Black Leather Glove

This was different. I hadn't been fucked in this position before, and I'd been fucked a whole lot since I'd been brought to the brothel in Manama, Bahrain, four months earlier. It seemed that every Saudi man coming across the causeway into Bahrain for a "what happens in Bahrain stays in Bahrain" gambling, drinking, and sex vacation wanted to fuck a small, blond, nineteen-year-old American boy.

For once, this one was an American—tall and muscular, nearly bald, ugly, over forty, and big. Big where I felt it inside. He was my first American, though—ever. I was kneeling on the bed, my knees drawn tightly into my chest, cheek to mattress, and my tail lifted high. My arms were pulled over my head, bound to the restraints at the headboard. The American—Robert Bradford, an arms dealer, I was to find out—was in the crab position behind me, facing up toward the ceiling, his arms and legs bent and supporting his body. His thighs were holding my slim hips between them, his big, thick cock was buried in my ass channel, and he was rocking back and forth, fucking me deep. The man might have me by twenty years and be ugly, but he was quite fit and athletic.

I didn't always come for the john, but I came for Robert. He was big and inventive, giving me something new to think about. I ejaculated more than once. When he came, it was a rolling gush, deep down into my soft core.

It had been barely six months since I'd first been fucked, not yet nineteen, just out of high school and not intending to go to college or trade school. I planned on going into the Army, but they said I was too small. I was a know-it-all runaway, only living under the bridge in Baltimore for a couple of days but already finding that you need money to eat. Turning tricks was the quickest alternative; the other guys under the bridge had said an eighteen-year-old boy who looked like an angel could make good money. The first man who rolled to a stop under the bridge was an Arab. He was young and good looking, all darkness, with black hair and flashing eyes. He fucked my virginity out of me in the backseat of his car in a cramped doggie fuck and then he handed me around to his Arab friends, ultimately turning me over to Arab sailors working a freighter bound for the Arabian Gulf. They, in turn, sold me to the Bahrain brothel, where I became somewhat of hit with visiting Saudis. By then, of course, I was a seasoned male whore. But I was barely nineteen, small for my age, and looked like an angel.

The night the American, Robert, fucked me he rented me for takeout, and I left the brothel for the first time since I had arrived. We flew, with two women prostitutes, a blond German named Ingrid and a small Thai named Lek added to the entourage, from Bahrain to Riyad. There, in a high-rise hotel, after Robert fucked me again, sitting on the foot of the bed, with me cantilevered out from his lap, my legs streaming back from his hips, him palming my chest, my arms dangling over the carpet, and him pulling me on and off his cock, he told me why I was there. I came for him again then, panting and moaning from the exotic nature of the position and the length, thickness, and vigor of his cock.

I was getting the definite impression that Robert could be cruel and brutal in the fuck if he got excited.

The two women and I were to be candy to ease a multimillion-dollar business deal with a Saudi prince. If the deal went through, the prince had his choice of the three of us and his associates shared the rest. I should be back in the Bahrain brothel on Monday morning, or so Robert said.

* * * *

The prince, Salman, chose me. They were all pretty much the same-looking guy, dressed in their pristine-white ankle-length robes, called thawbs or dishdashas, with white-and-red-checkered head scarfs, called ghutras. All of them were alike save that of the one, central Saudi, who I could tell was the prince. His thawb was white, but so was his ghutra, and he had a black gauzy cloak over it all, called a bisht. I knew that the latter was for higher-ranked Saudis and ceremonial occasions. His thawb was different from the rest too, I noticed, in that it buttoned all the way down, whereas the others just buttoned down the bibs. Another giveaway was that all of the rest of the Saudi contingent clearly showed they wouldn't sneeze without the expressed approval of the one who must be the prince.

I was dressed in a white thawb buttoning all the way down too, but I wasn't wearing a ghutra. Robert said he wanted my golden curls to catch the Saudi prince's attention.

Apparently, my hair did catch the prince's attention. I could tell when the business negotiations had turned to success, as Robert handed the prostitutes out. I went to the prince, by his vocal choice, and, as the meeting moved into the drinking coffee and smiling and chatting phase, he held me close to him and touched me intimately.

I knew he was going to fuck me. Before we came to his palace, Robert had said that, if the prince chose me, he would do more than fuck me.

I had already noticed that there was another attire difference with the prince. He had very slender, expressive hands, with long fingers that were accentuated by a black, soft-leather glove on his right hand.

After a period of fake conviviality, the prince stood and so then did all the others. Servants came into the room and ushered the prince's guests and associates out, the two female prostitutes going with the councilor to the prince they, respectively, had been assigned to. Robert gave me a rather leery look as he left that also conveyed "don't screw this up," which, of course, meant "give him a good time screwing you."

I didn't leave. I had sort of moved too go, seeing the others on the move, but the prince held me back until we were the only two left in the throne room. I thought of it as a throne room, because there was an ornate throne, quite distinguishable from all the other chairs in the room. This is where the prince had sat during the negotiations, and it is where the prince fucked me immediately after the others left.

When they were gone, he unbuttoned his thawb all the way down and flared the panels aside. I didn't notice he'd done this until it was done. He was a magnificently hard-bodied man of slightly above average equipage. He was in erection already. He pulled me to him and kissed and fondle me as he unbuttoned my thawb, untied the loincloth I wore under it, and rendered me naked. He bound my wrists together with a red silk scarf. Of course he didn't ask my permission to fuck me. I was just an object to play with and give him release.

He sank into his throne and pulled me down with him, crosswise on his lap. He kissed my lips and my cheeks, throat, and nipples, while he used his gloved hand to stroke my cock. Seeing the black hand stroking and manipulating my shaft made me all hot and bothered. He watched it too, and he seemed to agree with my response to it. It wasn't long before he had moved my passage onto his cock. I planted my foot on the broad seat of the throne beside his hip and raised and lowered my passage on his cock while he stroked my shaft with his gloved hand.

This was exotic and arousing. I looked down and watched the soft leather of the black hand stroking me and I had no trouble engorging or coming. Neither did he; he was hard as a rock inside me and throbbing. He groaned at the rise and fall of my passage on his cock. We both panted. I moaned at the unusual nature of this fuck. We both tensed and jerked and sighed as he came inside me. I had already burbled cum on the fingers of his glove. That hadn't stopped him from continuing to play with my shaft with the now-slick gloved hand.

That was intriguing. A refined Arab partner who took his time and made an art of hand-jobbing a guy while he fucked him in the ass. Now what, I wondered.

* * * *

Now was the "more than fucking" activity Robert had hinted about. Two attendants, who must have watched the fuck on the throne, appeared. A curtain was drawn back to an area of the room not revealed before.

Prince Salman's sexual torture room.

I whimpered as the attendants lifted me from the prince's lap, took me into that alcove, and hung me from restraints hanging down from the ceiling. I am not tall. My feet didn't reach the marble floor. The restraints wrapped around my forearms, not just my wrists, and this helped with the strain, but I still felt my arms were being pulled out of their sockets as I twisted—and eventually writhed—while dangling there.

An attendant handed the prince a many-thonged hand whip, and the prince used it on me—not cuttingly but stingingly—for a good fifteen minutes, taking long breaks to kiss my welts, as I twisted and writhed and whimpered and sobbed and occasionally cried out for him. I surprised myself. The whipping aroused me. Sometimes when I cried out it was to beg the prince to fuck me again. But he didn't while he was whipping me.

As this session wound down, the prince had acquired another hard erection. His attendants let me down, but just to move me to a contraption where I had to kneel on a padded ledge and my head and went into stocks. The holes for the wrists weren't used, as I still had the red scarf tying my wrists together. My arms, aching from having supported my weight as I was being whipped, dangled uselessly in front of me while the prince mounted my hips from behind, thrust his cock up inside of me, and fucked me to his second ejaculation.

I didn't get relief even then. After pulling out of me, the prince fucked me with a dildo appreciably larger than his cock—and larger than the American businessman's shaft, for that matter. It didn't take too long for me to learn why he did that and to be grateful that he did.

I was the prince's slave for the afternoon, and the prince did what Arab princes apparently had done for centuries with their slaves. He screwed me royally. It was all about his enjoyment and sexual release. Even the stroking of my cock with the gloved hand had been meant to arouse him.

The prince went back to his throne and he reclined there, thawb unbuttoned and flared open to show his magnificent body. The attendants freed me and delivered me to him, my wrists still bound with the red scarf. They laid me across his lap on my belly, arms and legs dangling on either side of his thighs, and he spent some time spanking my buttocks red and worrying my hole with his fingers—and then with more fingers of his gloved hand. He must have had a tub of lubricant at hand because his gloved hand became slippery, greased.

I lay across his lap, moaning and groaning as he worked more fingers into my anal canal, moving them in and out, going in deeper and deeper. I appreciated that his hands were slender and his fingers long. I cried out as his knuckles breached my sphincter muscle.

"Relax," he murmured. "Relax and it will go much better for you—and for me as well."

He turned me on his lap and bent my right leg up into his chest so that I could look down the length of my torso and see him inside me, up to the wrist. I groaned as he opened his fingers inside me, stretching me to the limit, and then bunched them again and moved them, ever so slightly, in and out, in and out. I was panting hard.

"Relax, relax," he repeated.

I fought to let all of the tension float away from my body and to relax. I collapsed, lying there open and vulnerable to him as he took full advantage of that. I'd never been fisted before. I was being fisted now. I panted and moaned. He was panting too, and I felt the rise of him against my butt cheek.

I shuddered and groaned as he bunched his hand into a fist inside me.

"Rock on it," he commanded, and I did, groaning even deeper as he moved it, almost imperceptibly, in and out, in and out. I kept the rest of my body perfectly still, knowing that I must be ready to split and that any movement on my part would bring that on. But I held steady through it. Bunching and relaxing. In and out.

"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Oh, shit."

"Relax, relax. Good. Like that. You're doing fine." Bunch and release, in and out, bunch and release. I felt my guts being ripped out of me as I heard and felt the slurp of withdrawal.

I cried out at the loss of the hand and ejaculated as he pulled it out of me. He gently lowered me onto my back on the thick-napped Oriental carpet in front of the throne. He was cooing at me about how well I had taken everything, how young and handsome I was, how beautiful my body was.

This phase was going to let me enjoy this too—give me attention and pleasure. I had pleased him, and now pleasing me would meld with him receiving pleasure.

He untied the red scarf and freed my hands. He coaxed my thighs open by running his fingers lightly over my inner thighs, and, with a sigh, I spread and bent my legs, and placed my feet flat on the carpet. Knees were pushing under my buttocks, rolling up and raising my pelvis. A strong arm wrapped around the base of my back and raised my pelvis. Totally relaxed and exhausted, I let my torso recline to where my weight was on my shoulder blades and my cheek rested on the carpet. I let my arms extended out from my body along the carpet, putting me in a cruciform position, totally open to him. I was surrendering, signaling that he had conquered me and that now, the victor could totally dispatch me. He could put me on the rack. It looked like he had one in his torture chamber.

"Yes, yes, take me," I whispered. "Whatever you want."

He took me, but he was moving out of his sexual torturer phase into his lover mode. As he slid into and up my anal passage, I moaned and whispered, "Yes, yes, fuck me." He fucked me and fucked me and fucked me. He reached down into my soft core and caressed me there, making love to me, breeding me in a flood of warm cum.

When he was finished, he held there, holding my pelvis off the floor, murmuring how glorious the fuck had been. And it had been glorious. He had fucked me languidly, then vigorously, finding every nook and cranny inside me and making love to it. And then languidly again until we held, the whole outside world stopped, both of us concentrating on his throbbing cock inside me as he pumped his cum into my deepest recesses and breeded me.

"I will buy your contract, if I can," he whispered.

"I don't know if I can survive much of this steadily," I murmured.

"I would challenge and test you, but I would not use you up," he answered, moving his lips to my nipples while he cock, still inside me, slowly went flaccid.

* * * *

Howard was all questions as we were driven back to the hotel after he had collected the two women prostitutes and me. The women looked like they'd been run through the ringer, and they said they each had been fucked by a succession of men, taking them hard. I decided I probably had gotten the better of the deal, and I kept thinking of what the prince had done with, and to, me. The image of the soft-leather black glove kept surfacing.

I told Howard about the glove and the hand job and the fucking and the whipping and the fisting. He had an arm around me, and I felt him quivering from excitement when I spoke of the fisting.

When we got up to his hotel room—I didn't have my own, although the women prostitutes shared one—we no sooner got into the room than he slapped me hard across the face, first in one direction and then the other. I was flung back onto the bed. He stripped my thawb off me there and shed his own clothes. Then he pulled me off the bad; slammed my back against one of the walls; lifted me, sliding my back up the wall; and pulled my passage down on his cock. I hooked my knees on his hips and flung my arms around his neck, and he fucked me hard to his ejaculation.

I was exhausted and panting when he was done, carried me over to the bed, and lowered me to the mattress at the foot of the bed. A pillow went under the small of my back. He manipulated my legs, spread and bent, my feet dug into the edge of the mattress. Worn out and frightened at the intensity of him and the cruel look in his eyes, I let him position me and I remained there, breathing heavily, moaning low. He disappeared for a moment. When he reappeared, he was looming above me between my spread thighs. He gave me a leering look and raised his right hand. His hand was gloved with a slicked-up soft-leather black glove.

I screamed as he began. His hand was not slender. His fingers were thick. He was relentless and determined.

* * * *

Late in the night, with Howard, lying beside me on the bed, snoring in a steady rhythm, I gingerly got out of the bed. I went to the bathroom and cleaned myself up as best I could without making noise. I dressed in the white thawb, silently left the hotel room, went to the lobby, and requested a hotel car.

I was let through the gates of the prince's palace almost immediately. He must have thought I might return and left word to pass a small nineteen-year-old blond American youth if one should appear.

The prince met me at the door of his bedchamber. He was wearing only a white loincloth, and his body still was magnificent.

"So, Howard Caldwell sent you to me again?" he said. He was smiling.

"No. I came on my own. No one sent me," I answered.

Smiling, he placed a possessive hand on my buttocks and led me to his bed.