Mutiny Release

"Do you really intend to leave me here in the maharaja's harem?" I asked.

"Yes," he said bluntly. "The maharaja does go out into the greater world. Whether he takes you with him out of his hundreds of wives and male catamites will be up to your ability to make yourself one of his favorites. You could go as far as the French Riviera, or you could stay within the walls of this palace."

"So, you will leave and he will own me to do as he wishes with me?"

"Yes," Dinwiddie answered, remaining blunt. "That's if he accepts you at all. He has seen photographs of you, both naked and under men. He seems satisfied with you. He had strongly hinted what personal incentive he required to be favorable to Britain, and that was a young European man with considerable visual appeal and exceptional sexual training and appetite. You are a perfect match. We both know you have the appetite for the exotic sexual experience and even for a bit of discipline. It is my understanding that the maharaja will provide both. It's my job to make him happy, to seal a deal of mutual ties between Britain and Sagala with him, and to turn you over to him for his pleasure. It's your job then to survive and flourish, as you will. We have told him that you will have a private allowance, which could give you some freedom of motion of your own, and that we might employ you with the East India Company and he has not rejected either of those notions."

Chaffing at what was to be my fate now that it actually was upon me and contemplating what Dinwiddie had said about how restrictive and competitive life might become in a Mughal harem, I had a sudden urge to roam free on the extensive palace grounds now. Indulging in that was no more difficult that finding the royal stables that I could see from the windows of the guest quarters and presenting myself there with the request for a horse to ride.

I was provided a magnificent stallion and some direction on where some of the better riding trails were. I went out riding that day for an hour. The next day, I rode for two hours, thoroughly enjoying myself. On the third day, I picked up a couple of "watchers" who followed behind me at some distance, always keeping themselves in reserve but choosing the same turns and paces that I did as I rode the rolling, grassy hills of the palace lawns, always inside the border of jungle foliage and always with the palace and its snowy-hilled backdrop in the mid-distance.

On my previous rides I had seen a pavilion, Oriental in design, on a hilly rise set more for admiring it from a distance and, from its interior, admiring the view of the palace and the Himalaya Mountains. On the third day, on a whim, I decided to stop there awhile, if for no other reason than to see what my shadows would do. I rode to the pavilion, dismounted, and tied the reins of my horse to the pavilion railing. I went inside. The center of the pavilion was dominated by a table, the top of which was made out of a slice of the trunk of what had been a massive tree. Other than that, the only furnishing was a built-in bench, made from the same wood as the table, following three back walls of the octagon-sided pavilion.

Once in the pavilion, I saw that the view opposite to that of the palace was as captivating as the view of the mountain-backed palace. There was a large, irregular-shaped lake, with small islands in it. And beyond that, in a distance, the main, ancient city of the satrap. Thus, I wasn't aware that my shadows were now, at last, going to present themselves to me until they had ridden, silently up to the pavilion.

When I turned, one of the men, large of stature, heavy, self-assured, black bearded, and with piercing black eyes was at the door of the pavilion, blocking any egress that I might have had without coming into contact with him. He had a sneer of superiority and authority on his face that exuded power, self-importance, and malevolence. He was in a Western riding outfit, complete with black leather boots, brown jodhpurs, and a tan broadcloth, long-sleeved shirt that showed that, although fat of belly, he was well muscled of chest.

Behind him, still on his horse, but preparing to dismount, was his companion, obviously subservient to the man in the doorway. This servant was even taller and broader of chest than his master. He was as heavy, but not fat, as the first man, but massively muscular. He was the darkest black that was humanly possible in skin tone, darker even than those Indians I had been told were from the south of the peninsula, and was dressed Indian style, in a white cotton tunic over billowy white cotton trousers formed from a dhoti. He too was bearded and had a white turban on his head. His expression also was of a man coming to conquer rather than to visit.

Suspecting who the first man was, I came around the side of the table, extending a hand of greeting and managing a friendly smile. The master would have none of that. He had a riding whip in his hand and he raised it as I approached and lashed me with it. I backed up to the table and away from him as the whip came down again and again and again. The black servant monster came around the back of the table, carrying lengths of leather, which he used to tie off my hands around the table legs at either side of the table after he had pulled me onto the table top on my back. The roping also encircled my throat. I was pinned to the top of the table then as the master, having pulled off his jodhpurs and put his boots back on, came up and sat on top of my chest, taking the breath out of me with his heavy weight.

The black servant was below, pulling my boots and trousers and underdrawers off my legs, wishboning my legs, and then working his massive cock inside me. My protests were stifled as the master leaned over my chest and pushed his hard cock into my mouth. For several minutes I gave the one man suck while the black one fucked me with a thick cock that approached and then entered the soft core of me. Then he was stroking my cock with his hand. I was now into the fuck, not having gotten any since the hookah den in Delhi. This was a rough taking, but it was exotic and exciting and the black giant was reaching and working my soft core.

Surprisingly, the master didn't fuck me then too. When he pulled his cock out of my mouth, he just slid down my body, the black servant held my hard cock erect, and the master sheathed it with his anal canal and rode me for several minutes. When I had come inside him, he barked a command to the black servant, who pulled out of me, came around to the side of the table, helped the master drape himself sideways over my midsection and chest, and then mounted the table himself on his knees. He covered the body of his master, entered the master's ass with his mammoth cock, and fucked him. They were draped sideways on top of me as I was spread-eagled under them, my arms bound to the table supports.

The strange and exotic nature of this configuration, the fat, but muscular Indian being moved by the thrusts of the massive black man inside him to rub on me brought me to another ejaculation as they were completing theirs. The black servant helped the master to climb off me and the table. The master then sat off to the side and watched as the black man came below me again, grasped and raised and spread my legs, and fucked me gloriously to another shared creaming.

As quickly as they had arrived, accosted, and tied me down, I had been freed and they were gone, riding off on magnificent and huge steeds, necessarily so because of the stature of their riders. I lay there, exhausted, shocked, and flabbergasted—but also fully satiated sexually—for some time after they had left and before, groaning, I rolled off the table and redressed.

Although there had been no introductions and not a word had been spoken to me, I had every reason to believe that I had met the Maharaja Babua Jahan of the Satrap of Sagala for the first time.

* * * *

It would be four more days before I was to see the maharaja again. That was the evening that he accepted me into his household—as a male concubine. The servants came to me in an army in the afternoon. Dinwiddie was there briefly to explain what was happening.

"Servants have been sent to prepare you," he said. "The maharaja has agreed to back the East India Company in the coming convocation of the state rulers, so Britain's alliance has been assured and our mission has been successful."

"So, you will be returning to London?" I asked.

"Only to Delhi now, eventually to Bombay. The subcontinent is restless and I potentially have more to do."

"And I?"

"The maharaja has accepted you as a gift. He has mentioned you several times in the last few days and seemed to be anxious that you would be joining his household. I found the sudden interest a bit perplexing."

Probably because you don't know that he's already fucked me—assuming he was my visitor in the garden pavilion—I thought. Or, more accurately, he fucked himself on me and watching me being fucked. A peculiar bird, that. At least I passed muster. Talk about perplexing. That encounter was downright bizarre. That, in itself, was arousing, of course.

"Our last meeting, a celebration of the conclusions of the negotiations, is tonight in the maharaja's quarters. You are to be presented to him. These servants who are bustling around us have come to prepare you. There is someone to tell you of the dance as well."

"The dance?" I asked.

"Yes, you are to dance for us. And then, in front of us all, he will formally merge with you to mark your entry into his male harem."

"You mean he will fuck me there in public." I didn't phrase it as a question. I wanted Dinwiddie to face up to it.

"Yes. It's the custom here for his wives and his male concubines. It notifies the notables that he has taken you into his harem. It isn't far off from European royalty in the medieval ages, where courtiers witnessed the first coupling to be able to attest that it happened. It provides you status and protection here. As I've already told you, to rise to power within the harem system will then be up to you on how well you please him."

Wonderful, I thought. "So, I will have to learn Indian dancing before this evening," I said.

"You only have to learn to move to the music in front of him enough to make him sufficiently hard to penetrate you and come in front of his courtiers," Dinwiddie said. "I don't think you'll have trouble doing that."

Perhaps I will, I thought. Dinwiddie didn't know what I knew. I'd had sex with the maharaja already, but it hadn't been the maharaja who had fucked me. I wondered if he could afford to be shown in a submissive position in front of his minions.

As it turned out, though, there was no difficulty in fulfilling the tradition. If there was difficulty, it was how prepared the maharaja was to share his harem with his massive black companion—and lover—his manservant who I was to come to know as Mahmoud. I was never sure for as long as I was in the palace which one of those men was in command. I do know which one wielded the more conquering sword. That was the monster cock of the Mahmoud.

The servants spent hours grooming and fluffing me up. It was after dark before I was delivered to the center of the palace in an ornate palanquin. When I was sent into the maharaja's entertainment room, a marble chamber with divans covered in colorful silken upholstery and pillows encircling an open space with an area for Indian musicians to sit cross-legged, playing their flutes and stringed instruments off to the side, I was ushered before the potentate. The man sitting on the royal divan, indeed, was the man who had so strangely whipped and bound me and had Mahmoud fuck me and had been fucked by both Mahmoud and me in the pavilion three days previously.

Lord Dinwiddie was sitting at the side of the divan the maharaja occupied. The potentate was dressed in red sheer billowy trousers formed from a dhoti and called a salvar that was sewn with intricate designs in gold thread. He wore a vest to match. Other than that his chest was bare, his pectorals bulging and hard, his belly bulging and soft. Mahmoud, also in a salvar and vest, both of a white satiny material, and a white turban, stood behind the monarch's divan. Other notables, all men, including the major members of Dinwiddie's mission—and including Lieutenant Owen Smythe—occupied the other divans in the room.

I was dressed Indian style—sensual salvar style, in keeping with my sacrifice status. For clothing, I wore only a gauzy salvar that covered but didn't obscure my midsection and legs. The material was so fine and gauzy that it was virtually transparent. And I knew there were strategic slits in it, which I assumed were in the maharaja's salvar as well, considering the ceremony that was to be conducted here. Two lengths of scarlet silk were wrapped around my waist as a sash. I was perfumed and powdered and adorned with jewelry—a necklace and arm, wrist, and ankle bracelets—which were gold at the base and to which loose bells were attached so that I made my own music as I stood in front of the maharaja and swayed sensually to the music. An emerald had been pasted in my navel.

I was right about the slit in the maharaja's salvar as, while I swayed and danced for him, his erection appeared from the crotch of his salvar and he grasped and stroked himself. At a signal from him and a change in the intensity of the music that I had been instructed in, I went to him where he was sitting on folded legs on the low divan, hovered over his lap, as he held his erection steady, and, facing him, lowered my channel on his cock, his shaft entering me through the slit in the seat of my salvar. Mahmoud came around the divan, peeled off one of my red sashes and used it to tie my wrists behind my back. He then returned to his position behind the divan and glowered at me, conveying "I will have my turn with you" with his eyes.

I leaned back, grasping the front edge of the divan between the spread legs of the maharaja and myself with the heels of my hands and raised and lowered myself on his cock, slowly fucking myself as all the rest of the men in the room watched, spellbound, most licking their chops, some exposing and stroking themselves. The maharajah held me in place with his hands clutching my waist. A couple of the Indian notables in the divans deeper than the front rank had commandeered wandering service youths to lie under them on the divans and to do more than just observe the formal taking of me into the male harem.

I thought the ceremony would be completed when the maharaja had come with me riding him, but that wasn't to be so—and the high status of Mahmoud at the court was brought home in no uncertain terms. After I had raised and lowered myself on the maharaja for several minutes, Mahmoud came around to the front of the divan again and pulled me off the monarch's lap. The maharaja rose from the divan and waited for Mahmoud to lie down on the divan on his back, lift me up and bring me down, facing him, on the much longer and thicker black cock that projected out of the slit of his salvar. Impaling my channel on his shaft, with much groaning and moaning from me and the sound of the bells swaying on my golden jewelry, he raised and lowered me on his monster cock for a few minutes while everyone, including the maharaja, watched raptly. I could see that Lord Dinwiddie was utterly surprised by the privilege being given to the black manservant and no doubt was reassessing his understanding of the balance of power in the Satrap of Sagala.

After several minutes, Mahmoud turned me and pulled my back into his chest. He pulled my bound wrists over his head to where they rested at the back of his neck. The maharaja mounted the divan again and lowered his buttocks to take my cock into the slit in the back of his salvar. An attendant stepped forward to unwind the remaining red sash from around my waist. He bound my ankles together behind the small of the maharaja's back. The three of us were one connected unit. The maharaja rode me then while I, trapped between the two, bound to them, rode Mahmoud's cock.

So, I guess the relationship between the maharaja and Mahmoud and the maharaja's proclivities were accepted in his world.

Even with the audience, the formal ceremony was much more decorous and less painful than the informal ceremony that followed after the maharaja dismissed his guests. That was when I found that the palace had its own torture and sex games chamber under the palace. Mahmoud draped me over his shoulder and followed the maharaja down two flights of winding stone steps into the bowels of the palace, where various apparatuses to test, bother, and delight greeted us. I was bound to an X-shape wooden frame, and my jewelry was sent to jangling as I writhed under a whipping applied by the maharaja. When he'd aroused himself into an erection again, Mahmoud laid him on the divan within my sight, wishboned his legs, and fucked him to an ejaculation.

After the maharaja had left, Mahmoud fucked me on the divan as well, before sending me, in the palanquin I'd ridden to the ceremony, not back to the guest quarters, but to the farthest wing at the other end of the palace to what I found was the male harem, occupied by beautiful but bored young men.

It was from a balcony overlooking the forecourt of the palace that I saw Lord Dinwiddie's mission, including Lieutenant Smythe, depart for Delhi—without me.

Over the next three weeks, I was summoned to the vaulted chamber under the palace once a week to be sexually tortured and fucked—the maharaja riding my cock and me riding Mahmoud's cock. After that it was like I had been forgotten by the world. I turned into just another of the beautiful but bored young men in the Maharaja of the Satrap of Sagala's male harem.

I suppose I was luckier and more protected than most of the young men in the harem, though. Some of them were taken away to the chamber under the palace and never came back.

* * * *

Although we were confined to the male harem, that didn't mean we were confined to the indoors. Neither did it mean we were left to go to fat. The maharaja wanted our bodies in desirable condition when he had a hankering to whip and be fucked by one of us—and to watch the massive Mahmoud ravish one of us. Thus, we had trainers who put us through rigorous exercises for a couple of hours a day. And there was a large roof garden extending out from our harem across the top of a large and long wing of the palace so that we could take in the fresh air and jog around the perimeter pathways. There were garden plots there for plantings and mazes, and thus there was quite a dense area of foliage in our garden.

The best I can say about the months I lived there in confinement, increasingly wishing that the maharaja would call for me again, welcoming the whipping if I could also get the fucking by Mahmoud, is that I learned Hindi and Arabic from the other young men. I was told that there had been other European men in the harem from time to time, but I was the only one there in that period. Ever since the night I had been taken into the harem, all I wore was a gauzy salvar and gold jewelry with the bells attached. I'm sure that, if I had gotten out of the harem, I would have been seen immediately, known to belong in the harem, and forcibly returned there. All of the talk of greater freedom and possibly having a job on the outside had been lies.

I spent a lot of time outdoors in the garden. Few of the other men in the harem did so, so I often was out there alone.

I had been captive for two months and was crawling the walls in need of a man when I was out in the far reaches of the rooftop garden, with no one else around, and heard the sound of a flute. I followed the sound to the far wall and was surprised to see a tall, thin Indian in a white tunic and dhoti sitting cross-legged in a pathway, playing his flute, which, in turn, was making a cobra rise and sway from a basket.