Mutiny Release

"My name is Sean. Sean McDonald," I wished to try out my new identity marking my arrival in India, but he wouldn't have known that. "I've never given you my name."

"I know that. Your name is on the passenger list. You are Lord Dinwiddie's catamite."

"Not quite, but close enough," I said. "I think you could say I was the prisoner of Lord Dinwiddie's wishes and cock. I'm too old to be a catamite." He was stroking my cock so I wasn't about to argue with the essential correctness of what he voiced about what I did for men, including Lord Dinwiddie—what I'd been doing for him for hours.

"My name is Adhidjeet."

"Adhidjeet? That's a strange name," I said.

"Not where we will land tomorrow, in India. I am a Sikh, from the Punjab. I am of India."

"You are? I knew you were from somewhere exotic. So, are you a Moslem or a Hindu?"

"Neither. We are a sect of our own."

"Are all Sikh men as tall and muscular as you are? And do they all have massive cocks, and balls the size of cannonballs, able to fire continuously and produce buckets of cum?" I didn't mention the dusky skin. But I had, indeed, known he wasn't European. I just had hoped that he was an example of what the Maharaja of the Satrap of Sagala would be like. But Prince Babua Jahan wasn't a Sikh. He was a Moslem.

"Many of them are."

"So, when we reach Bombay, will you be home?"

"No, regrettably, I wander the world on ships. We will stop in Bombay but then go on to Burma and Malaya. We will be back in Bombay within a year, though."

"I perhaps will see you again then. I will be going to the Satrap of Sagala."

He laughed. "India is a very large country. If you are in Sagala, you won't see me in Bombay from there or even from my home in the Punjab, which is not far from Sagala. But I think we shall meet up again . . . someday."

"I will certainly remember you."

"I will remember every inch of you, but now I believe I must explore you again. Have you noticed? Have you felt that I am erect again?"

Of course I had. I was making a sheath of my hand and he was sliding his massive, hard cock in it. But then he reached over with a hand and touched the insides of my thighs, which was all he needed to do for me bend and spread my legs and elevate my pelvis, and for him to roll over on top of me, slide in all the way to the center of me, and start to pump.

Not yet on the soil of India and I had been had by my first Indian stud bull—I was being had yet again by my first Indian stud bull. Were all Indians handsome, tall, muscular stud bulls, I wondered.

Chapter Six: To the Satrap of Sagala, India, 1857

The likelihood that I would encounter a country of robust men like the ship's Sikh first officer was dispelled as soon as I stood at the top of the gangway at the Bombay piers and looked down into the teeming masses swirling around on the city's waterfront. It was this mass of humanity that I would see again and again as we crossed half of the huge Indian subcontinent—and, for the most part, the Indian men I would see would be small, brown, and predominantly emaciated.

Four Indians I saw right off the bat, waiting for us on the dock below and looking expectantly up at the top of the gangway in front of a line of pedicabs they had commandeered, received my immediate attention, mostly because of the reaction of my travel companions upon seeing them. They were all small and brown, but not emaciated. They were young and in fine shape. I was to learn that that was because they all had protectors from among our party and they groomed themselves to be desirable to my travel companions. All of the men I had traveled with, who I had assumed would call upon my sexual services lost interest in doing so as soon as we reached India. All had, as those in London liked to say about men with extensive colonial service in India, "gone native." Each reverted to interest in Indian men upon setting foot on the subcontinent and each already had his favorite there.

Paring up with Horace Walpole, James Evans, Colonel Fritz Franklin, and even my own Lord Dinwiddie were their four Indian "mates," Vaseem Chopra, Ashwin Khan, Basim Purhar, and Ahjay Khurana, all of whom met our ship in Bombay, worked in one capacity or the other for our mission, and would accompany us north, each glued to his own master.

As each of these "masters" appeared beside me on the gangplank and hurried down to meet his Indian lover, it became obvious that their needs for me in a sexual way had come to an end, or at least to a slow crawl.

I couldn't count on the possibility or reuniting with Lieutenant Owen Smythe either, and not because he now was hooked up with Mercy Ratcliff. I watched him and the Ratcliffs disembark and part on the dock, the father looking sour and the daughter absolutely livid, after being coy didn't work with Owen. They lived in Bombay and he wasn't going to try to break with the British Army to stay there, I learned. The army would support Smythe marrying the girl and putting down roots in India, certainly, but, in contrast to what Mercy obviously thought, the army would expect to come first in his life, dictating when and where he could add a family, and the lieutenant would understand and accept that. I'm sure Mercy and her father would hold out hope she had landed him for at least a while—and perhaps she had. But the marriage would not occur on the Ratcliffs' schedule. Chances were good, though, that it had to occur sometime within the next eight months for society's sake. The few times I'd seen them coupling, he wasn't wearing protection. His farewells taken care of with the Ratcliffs, Owen had taken a pedicab, with his kit in it, before I got to the dock. Whatever we'd had before had slipped away.

"Where is Lieutenant Smythe going?" I asked Dinwiddie when I could pull him away from his very fond greeting of Vaseem Chopra.

"He precedes us north," Dinwiddie said. "He has to make preparations for our journey all along the route."

I was going to find that he would always be several steps ahead of us and that, when we reached the Satrap of Sagala, circumstances would keep us apart until he was gone once more.

* * * *

We remained in Bombay for three days, staying at the center of British colonial society, the Adelphia Hotel, while the mission was provisioned for the grueling trip north, to the Satrap of Sagala. During that time the men of the mission were besotted with their Indian lovers, from whom they had been parted for months. The Indian lovers, for their part, made sure I was kept at arms' length. They were wary of me and my recent history with their British protectors. They were polite, but distant, and obviously defensive.

As for me, I was OK for those first three nights on India's soil—because I didn't stay on India's soil. I sneaked back aboard the ship that had brought us from England and that was exchanging cargo and onloading provisions, and my Sikh first mater satisfied me nightly. After that third night, though, I didn't have sex again for over a month as we journeyed north, around the eastern border of the gigantic Hindu state of Rajputana Holkar, which was antagonistic to the East India Company and the British, to Delhi, where Colonel Franklin's army contingent was headquartered and where I hoped to catch up to—and have another chance with—Owen Smythe.

The details of the journey weren't being shared with me, so when we boarded a train in Bombay, I thought that would be our transport all the way north—nor did I have any idea how vast India was. The rail line was just being constructed, though, and as yet went only twenty-five miles to Kallian, the departure point for all travel to northern India. From there it was buttocks- and back-breaking travel by coach, wagon, and horses in an arc around Rajputana Holkar and then north to Delhi. Every urban area we went through was teeming with little brown men and women, with their hands extended in suffering and pleading, most of them in emaciated condition. Outside of the urban areas was a seemly never-ending sea of rice and wheat fields. There was always too much of everything—but not of one thing—sexual satisfaction for me. I was randy and needy. By the time we reached Delhi, I would have lain under any man with a hard, functioning cock.

There was an office of the East India Company in Delhi, which is where the mission came to a temporary halt as Colonel Franklin went off to his regiment to check in and make arrangements for our escort further north. The company had a guest house, where we stayed. To my chagrin, I learned that Lieutenant Smythe had been here before us but had already departed to make further arrangements for our ongoing journey. There was a man, though, middle-aged, but in fit condition and with an eye for me here in Delhi. He was the assistant manager to the East India Company's head office in Delhi. His name was Malcolm Randall. He'd lived in Delhi for nearly two decades already and knew the ancient Mughal city, elegant in design, but moldering in neglect and poverty, intimately. The city also had its decadent side, which Randall also knew intimately.

Almost by instinct, Randall knew of my need, accessibility, and willingness. He was quite happy to show me the decadent side of the old city. I knew the moment I met him that he would be the man to fuck me in Delhi, and he was. But he wasn't the only one. He seemed to delight in not being the only one.

"Malcolm Randall," Lord Dinwiddie said to me as we were sitting on the verandah of the Delhi East India Company guest house, sipping gin and pretending that we weren't hot as hell under the clothing that the British insisted on wearing in this climate. "I've seen the looks you two have shared. If you must, let him visit you here in the guest house. But he has quite an unsavory reputation. Don't go into the city with him."

"Do you know how long it's been since I've been with a man," I asked. "How long has it been since I've been with you?"

"I'm flattered that you care about my inattention to you," Dinwiddie said. "But I know all you require from a man is a hard cock of significant size. I'm sorry but Vaseem is jealous and when in India—"

"I've noticed," I said. "It's the same with Horace and James and the colonel. And Owen seems to have lost interest altogether."

"In the lieutenant's case it's something different. But I am trying to get you to Sagala to use you for the purpose we brought you to India. I'm not saying not to let Randall fuck you. Just to let him do so only under the roof of the East India Company. He takes going native too far, and we've lost more than one of our men to him."

If that warning was meant to cry me off Randall or from going into the old city with Randall, of course, it had the opposite effect. Now when Randall finally came to me at the guest house with the intent of laying me, I asked that he take me for entertainment in the city. Taking me at my word, he made sure I was taken in the old city for the entertainment of several. And it was exactly what I wanted and needed.

I had been sitting on the verandah, after dinner, alone and smoking a cigar, when he appeared.

"I have come for you, unless I have mistaken your looks at me," Randall said as he mounted the stairs to the verandah. He looked good to me. My saving angel. I ached for him to be mounting me.

"You are not mistaken," I said, rising. He came to me, looked around to see if we were being observed—the other men were in the parlor, where one was playing the piano and they were thinking up ribald songs to sing. He took me in his arms and kissed me on the mouth. It had been too long.

"Do you have your own room here?" he asked. "Or do you want to come to my bungalow?"

"I thought you might take me into the city. Show me something that would excite . . . and arouse."

"You haven't been warned about going into Old Delhi with me? Lord Dinwiddie has warned me."

"Yes, I have been warned."

"But that means you are more keen than ever for the adventure?"

"Yes."

He laughed. "I think I am going to enjoy this immensely."

"I want you to make me enjoy it immensely," I said.

"Are you made of sturdy stuff?"

"Try me," I said. "Unless you want to fuck me here first."

"I think I want the anticipation," he said. "Come away with me then."

We took a pedicab into the bowels of old Delhi. I could not have found my way back out on my own if my life had depended on it. Even after we'd gotten out of the pedicab, we walked through narrow, winding streets and stopped in front of a wooden door in a blank, broken-plaster wall.

"Have you ever used a hookah before?" Randall asked, and then explained. "A water pipe. The Mughals invented the water pipe and also the escape of dreams, perfectly marrying them together."

"No, I haven't," I said, "Horace Walpole—"

"Ah. Horace has introduced you to his cigars of delight, has he?"

"Yes."

"And he took you on a sensual, fully possessive journey across the stars?"

"Yes."

"I have been told that you are a whore and are experienced. Have you ever had two men inside you at once?"

"Yes."

"Will you come with me beyond this door for the greatest journey of satisfaction of your life?"

He hardly had to ask me I was so keyed up.

We were taken to a room just inside the door where we became native—wearing just a length of material around our hips, knotted at the waist, and reaching to our ankles. Randall told me the attire was called a dhoti. I knew what it was, as Horace had worn one on the ship, but I let Randall think he was indoctrinating me into a new world.

Malcolm Randall was a burly, redheaded man, matted like a bear. He was probably in his forties and was filled out, but more muscular than fat. He had a proud cock and low-hanging balls, which I caught more than a glimpse of as his attendant was wrapping him in a white dhoti and mine was doing the same. He was giving me lustful, "I am about to fuck you," looks. That was quite all right with me.

We were led into a smoke-filled, large, cavernous room that we had to descend stairs to reach. Divans were spread around the space and men were milling about. Some were standing and conversing. Most of them were smoking from water pipes standing on the floor beside them. Some were sitting on divans and smoking. Some were laying on divans and smoking. More than a couple were laying on the divans, fucking or being fucked, languidly, while smoking or with a hookah nearby. All of the men were Indian. Most of them were better fed than most of the Indians I saw on my journey here. They were of all ages. Most of them watched Randall and me enter the room. Servants roamed around the room, refilling hookahs.

"What are they smoking?" I asked. They all were moving around as if under water.

"Cannabis, mostly," Randall answered. "Some opium. Do you want to leave?" He was close behind me, his hands encasing my hips. I felt him hard against the small of my back. I ached for what he could give me.

"No."

"Do you want to smoke, to be lifted into the clouds?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to use you? And other men here to use you?"

I looked around. We were being eyed with hunger. "Yes," I answered.

"May I fuck you before we are both transported by the effects of the smoke."

"Yes, oh, yes."

I felt the dhoti being pulled away from me. He bent me over a divan, right there, next to where we were standing. He encased my hips with his hands again, entered me, and fucked me to his ejaculation. After he was well mounted, he took my wrists in his hands and locked my arms behind my back while he fucked me. I melted to the sensation of being a man's captive as he took me, and I sighed deeply. One of the men who was watching, a younger, muscular one, came over and knelt between me and the divan as I bent over it, and sucked my cock so that I came before Randall did.

The next hour, or hours—I completely lost control of the time—I spent lying on a divan, smoking, first cannabis, I was told, and then moving to opium, as the muscular young man fucked me, then Randall again, then a different, older man, with a cock that could reach me in my soft center, and Randall fucking me together, Randall on his back, me riding his cock, and the older Indian riding my ass. I was reveling in the attention and riding on the drug-induced clouds. After that it was a succession of men . . . until Lord Dinwiddie appeared.

He came from nowhere, and I assumed he was there to fuck me as well, but he wasn't. Colonel Franklin and a few soldiers were with him. They pulled me up from the divan, covered me with the material of a dhoti, and carried me out of the hookah den.

I slept for two days. After I woke, Lord Dinwiddie was there, sitting in a chair, watching me. Vaseem was at the door several times, but I got the impression he was there to make sure that Dinwiddie was keeping his distance from me rather than worrying about my condition.

"I don't suppose you regret your outing," he said when he saw I was awake.

"Not at all," I answered. "Malcolm Randall?"

"He won't be banished. He's a good worker. He just has gone too native to be trusted with the likes of you."

"Will he be coming to me?"

"No. Not again. Nor will any other men before we reach Sagala. I want you in pristine condition for the maharaja."

And that was that. It took us another month of grueling horseback travel to reach Sagala. For the last two days of the journey, the maharaja sent out a string of elephants supporting canopied pavilions on their backs, for us to ride. Although these lurched and swayed, giving the effect of being on the sea in a tumult, I quickly got the hang of going with the swaying and was riding in more comfort than at any time since we'd left the train back near Bombay.

Colonel Franklin hadn't accompanied us, but along with the elephants that greeted us two days before our arrival came Lieutenant Smythe, who was taking on command of our army escort. I ached for him and I thought that occasionally his eyes turned my way enough so that I was hoping that the hold Mercy Ratcliff had bound him with was slipping. But Lord Dinwiddie watched me like a hawk and made sure that I didn't get the opportunity to even speak with Owen.

* * * *

The maharaja's palace in the Satrap of Sagala was a long, rambling, crumbling, multiwinged exotic-looking limestone block affair that one would need to employ a pedicab to get from one side to the other in a day. It was in a breathtaking setting, though, amid lush, manicured lawns bordered by jungle-type foliage and backdropped by the distant, snow-capped, but seemingly close-at-hand, Great Himalaya mountain range. Lord Dinwiddie's mission was housed at one extreme end of the expansive palace, not far from the stables. We were there for a week before I met my master-to-be, Maharaja Babua Jahan. Dinwiddie and the other members of the mission were engaged in talks on Britain's relations with the Satrap, but I was being held back as some sort of reward for the maharaja when the two sides had come to terms.

I was kept in a harem-type isolation, but not imprisoned. I was permitted free rein to go where I wanted to go as long as I didn't come close to the maharaja's living quarters or the central area of the palace where the negotiations were taking place. That was just as well. I would have had to provision for a long journey to get to the center of the palace and I would not have known how to get anywhere specific once I was there.

There were Indian servants aplenty around and they were all polite and differential with me. But I got the feeling that they watched me constantly and reported my every movement—who they reported to was unclear to me. Whenever I had moved out of sight of one, there would always be another one to "be at my service."

When I complained about the restrictive feeling of the guest quarters where I was left to my own devices, Dinwiddie just laughed and said, "Enjoy the freedom to roam you now have. You refer to these as harem conditions. You don't have any idea what harem conditions are in an Indian maharaja's palace, but you will."