Double Trouble

I knew where this was going.

I was sitting in Kamrod Tikka's lap, both of us naked, me facing him, and with my heels resting on the headrests of the adjacent seats in his business jet high over India en route to Bangkok.

He already had his fat cock up inside me and I felt his hands go under my buttocks from each side, and my buttocks spread and a finger from each hand enter me as well. I was grabbing the headrest on both sides of his head for dear life to stay in place as his hands no longer were encircling my waist.

I moaned as a second finger from each hand penetrated me as well.

"You liked the copilot, didn't you?" he murmured to me. "I can have him back here in a minute. I know he'd like it."

"No, Kam, not now, please. Maybe someday, but . . . oh god, oh god!"

A third finger from each hand had entered me, and he had grasped his shaft with his fingers and was moving it back and forth inside me.

I panted and gasped . . . and came up his hard, dark belly in the rivulet of black, curly hair that descended from his chest into his pubes.

Kamrod wasn't done, though. He was only beginning. He had superb control. The fingers came out of my channel and he was grasping my buttocks and pulling them apart, and with the strength of his strong arm muscles, raising and lowering me on his shaft too, until, finally, as the jet started its descent into Bangkok and I nuzzled my face into the hollow of his neck and gasped and moaned, he gave me his seed in three prodigious jerky bursts.

I lay against him, panting, while he ran his hands up and down my back and went tumescent inside me. I whimpered for him, letting him know he had mastered me. I knew it was what he wanted. India putting America in its place.

I even asked him to do it again in a low whisper of longing, knowing there wasn't time before we landed, but also knowing it excited him to have that control over me and that well into his fifties, he could still have a twenty-two-year old blond beg for it from him. I felt him stiffening again at the thought, but then there was a ding, the red light went on over our bank of chairs, and he muttered with regret that I'd just have to wait—that we were descending into the Thai capital.

I took his face in my hands, kissed him, and wiggled my butt on his shrinking cock, as if I wouldn't listen to reason. And I knew that this excited him as well. I needed to keep him excited.

I knew he wanted to double me. He'd been building up to it for some time. But I had fended that off. I didn't know how much longer I could do that. If I truly didn't want to give in to it, I'd have to find another daddy. And it would be hard to find another man in Mumbai as hard bodied, hard cocked, and rich as the international entrepreneur, Kamrod Tikka. And not having my passport in my possession, Mumbai was pretty much my selection pool.

He had picked me up in a male bordello in Mumbai after I'd been there less than a week, abandoned by the American businessman who had brought me there and suddenly decided he preferred dark-skinned Indian boys to American beach bum blonds.

I had gone with Kamrod willingly, because after a week in the bordello, and discovering that young blond men were in high demand in India, I didn't know if I could survive another week in that place. On the whole, I'd found Indian men small cocked, but they had some peculiar notions of what to do with their cocks. And the Western businessmen who visited the brothel wanted their money's worth and generally wanted rough sex that they didn't think they could get away with in their home environments.

Kamrod had been both the hunkiest and most refined of technique of the Indian men who had bought my time, and he took his time with me. I found the fingers plus cock routine he liked painful at first, but I'd been with him a full month now, and one night I'd even managed most of his hand buried and gripping and rotating his cock inside me. He took it slow and gave me plenty of time to adjust.

He was tall and burly for an Indian. A handsome face and an assured manner. He was dark skinned, telling me that he was from south India, where that was normal. And I liked the black, curly body hair he had on his forearms and thighs and cascading down from his Adam's apple to his cock.

His mouth was sweet and persistent on my cock, and he could play me for nearly an hour at a time, bringing me to the brink and then holding me off. Then suddenly entering my channel with three or four fingers and spreading them and making me cum in a flood as the pad of a thumb thrumbed on my prostate. Sometimes that was the end, but more often, he'd move between my legs then, and I'd feel his thick cock entering me between the fingers and he'd work me for another eternity, showing that he knew how to control himself as well.

And, as I said, he took his time and made love to me with his voice as he fucked me. He had a mesmerizing tone to his voice and he could speak in the rhythm of the fuck.

I was never quite sure how long he would want me. He seemed the type who could keep in thrall a young man of his own choosing from his own business world and who didn't need to go to a brothel.

I actually saw that in the first week I was with him in his home. A young German man, who obviously didn't like Indians and who visibly pulled away from them and showed distaste at their touching manner, came—reluctantly, I'm sure—to Kamrod's house for a business meeting and no more than two hours later was coming on a toilet stool, his ankles on Kamrod's shoulders, and melting at the love Kamrod was making with his voice in the young man's ear and with his cock in the German's channel.

I asked, apprehensibly, why he had brought me from the brothel—and then not just discarded me when he'd done all he wanted to do to me. He told me that he had heard about me from a colleague and that I was just the kind who turned him on. He also smiled and said he hadn't done everything he wanted to do with me yet, causing me to shudder as much from the way he'd said it as from the touch of the backs of his fingers gliding up the inside of my thighs.

He more than hinted that he liked threesomes and double penetrations, but I didn't hop on that suggestion. Increasingly, though, I figured I'd either have to show interest in that or find another way home from India.

I was in India illegally now. I had no papers. Whatever man I was with could pretty much do anything he wanted with me. I felt lucky that Kamrod, hunky, not too old—maybe early fifties—refined, and filthy rich was the man who had me.

When he said he had to go to Bangkok on business and he wanted me to go with him, there wasn't much I could—or wanted to—say other than yes. I started to mention the problem of leaving the country, but he produced my passport, which he somehow had managed to acquire.

He didn't give it to me, though, and I didn't ask him to.

We were booked at the Oriental Hotel, Bangkok's most prestigious hotel.

That night, in a tenth-floor suite, Kamrod was all about my needs rather than his. Although he was a good lover, everything we'd done before was because he wanted to do it. On this night, though, he wanted to know what I wanted. He said we could just sleep too, if that was my wish.

I would have liked the "just sleep" suggestion—Kamrod was quite virile and had fucked me at least once a day since he had, essentially, bought me from the bordello. But knowing his appetites, I didn't want to do anything that lessened his ardor for me.

So, I asked him to take me out onto the balcony overlooking the Chao Phya river, with the Wat Arun temple lit up across the water, and lay back on the chaise lounge out there, while I mounted him and fucked him slowly and gazed out over the exotic river scene, the water still alive with small long-tail boats even in the night.

He seemed pleased with my choice and came twice for me.

The next day, he was in meetings until the evening. I sat by the pool, where I got several propositions—from men and women alike. But it was nice not to have to say yes.

Except for a young, small Thai pool boy, who assured me that he was in his twenties and who I fucked down in a patch of bougainvillea near the river's edge, happy to be the top for once in a very long while, I politely turned aside all other offers.

Near sunset, Kamrod came back to the room and told me we'd be dressing formally for dinner and that we'd be eating with the Belgium businessman he had come to Bangkok to strike a deal with. I didn't ask what sort of businesses Kamrod was in—and he didn't tell me. I surmised there was more than one business, though, and I could tell they were lucrative.

As we were leaving our suite for the hotel's Le Normandie restaurant, Kamrod leaned in to me and said, "I believe I have the deal I wanted, but he has expressed an interest in you. I need for you to be pleasant to him—despite whatever impression he makes."

Of course, I thought. Why wouldn't I be pleasant? But then I met the man. Kamrod introduced him as Hugo Jaguerman. I would have thought that Pig would be a more fitting name.

He was a massive man, even bulkier than Kamrod. But I could tell by the way that he filled out his tux shirt that it was mostly muscle, not fat. His jacket must have been specially tailored for him to accommodate the girth of his upper arms. His head, a pig's head, complete with snout, seemed to lay directly on his shoulders. What little I could see of his neck was as thick as his head.

He was bald, with folds of fat at the base of his neck, and his ears looked like those of a pig also. His eyes were small, buried in puffy cheeks, but as he squinted at me, I could see the same expression of lust that I'd seen in men's eyes most of my life.

He ate like a pig too, his eyes rarely leaving mine, as he chewed noisily on all of the artistically prepared dishes that were wasted on him.

He and Kamrod talked—although Jaguerman looked at me rather than Kamrod. But they spoke in French, which I didn't understand. I was disgusted with how the pig would stuff his mouth and then talk. He left the impression of a coarse man with huge appetites that were almost impossible to satiate. I shuddered at the thought of what I assumed I was there for.

Hearing French coming out of such a hoggish face was a surprise. But he was Belgian, so I suppose it was natural that he'd speak French. It was more of a surprise that Kamrod spoke it—and when he spoke it, it sounded like music. A little chill went up my spine at the thought of him speaking soft French in his mesmerizing voice while he fucked me.

When the coffee was served, Kamrod stood up from the table and walked away without a word to me, although he leaned down and spoke softly in Jaguerman's ear, which was answered by a leer.

And Kamrod didn't come back to the table.

"We go now," Jaguerman said in heavily accented English when he'd finished his coffee.

"Mr. Tikka?" I answered in a surprised voice.

"We will meet him at apartment."

I started to object, but a burly man in a black suit was at the side of our table. He had a chauffeur's hat tucked under his arm and seemed to be well known to Jaguerman. I got that he was Jaguerman's driver and that I indeed was going someplace with Jaguerman. The Belgian alone was muscle enough to manage that even if I didn't want to, but here in the best restaurant in Thailand, his bulky chauffeur made clear that I shouldn't make a scene.

I knew for sure now what Kamrod meant by being pleasant to the Belgian businessman. And I probably knew exactly why I'd been brought along for the jet ride. I would not be surprised to find out that the Belgian had specified what type of young man he wanted Kamrod to bring with him from Mumbai and that this was what prompted Kamrod to take me from the brothel.

The thought struck me that I would not be flying back to India with Kamrod. But this was quickly replaced with the fear that I would not be leaving wherever I was going now alive.

In the back of the Mercedes limousine, where I half assumed I would be thoroughly fucked, I wasn't.

I sat in the middle of the back seat, and Jaguerman, taking up much of the width of the seat, sat across from me and stared at me and picked at his teeth with a toothpick.

"Let me see it," he said in a low growl.

"See it? See what? Oh." He was motioning with his hands what he wanted to see.

I spread my legs and unzipped my trousers and fished my cock out.

I cupped my balls in the palm of my hand, and we sat there for several moments, Jaguerman picking his teeth with a toothpick with one hand, his legs now spread too, and his other hand holding himself through the fabric of his tux trousers.

I assumed this was the start of rough sex. But it wasn't.

"Enough," he said, and I folded my goods back into my trousers and zipped up. He kept his hand on his crotch, though, and it was obvious he was aroused.

We didn't have long to drive after that—to yet another high-rise building on the banks of the Chao Phya.

Jaguerman lived in the penthouse, which, although large, was surrounded on all four sides by terracing that dwarfed the apartment.

I held back a gasp when we entered the apartment and he flipped on the light switch.

The lounge room we entered, with an S-shaped sofa winding its way through the center of the room, lit up in a soft glow—but not from any lights overhead or on floors or tables. Instead, track lighting in the ceiling spotlighted onto paintings on the walls.

My almost gasp was caused by seeing that all of the paintings were male nudes—or, more precisely, male torsos. An impossibly muscled—almost cartoonish in its muscle definition—highly erotic torso and legs, bringing to mind that of a muscle-bound satyr.

"Sit on couch. You want drink?"

"Umm, yes," I answered. "A beer is fine, if you have it."

"Bottle or can?"

"A Bottle's fine, thanks."

He laughed. "You choose wisely. But, then again, maybe not."

On that strange note, he left the room and went into another one overlooking the terrace, which looked like it was a bar.

When he came back, he was swinging four bottles of beer—two in each hand—but I hardly noticed them, as shocked as I was.

He was naked. And what immediately dawned on me was that he obviously was the model for the paintings lit up on the walls. And the paintings no longer looked like exaggeration. His body was horrible and magnificent all in one sweeping impression. All of the muscles were where they should be, but they were almost grotesquely overbuilt. His waist was thick, but with plates of muscle rather than fat—his abs looked like those of a Roman breastplate. His chest muscles overpowered his torso so that his waist looked tiny in contrast. And his arms were as thick as telephone poles, with bulging muscles.

And his cock was as thick as a telephone pole too, with two baseball-sized balls hanging behind it. He was already in full arousal.

I moaned as he set three of the beer bottles down and, sitting down close beside me, took a big swallow from the bottle still in his hand. Then, encasing me in one arm, he pulled me to him and took my mouth in his.

I almost gagged as the beer swished into my mouth, and then I did gag as his tongue followed.

I closed my eyes, not able to look at his piggish face, and let him hold my mouth captive with his as his hands moved across my body, unbuttoning, unzipping, pulling clothes off my arms and legs.

I was trapped in the embrace of one of his arms while the hand of the other encased my cock and he started a slow pump.

My nerves were standing on end. His technique of tease in the car leading directly into this no-preliminary assault had me on edge and confused. It would have been useless to resist him anyway, but I was completely disarmed, yielding to him. The reflex was involuntary, but my hips were going with the motion of his hand on my cock. He loosened the grip, while keeping my cock encased, and I found myself slow-fucking his fist.

He released my mouth and then, thankfully, all I could see of his head was the bald top as his mouth was going down onto my chest.

The hand on my cock was crushing now and was beginning a faster, more demanding cadence.

My eyes went to the paintings on the wall. His body really was a wonder. And none of the paintings showed his face. I could take the body. I looked back down at him and could see—and appreciate—the bulge of the shoulder and muscles on either side of his shiny, billiard-ball-smooth head. He was pulling me over into his lap, and I could feel his hard cock at the small of my back and those thunderous thighs under my naked ones.

I panted hard to the rhythm of his jacking, and I cried out in little huffs of breath in response to what he was doing with his mouth on my nipples.

I shouldn't just be giving it to him. He was a gross pig. I should let him know I didn't want it—or that I'd give it to him but not because I wanted it. Because I didn't have any other choice. Make him demand it and take it by force and then not be able to fully enjoy it, as I couldn't enjoy sex from a beast like this.

If I just didn't have to . . . look . . . at his face.

I brought my hands up to glide over the lines of his fantastically defined muscles.

It was OK, in the almost dark, with the lights just highlighting the paintings. I could let him have it and enjoy it.

I wanted to reach back and grab his cock—to get the measure of it. Both thrilling and moaning to the thought of it inside me. Had I ever taken something that thick and long? Would I have a sense of triumph when I had?

God, I wanted it. I moaned and involuntarily whined, "Please . . . please."

I heard him laugh, a low, rumbling chuckle. I couldn't be doing this. I couldn't want it. Not from a coarse pig. As if in evidence, he bit my nipple and I cried out and stiffened.

Fight him, fight him, I screamed inside to myself. Stay stiff. Make him take it. Don't let him know . . . God, I wanted it. I relaxed, all of my senses going to the rising seed in my cock. My butt twitching. My channel crying out for attention.

Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. I was surprised that I wasn't saying it—that I was only thinking it. It was the fear of the size of him, though—and the fear of having to look into his piggish face while he plowed me that held back what my aroused body wanted me to cry out to him.

That cock. How much of it could I take? Oh, god, give me that cock. Once more I tried reaching around him for it—but his waist was just too thick.

"Come for me," he said in a low, guttural voice. "Come for me."

I realized that I was on the brink of doing just that. And, shockingly I was overcome with a sense of loss and disappointment. No, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, my mind was screaming.

And then I came for him.

He laughed and released me. He pushed me over to the side, and I just toppled over on my side on the curving sofa.

He stood over me, in magnificent erection. If my eyes just rose up his body as far as his nipples, I could remain in full arousal myself. I knew I could. Just don't look into the face.

He picked one of the beer bottles up from the coffee table set a couple of feet in front of the sofa and handed it to me.

"Drink," he said. "Drink. Then we fuck. No, I fuck; you scream."

He laughed at his little joke. I shuddered. A few seconds before—before I'd exploded—I'd wanted the cock. Not now. Now I was scared of it again. I could see his evil, piggish face again.

He had already finished off one of the other bottles. I took the bottle, keeping my eyes at the level of his navel, although they kept moving down to his cock and balls and causing little shivers to go up my spine.

I took several swigs, and so did he.

But then he took the bottle from me and put it back on the coffee table.