as they smoked and their spirits floated toward the far-distant metal ceiling, they joined each other and fucked. The patrons paid at the door, and what they smoked and for how long and what they were permitted to indulge in while they smoked was determined by how much they paid.
When they arrived, it was Jacques’s turn to be impressed, as the house master padded quickly from the depths of the area to greet them once he’d seen Cowboy, who was quite distinctive, standing a head taller than anyone else in the area and being built and black. The house master made clear that Cowboy and his colleagues were welcome without paying to indulge in whatever they wanted. He would, of course, expect reciprocal accommodation at Cowboy’s establishments in the future.
At the entrance, Cowboy looked around and muttered, “Be careful, guys. There are more than just sailors of different nationalities here. There are some pirates up from the South. They’ll slit your throats while they’re fucking you, and you’ll be feeling so taxed by the pain inflicted by their cocks that you won’t feel the knife slide across your throat.”
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