Extreme Gay Thailand 1978 Ch. 01

He did a great job of that, and I was whimpering, "Do it. Do it now. Fuck me," as I heard his belt being released and his zipper being lowered. All the time I was embarrassed that I, who considered myself a premium submissive and who commanded the attention of muscular, body-beautiful young soldiers, would be begging a fuck from an old has-been, pudgy actor.

"You prefer train travel to flight because of this, don't you?" I accused him. "It's because you like to fuck on a train, isn't it?"

He just laughed.

I arched my head and chest back and did what I could to stifle my groans in a coach that wasn't full but was occupied enough to worry about those in surrounding bunks knowing there was a fuck fest going on in their midst, as his finger entered my hole--and then another and another, almost up to the knuckles as he opened me up. My legs still bent, I placed my feet flat against the underside of the bunk above me and pressed up each time the fingers invaded to the knuckles. I rocked my pelvis on his hand, whimpering and panting. He placed a pillow over my face to give me something to silently scream into. If the upper bunk hadn't been the one assigned to me, the occupant would have been bounced rhythmically into the ceiling of the coach.

"Now. Now. Fuck me now!" I sobbed into the underside of the pillow. The JUSMAG soldiers didn't take their time preparing me, like this old actor was doing. I was entering a whole new realm of being aroused and being in want for it.

And then he did fuck me--or at least he and the train did. He provided the cock. The moving train provided the friction. I had never been fucked like that--by the combined efforts of a man's cock and a train's motion--before. I have never been fucked like that since.

After pulling his hand out of my ass, he arranged my body--and I let him manipulate me as he wished, me babbling, "Now, now, now," as he did so. He palmed my lower back and raised my pelvis, my legs bent and spread, supporting the rise on my feet flat on the surface of the bunk. He murmured for me to stay in that position, and I did. I had pulled the pillow off my head and turned my face to the window. Then he moved over me, between my spread thighs, nimbly, considering his bulk and the confining space. I'm sure his back was pressed into the underside of the bunk above. He was on his knees between my thighs. His fists were pressed into the surface of the bunk on either side of my chest. His face was looking down into mine, although in the darkness of the space, I had to strain to discern his expression.

His cock went into position and I moaned and arched my back as he entered me and slowly pushed up into me. I was gritting my teeth and trying, unsuccessfully not to groan. I looked back into his face, almost involuntarily because I didn't want him to see how much I wanted this. He was smiling, a knowing, victorious smile. He knew. He knew I had to have him inside me now. My hands went to cupping his buttocks and pulling him into me, so he knew I accepted him. He placed the pillow over my face again and I jerked and bit into the material on the underside as he thrust up the last four inches into my soft core in one long slide.

He grasped my throat between his hands and controlled my breathing, cutting off the air and then releasing, listening to me gasp for breath. This was done in the cadence of his thrusts and the act of mere breathing became integral to the breeding.

And then he held, buried in me, as he always did, as we both felt me opening at the center, going spongy for him in the core, relaxing to prepare for the pump. He brushed the pillow away and stared down into my eyes, his hands going to cupping my head and holding it in place under him. Waiting. Well, I was waiting, but he apparently was set and wasn't going to pump me. I moaned and whispered, "Now, now. Work me now. Make me come."

Nothing. He held, hard, filling, possessive. I grabbed his biceps and tried to rock against him, but he whispered, "No. Hold. Tune into it. Feel it. The train is doing it."

And, indeed, when I tuned into it, I realized the train was doing it--providing the friction of the fuck, with both Culver and me just maintaining position. The train was rocking and lurching over the uneven iron rails and crossties, rhythmically providing a motion that had his cock moving deep inside my soft core and my pelvis moving with him. I relaxed and went with the natural rhythm of the train. He dipped his face and took my lips in a deep kiss. When he pulled away, we were both going with the natural rhythms of the train. I turned my face to the window, concentrating both on the passing of flashing lights in the darkness of the night and on the natural movement of the train, the train using Culver's hard, steady cock to make love to my soft core. I was moaning deeply and he was humming. The train, combining its rocking motion with the rhythmic striking of wheels against worn rails, was using the old actor's hard cock to fuck me.

"Now we're there, aren't we, baby?" he murmured, he sensing as I did that we had reached nirvana in the fuck.

"Yes, yes, yes," I whispered in affirmation.

As I got into the rhythm, Culver loosened his hold on me, coaxing me to remain supporting my pelvis raised on my feet planted on the bunk surface but letting me rock my pelvis on his shaft to the sway of the train carriage. Then he, almost imperceptibly, went into motion too, building to where he was driving hard inside me, punishing me cruelly at the core. He slapped me across the face then, stinging blows, and took my throat in his hands and once more controlled my breathing to the rhythm of his thrusts.

Until then, the motion of the train had lulled me into relaxing, opening, giving him my spongy soft core as his bulb kissed and caressed me deep. Then, completely open and vulnerable, as he went into action, he fucked me at the core, thrusting, biting, punishing, conquering, ravishing--moving into La Petite Mort--a little death. I whimpered, "Yes, yes, yes," to let him know he could kill me deep, and he did. I was totally open to him; he completely took and took and took. I latched onto the material of the pillow with my teeth, dug my nails into his biceps, and gave it and gave it and gave it. He was one with the train, though. It was still the train fucking me.

It took longer than usual, but it was a delicious building up of arousal in a symphony of pleasure crescendoing eventually in my la Petite Mort--my "little death" orgasmic coming, exploding again and again and again--"Fuck!" release; "Shit!" come; "Oh, FUCK!" flow--and Culver releasing his own flow deep inside me, as, not able to hold stance any longer, I collapsed under him in a sob.

"Did you enjoy that?" he murmured when we were able to catch our breath.

"That. That was incredible," I whispered as he rolled over to the side, having to hold me in close to him, though, to keep me from falling out of the bunk and into the aisle.

"Now you know why I wanted to take the train," he said.

Later, he rolled me onto my belly, held me close from above, covered and penetrated me, and fucked me in a more conventional act. But even later I whispered to him, "Could we... again? Could you have the train fuck me with your cock again?" and he gave a low, guttural laugh and complied.

Again, the experience was incredible... primeval... completely satisfying. And it's what I remember first when I think back on what I did in 1978.

He fucked me a fourth time before the train steamed into the dawn, but I was still purring and exhausted from the second man's cock-plus-train friction fuck, and just lay there on my back, thighs and passage open to him in a missionary fuck, ran my fingers lightly over his shoulder blades and in his hair, stared out of the window into the slowly reappearing Thai countryside, and let him play with his cock deep in my core as he wished. He took what he wanted, and I gave it to him.

"You are mine now, whenever I want you," He declared. "I am your master and you are my slave."

"Yes," I agreed. After that experience, I couldn't respond differently. I realized there was a conflict here as I had already slaved myself to The Major, but I couldn't face trying to reason that out just now.

It wasn't--and isn't--often that a man could give me a la Petite Mort-class rolling orgasm--could coax me totally open and vulnerable in my spongy core and then murder me in a conquering fuck--and I never would have thought that someone old and out of shape like Craig Culver was could do it, but he and the night train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai combined to give me two la Petite Mort-class orgasms in one night in 1978.

* * * *

We were met at the train by the drama professor who was hosting our program at Chiang Mai University and taken directly to the Hilton Hotel, there, miraculously, being one in the remote northwestern city of Thailand, not far from the borders of both Burma and Laos. We were just to leave our overnight bags there and go on to the university to spend the day there.

Krit Thanawat must have taught at the university as a hobby or a way to fill his days, because he obviously was rich. He was a Chinese Thai, the ethnic Chinese making up a high percentage of Thailand's population, particularly here in the north. He met us with a vintage, but pristine, Mercedes saloon car outfitted with a driver, a cute young Thai. Krit himself was also handsome--tall and lean--and he dressed elegantly and impeccably. He gave me the eye when he gathered us up, and I knew from the moment our eyes met that he wanted to give me something else as well. I knew him a bit by reputation as a play director in Chiang Mai, and I wondered how much he knew about me. I had also heard that he was gay and dominant.

He was perhaps fifty, but he was in great shape, ramrod straight and, I could tell, hard bodied. He had taken his suit jacket off, which was draped over his left arm. His right arm, which was so lean and muscular that the veins stood out on the surface, having no fat to run through, had a tattoo of a green dragon, with red highlights encircling his forearm. So, he wasn't some pansy, I was sure. He moved with grace and authority.

We performed Edward Albee's one-act psychological drama, Zoo Story, for some sixty university students Krit had pulled together, and we spent over an hour afterward discussing that and American drama with the students and then visited a couple of Krit's classes. Craig Culver proved that not only could he act but he also knew a good bit about American drama and staging. Krit was no slouch on the subjects either.

Zoo Story was a good choice, not least because Culver and I had both appeared in the play--me quite recently--in our respective roles. I played the part of Peter, a quiet, methodical, man with the requisite wife, children, dog, and cat, and a well-paying job, who lunched in the park, always at the same bench. He didn't really think of the bench as his or have a belligerent thought about anything, really. Appears Jerry, who engages Peter in conversation, eventually breaking through Peter's shell for what might be meaningful talk, not the least about Peter's possible interest in men. Jerry proceeds to try to take Peter's bench from him, to entice Peter to be belligerent, and, in the end to murder Jerry with Jerry's knife, something Jerry had said earlier that Peter would do and that Peter had vehemently denied he would ever be capable of doing.

It was not lost on me that Culver also was trying to break into my set life and stir it up. When we'd practiced the play in Culver's Ambassador Hotel room in Bangkok, the struggle scene had segued into a sex scene in which Culver took me from being reluctant to move out of the play practice into something more intimate to my begging him to put his cock inside me. It all emphasized that Culver was not from my world of sexual partners but yet he was able to turn me and own me.

The disturbing issue of the tensions and opposite pulls Culver had brought into my life were stretched tight by the end of the school program in which the theme kept coming up again and again. Krit Thanawat seemed to have discerned exactly what tensions all of this had brought out between Culver and me and he played us both like violins. It almost was like he'd set it all up and he'd researched me and lured me up to Chiang Mai to do what he did when I was off balance and strung out about Culver being the last man on earth I wanted as a sex partner but who I repeatedly had begged to fuck me.

"Is there anything you wish to do this evening while you are in Chiang Mai?" Krit asked, asking it only of Craig Culver.

"Well, I..."

"Anything at all, Mr. Culver. I understand from some mutual acquaintances in the movies that you have some exotic sexual tastes--with men. Young men. You have fucked young Mr. Temple here, I'm sure. Your intimacy with each other came out clearly in your play performances. Don't be shy or reticent. We have male brothels here that specialize in preferences and pleasures that you'll find nowhere else. Would you like to take a taste this evening?"

"Well, since you ask, yes I would," Culver answered, not nearly as shocked or put off balance as I was by the professor's completely open and blatant speech. I had encountered much direct talk like this among the movie people on The Deer Hunter set. I had not yet adjusted to it, though. I had slept with men. I had been fucked by strangers at parties. I had been doubled and fisted and bound and whipped. But I had not yet, in the circles I moved in in Bangkok, heard talk of sex this openly expressed--certainly not by an elegantly dressed, obviously patrician fifty-year-old man.

"Tell me, Mr. Culver, are you perhaps into extreme fetishes?"

"I have been known to indulge, yes," the actor responded.

"And you, Mr. Temple?" Krit asked, turning his eyes on me. I felt myself blush and I didn't respond verbally, but he obviously took that as a "yes."

"Very good," Krit said, motioning one of the young male students over. "This is Intorn, one of my students," he said. "Intorn works in a brothel you might find your pleasures in. He'll take you to dinner and then to the Yù Fǎ Lè Sī Gōng, which translates into English as the Jade Phallus Palace. Feel free to use him as you wish along with any other young man you choose. You needn't be shy with them. The University, of course, will cover the fee."

"Meanwhile," he continued, taking my forearm in his hand, "I will take Mr. Temple here to my home for the evening." Before I could say anything, he continued, "I understand that you take vigorous and inventive cocking, Mr. Temple, and that you are happy to include that in your cultural exchange program in Thailand. Friendship across the world and all that."

"Well, I..."

"I understand you were a gymnast at the university and are quite flexible."

"Yes, I was on the gymnastic team at Auburn, but--"

"Delightful. I am a connoisseur of Kama Sutra copulation. You and I will have quite an evening."

Kama Sutra copulation?

Krit indeed was an expert in Kama Sutra copulation, and I did, following a banquet of Thai food with both Krit and me bare-chested and draped from the waists down in just Thai silk sarongs, have quite an evening following dinner on a mat on the terrace of his Thai-style wooden house, laid out in a series of pavilions raised on pillars. I was royally laid out, tied in knots, and fucked in positions I'd never been in before.

I was maneuvered into being Krit's plaything for the evening smoothly and with Krit assuming I would let him do whatever he wanted with me. But then, I was, in fact, totally submissive to his demands and will.

Krit's sensuality in his wearing of a sarong with his chest bare aroused me from the beginning. The green and red dragon on his right forearm was accompanied by one covering his left pectoral, with the tail going to his shoulder blade and wrapping around his bicep. He was lean and hard-bodied. Through the meal, in matter-of-fact terms, he told me of the positions in which he was going to fuck me, and I was hard and fairly babbling when the sticky rice and mangos arrived. Augmenting the atmosphere, a foot-long green jade dildo was employed as a table decoration. It was thick in girth, with an enlarged bulb and a heavy black veining going through it and standing out on its surface. Beside it was a brass bowl with scented oil in it.

Lest I not understand what the dildo was for--why it was there, conveniently at hand--he asked me if I'd ever taken anything that size but, before I could respond, told me that I would enjoy him working me with it.

He asked me if I'd ever been fisted and I couldn't say "no," although I said that it had been within limitations--to the knuckles; not further. Thankfully, a look at his slim, elegant hands, with long sensual fingers assured me I could take him, if need be, and he wasn't just teasing me with sexual banter.

At no time did he ask me if I was willing to be worked over by him. Before I even had a chance to comment on that, he let me know that he was a good friend of my master, the JUSMAG major, and that The Major had recommended me highly, so I knew, and accepted, that I was being given to him for his pleasure. This also explained how he knew so much about me--and what I would do for a man.

"I was surprised to find you were so small of body, Mr. Temple," he said. "But I think that will make the copulation more pleasurable for me. Your hips are narrow and your hole is small; I trust your passage is tight."

There wasn't much I could say about that. The Major also told me that our significant differences in size aroused him--especially whether I would be able to sheath all of him.

As if he had read my mind, Krit said, "We'll have to see if you can sheath all of me. Tell me, are you very vocal in sex? If you are stretched beyond the limit, will you scream for me?"

"I don't know," I answered. "I haven't been so taxed as yet."

I was sitting, my knees drawn into my belly on the mat, drawing the material of the sarong up to expose my cock and balls and hole, voluntarily making myself vulnerable and accessible, when he stood over me, unknotted his sarong, and let it fall. I gasped. He was nearly a foot in length--not thick, but extraordinarily long. When I could tear my eyes away from his shaft, I saw that he had a long red silk scarf in his hand. Smiling, he said, "Please put your wrists together behind your back. I am going to bind you with this scarf. You can easily get out of the binding if you really want to, but I think you will enjoy the taking more with the feeling of powerlessness."

I put my wrists together behind my back. I didn't even consider saying no.

When I was bound, he knelt down beside me, bringing the jade dildo and bowl of scented oil down with him, and said, "Lie back on the matting, please. Give me your hole. Be my willing slave."

I did so and felt him unknot the sarong around my waist and fold it back, exposing my naked body. I shuddered as he moved his hand over my belly, hips, cock, and balls, and ran his fingers through my pubic hair. I was his.

I heard him voice a quiet, "You are a beautiful young man. Very nicely developed and narrow hips," and sigh. "Spread your legs, please." I did. "Bend your left leg and put your foot flat on the mat." I did that too. "Raise your right leg and put your ankle on my left shoulder. Yes, like that. This pillow goes under your lower back, like this. Ah, sweet, a rosebud of an entry. I was afraid you would have been so used you would be slack. Now we begin." And he began.

I gasped and groaned and arched my back after he'd oiled up both of his hands, taken my cock in his left hand, and started to open up my passage with his fingers. "You may react vocally as you wish," he said. "Sometimes screaming will help you take the fist, which is what I'm going to give you.