Anson and Jorge in Bali Ch. 05

Anson and Jorge in Asia, Ch. 05

Bali

This is the fifth in a series of fictional stories (all published on Literotica and beginning with "Anson" in the titles). I'm skipping the recap in this one. If you haven't read the first four episodes, I recommend you do so—at least one of the latter. All characters engaged in sexual activities are over 18. In an earlier chapter, the protagonists were tested clean and determined to go exclusive—so there is no discussion of wrappers. This chapter is entirely in the voice of Anson. AI was not used in the creation of this story. © 2023, all rights reserved. Brunosden

From Hong Kong, we flew to Bali, a half day trip on Cathay Pacific, one of my favorite airlines. We had booked two hotels: one for a week, the second for a few days. Both were Four Seasons branded and world-renowned.

The first on the water consisted of walled villas (each suite a full villa), perched on a hillside overlooking the sea, with a private plunge pool and a full time butler. It was only a few miles from the airport. We arrived mid-afternoon to one of the most exotic and luxurious spots in all of Asia.

Bali was unique and a place of contradictions. Nominally, a part of Indonesia, one of the largest Muslim archipelago nations in the world, which was very conservative, it was a large island and predominantly Hindu—the only such place in East Asia. And it housed extremes—inexpensive beach resorts, populated by young vacationers (mainly Australian) with a no-holds-barred drunken (hetero) orgy promised to everyone--on demand. And then there were the super-luxe resorts. It was filled with bars, dance clubs, fine restaurants and cheap eateries. Then there were the ashrams—hundreds of them, catering to mystics, yoga-aficionados, vegans, soul-seekers, and philosophers. Intense spiritual Hindus were hosts to hedonists of every size, shape and worth.

Our hotel at Jimbaran Bay was at the very top. Breakfasts and lunches to order were served in the villas by spectacularly beautiful young (definitely twink-looking to a Westerner) Balinese boys, dressed in diaphanous silk sarongs which left their thin chests bare, all appearing to be dancers and pan-sexuals. Massages with fragrant oils and mesmerizing incense were on the bill every day. The lotus petals in the plunge pool were changed several times a day, as were the incense sticks in the sand-filled joss pots. Then there were the happy hours with exotic dancers followed by an international Asian cuisine at one of the restaurants. It was very easy to imagine that upon arrival, one was entering the portals of paradise—as it had been for hundreds of years.

Jorge and I arrived and changed immediately into the "uniform of the resort"—a colorful flowered silk sarong enhanced by a necklace of fragrant tropical flowers over bare tanned chests. Within the walls of the villa, guests were expected to be and normally were naked. So were most of the staff. By prior arrangement, gay couples (and there were many—there were absolutely NO sexual taboos for guests in Bali) were allotted "special" butlers, with various responsibilities, including "assistance" in coupling—adding a finger or two, a mouth, or even a colorfully wrapped penis to the act. The guest is always right.

Our butler stowed the luggage, mostly unopened, except for bath essentials. He was a young boy, deeply tanned so his natural skin had turned a chestnut color, lightly muscled like a dancer, and unusually for us, with deep red lipstick. We wondered his age—he looked about 14, but assumed that employment at this resort would follow international protocols.

After a brief introduction to the offerings—and the mechanics of the villa (there weren't many), our butler deftly unknotted our sarongs and pointed us to the outdoor shower and plunge pool. "Every guest is asked to soak upon arrival to wash the world away and inhale the exotic aromas of paradise. Welcome, esteemed guests, to Four Seasons Jimbaran—and paradise. If you wish, I can then do your massages—or I can call a colleague and we can do you both at the same time." With the latter comment, he cast his widening eyes down at our chubbing erections and smiled again. "It would be my pleasure to help in any way possible." Then he handed us small clay bowls containing fragrant body wash liquids.

He pointed to the ancient stone table. Artfully arranged were drug paraphernalia and what was obviously marijuana rolled in yellow-orange papers. "Everything here is included. I am totally at your disposal for your stay here. Some guests choose never to leave their villas. Outside the gate are my station and my pallet. I or a colleague will be there at all times. You have only to open the gate."

I looked over at Jorge. He whispered, "I thought they knew how to do this in Bangkok. But, this is another world."

The young boy heard and added, "Oh, this is far better than Bangkok—we of my caste are trained in the sensual arts from birth. We exist for your pleasure. We are not "for sale"—we are part of the service and the experience. That is Bali."

"Thank you, Made (pronounced, MA-DAY, second son, in Hindi, the son normally given over to be trained in the "pleasure arts" in Bali in his caste). I think we will use the pool now. Then we will go the lodge for the happy hour and the dancing exhibition. Please make a reservation for dinner at the Indonesian specialty restaurant."

"That restaurant is closed tonight, sir. But, I and a colleague will serve you the same food here in the villa. I shall leave a menu and you may order when I arrive to escort you to the happy hour festivities."

"Fine. We will use the athletic facilities early tomorrow and we would like massages thereafter—perhaps two of you. I would like to experience your "special services" massage."

"It shall be as you wish. I shall return in one hour unless you ring the bell by the gate. Dress throughout the resort, except here, is the sarong. A fresh, clean one will be delivered to you with breakfast each day. I wish you good afternoon, Mr. Powell, Mr. Perez. If I may be so bold, I am honored to be assigned to such handsome and gifted men." With that he placed his hands together in a prayerful position and bowed three times as he backed away, not turning from us until he reached the gate.

As the gate closed, Jorge stepped to the shower, hanging his flower lei on the iron hook. "Wow. This place is in another world. How do you manage only to book only a week? I could stay forever. I think it's going to help me forget the hospital. Maybe the world."

"Even perfect pleasure begins to pall after a time. We can talk about that. But somehow, I don't think that's going to be the case with you!" Jorge was already totally erect and ready to play. I stepped into the shower, joined my lei with his, and drew him into me, our cocks dueling and poking into our abs. Then I took him with me into the warm pool, pushing aside the fragrant petals as we submerged. We floated in the warm, scented water, arms on the rough stone edge, drugged by the incense and floral aromas—and distracted by the casual stroking of each other's cock. At one point I looked over and realized our cocks, lofting so high over the surface, resembled the long pink-red stamen in some of the tropical flowers. We fit right in, so to speak.

I moved to the pool seat and pulled Jorge into my lap. Our chests met and we clasped each other tightly. We always fit so nicely, like a finely crafted wooden puzzle. My eyes drifted to the basket containing towels. There resting on top was a silicon-based lube. They had thought of everything. Warm water is not the best milieu for the well-endowed top, and water-based lubes were little better.

I pushed up another stair, lubed myself and Jorge and he plunged tentatively, then quickly onto me, wrapping his legs around and pulling me tightly into his gut. Then I dropped back into the water, planted firmly inside my guy who had become almost weightless in the pool and took a few steps into the deeper center. He looped his hands behind my neck and dropped back, positioning my bulb precisely on his prostate. He whimpered. "This is only going to last a few minutes. You've got me just where I want you. I think we're going to be aroused all the time while here. But, don't let me go. I can't swim."

Wow, he was at my complete mercy! I stretched out my legs and plunged to his bottom. He began to spasm and spill pre-cum. I didn't want him to pollute the pool. (I really wasn't sure about the protocol of mixing cum with sacred waters.) So I reached down and captured his cream bringing it to my lips. Then I stood, gripped him to my chest, turned and dropped him onto the towels. I stretched out over him and began to pump, lightened by the water, and within seconds filled him with my seed.

I heard a sound and looked up. Made was staring at us. "I have brought the menu, sirs. Please do not let me interrupt. There is nothing more important in this place that the taking and receiving of pleasure. Is there something more I can do for you?" His smile was wide and his cock was stretching the limits of the sarong. He had obviously been watching for some time. And, he was definitely ready to help if we wished.

"The Astroglide was a nice touch, Made. Thank you. Now if you help me to unglue myself from this boy who fears drowning, I would appreciate it."

Made instantly brightened, recognizing a reprimand was not coming, dropped his sarong and stepped into the pool to help me extricate myself from Jorge's death grip and his "superglue". Finally I stood alone in the shallow pool, my still hard penis floating on the surface. His eyes went very big. "Is that real? How does it fit? Are you descended from Kamadeva? May I touch it? I've never seen anything so large."

"We shall see, Made. Maybe later. But, I think we will need new saris for cocktails."

"Of course." He quickly rose and in a mincing gait that wiggled his cute little brown globes for us, moved to an old wooden chest, bent over—exposing his winking little pink hole--and extracted two more. He placed them on the table. "I shall be outside unless you need me for something more now."

Both of us rose from the pool, dried, applied a little scented oil and tied the sarongs. Jorge looked at me with a very sly contented look. "You have traumatized the boy. All of his friends will now be calling on us to see whether we need anything, hoping to get a mere glance at your divine proportions. They are convinced you are a son of their god of love. I'm pleased these sarongs are quite loose."

"Oh, stuff it. Actually, I just did, didn't I? Your sarcasm is bullshit. I haven't noticed you averting your eyes."

The happy hour was enjoyable—although the drinks were a bit exotic and sugary for my taste. The dancers were superb—and quite hermaphroditic. All were young, probably boys, dressed in silks, brightened with small mirrors, elaborate headdresses and "made-up" for the stage. Fortunately for Jorge, they are not to my erotic taste. I'm pretty sure he feels the same way. I know any one of them would have been on the dessert menu if we wished. We had only to make our desires known.

Dinner was served outdoors under the straw canopy next to our villa as the small watercraft lights twinkled in the sea on the distant horizon. They were mostly fishers, attempting to catch by attracting their prey with small lights. The food was terrific. As we finished, Made and his friend removed everything and discretely disappeared as we moved to the bed which had a massive fan and a gauzy canopy. The air had cooled, so we dispensed with closing the sliding doors and starting the AC. Jorge remarked that it looked like a bridal suite—and I added that we deserved such a bed every night.

We were tired and moved into one of our natural spoons. This time Jorge rather possessively pulled me into him and planted his semi between my thighs. "I will never tire of sleeping at your side—or," he paused and squinted, "perhaps under or over you."

He quieted and became pensive. "Imagine living in a place where an important son in every family is given to be trained in the giving of pleasure. Could you imagine an American Bible-belt mother or father agreeing to such a system? Think how different our lives would be if our second sons went to study pleasure, instead of to war."

He was obviously a very deep and empathetic young man. He had read Lord Chesterton. And I loved it.

We worked out hard the next morning under the watchful gazes of probably a dozen boys—all waiting apparently for a peek. We were obviously celebrities. We showered—at the gym, much to the continued amusement of the boys. Then Made appeared with his friend, a magnificent young specimen, with dark eyes and darker unruly hair. Both were dressed in short small sarongs which they promptly untied and dropped. The friend was called Akim, not a typical Balinese name, so I wondered. He was probably from another Indonesian island. He was muscled—probably from the massage training, and like all those we had met in Bali, sported a perpetual smile. We were walked to the massage pavilion which had been prepared for us. We had asked for the "special"—which we were told was far more than a couple's massage.

We stood nude before an altar adorned with flowers as the two boys oiled our entire bodies. Then Akim guided me to a narrow padded bench and positioned me on it, perched sideways, legs extended. Made positioned Jorge on my lap, facing me, his legs akimbo and extended in the other direction behind me. (I was not inside.) The boys stood behind each of us, supported our backs with their chests, and began a long and languorous shoulder, upper back and pec massage. It was hard, but really more sensuous. After several minutes, we were entranced—and we were rigid.

It was time to reposition. I was guided this time into a straddle at a longer bench, while Jorge was positioned again in my lap—but this time, Made and his friend gripped Jorge's thighs and lowered him slowly onto my erection which they had liberally oiled. (I presumed they had decided I was the alpha, or at least the one paying.) The boys sat behind us—we could feel their smaller fully erect cocks in the small of our backs—and pulled us back into their chests. "This is a special tantric position. One partner is impaled while his phallus rises above the center of the other, embracing with his legs around the waist. Mr. Phillips, your energy is rising into Mr. Perez and hardening his manhood. Our strokes are designed to concentrate your energy and allow it to flow even stronger into him." Then they began long massage strokes, beginning at our hips and ultimately our inner crotches, and ending at our shoulders and throats, lingering over our nipples. I closed my eyes and relaxed into the massage, often pushing deep into Jorge, but the boys never touched his cock which seemed to ache with its stiffness. Was I really inflating him with my energy?

Then they reversed us—and I was impaled on Jorge's rigid cock. Again we were massaged with long relaxing strokes—but our relaxed bodies were betrayed by our rock hard, aroused dicks. We had certainly absorbed a good deal of psychic energy! In the West, I think we would call this edging—not tantric energy concentration.

A second bench was brought out and placed nearby. Both of us were positioned on our bellies. The boys sat on our thighs and began similar long, soothing strokes of our glutes, hips, upper thighs, before dropping back and ultimately moving to the inner thighs and calves. Often we could feel their cocks bouncing on our outstretched bodies. Curiously, it had been nearly an hour. We had had raging hard-ons for the entire time, but neither was in danger of immediate ejaculation. They were wonders at forestalling a climax.

Made then spoke. "There are several final possible final positions to the special massage. You may choose. The object of each is the same: four simultaneous orgasms."

"Each of us could submit to you."

"Each of us could insert while you take each other in the yin-yang position."

"Or one of you can take the other. In that case, both of you may take our manhoods by mouth—or one of you could take my friend by anal entry—and I would offer myself to the other's mouth."

"He is older and entitled to the honor of pleasuring an esteemed guest with entry."

"In any event, if either of you takes or is taken by us, we will of course be fully covered to insure your safety."

My God, what a choice! "Do you have an idea, Jorge?"

"My immediate answer is yes. I want it all, but only if it pleases you. We do have a week. I would do nothing that makes you uncomfortable. This is your call. But, we are in Bali, after all."

"So it's my command decision. Today I will take Jorge. You Made shall have his mouth—it will be a treat for you. He is indeed very skilled at giving oral pleasure. And you, Akim shall take me as I take Jorge."

"Excellent." So the boys rolled in the wider low padded table and both unrolled deep orange-yellow sheaths onto their small erect cocks. Jorge moved to the table, belly down, head at the edge and straddled the side with his legs, opening himself to me. Akim placed a thick bolster under his gut. But we weren't done. We were guests. Akim lubed Jorge deeply and thoroughly and then reached behind me to do the same to me. Made in turn rubbed a richly exotic flavored lube on his own erection. I stood behind, bent, entered and easily slid into my lover's chute—as Made and Akim stood aghast at the size Jorge was able to take without difficulty.

As I began to stroke, Akim stood carefully behind me and positioned at the entrance. When I withdrew, he pushed. He had entered. He was not large and I took him easily—but this gave him the opportunity to demonstrate technique. He reached under and cupped my balls into his hand, holding me securely to his erection as we moved. And so we developed a nice rhythm. He found my prostate and stroked it nicely with each pass. I reached under and fisted Jorge's shaft which was harder than I had ever imagined and began a slow stroke. He was obviously enjoying this. Then he looked up and Made offered his much smaller stick. Jorge pulled it in, deep-throated and began to suck in unison with my strokes. Made's eyes widened as Jorge drew him into his throat. We were like a finely-tuned organic machine.

Akim and Made knew the routine. They had all the control. They would take their cues from us—and as we ejaculated—something we did routinely simultaneously, they would join in. It worked perfectly. Four powerful gushes ended the massage. Made and Akim withdrew as I collapsed into Jorge's back, the perfect end to a perfect massage.

Minutes later we felt the warm trickle of the scented cleansing water poured from sprinklers by our two boys. We rose. They toweled us dry and handed us new clean sarongs. All four bowed ceremoniously and we headed back to the villa for some much needed rest. On the way, Jorge remarked, "That wouldn't make such a bad gay wedding ritual."

"Surely you jest. I suspect they'll be telling tales of our size for years. We would be either the talk or the scandal of San Francisco. Imagine our families in the pews! But, the front seats could be sold for a fortune!" (I noted that this was our second reference to gay marriage in as many days.)

Later in the villa—or actually as we floated in the pool sipping G&Ts—since we had decided to skip happy hour, Jorge became very quiet and serious. Normally, he was the one who took everything lightly and cheered me. I loved that in him. But I wasn't insensitive to his moods. "Okay. Spill it. Something's bothering you."

"Yeah, this afternoon. The whole experience seemed right at the moment. Made and Akim are toys—part of the package of this sensuous place. But it doesn't seem right. You are probably going to consider me to be a Puritan. I certainly enjoyed all aspects of the beginning of the special massage—but the finale has been eating at me."