The Indian Doctor Ch. 01

The doctor flattered me by wondering how anyone who looked like me could have gotten this far without going bisexual. He beat the drum of bisexuality, saying that everyone was really bisexual, and that most people were just trying to repress the attraction to their own gender. More evolved people, he said accepted that they were bi—and acted on it without guilt. He showed me a picture of him fucking his wife (it really was his wife, I found out later—although she lived most of the year in India) and assured me that many men took pleasure both ways.

Something inside me told me I didn't want to deny myself any opportunities to experience full sensuality, and I gulped and asked him if he really would be gentle. (I didn't think to ask him why I wasn't going to be fucking him instead, if I was all that hot.) To prove he would be gentle and careful, his cock did go back into my mouth, but only a little ways, and rotated around. He said we wouldn't have to get much into that for now, that, as he could demonstrate on me—and then did—that sucking on the bulb of a man's cock alone was a glorious sensation for both. (My guess is that he wanted to get his dick up my ass before I thought better of the situation.)

He sent me stumbling off with an enema bottle after we had both come with the mutual cock bulb sucking, saying I'd be more comfortable if I was cleaned out—and he went off to take a ritualistic shower (he said). He didn't want me to take a shower, I guess, because he wanted to roll around in the oil I'd been basted in.

When I came back, he had me go up on my belly on the table—I was oiled up so well now I could have slid off the table. I had assumed he'd suck me off with attention to the shaft to show me how that was done, but he obviously was going straight for the main event. A virgin is a virgin. An American male model virgin in the grasp is probably a trip to paradise for an aggressive gay male Indian.

He put a pretty bulky pillow under my belly to lift my pelvis up. He then got up on the table, pushed my thighs wide, got down behind me, and tongued my asshole for a while. His tongue also went to the underside of my cock and around my balls and across my inner thighs in this process. All the time he taking time off from the licking to tell me how nice I was and assuring me that I was slowly opening and that I'd be well open before he mounted me. He was pretty good at keeping his word on that. He patiently worked on me for an hour or more (during which I shot off a couple more times, with his encouragement and clucking that I had nothing to be embarrassed about—I could reload within twenty minutes in those days and shoot off five or six times a night when I was really aroused).

Varieties of lubricant were applied, some of which was for deadening the area (and probably were illegal). After his tongue, he went to fingers. He had long, sensuous ones, and he could easily reach my prostate. He showed me how he could make me shoot off just by rubbing me there. Then his well-oiled fingers probed deeper. Whatever he was using to deaden pain was only used on the rim and just a few inches inside, so he could be in a couple of inches before I even knew I was being skewered. He showed me a couple of smallish dildos of increasing size before he lubed them up and slowly and gently screwed them into my ass and around, giving my channel time to adjust to them. There wasn't much pain in any of this, and I was jacked up to the roof at the very idea of what was happening to me—the sheer risk and adventure of it—and the fact that I'd finally been brave enough to give it a try.

This may have been the first moment when I was willing—to myself—to admit that I'd always been curious. At least deep inside of me.

After more than an hour, I felt his cock at my back door, and he very slowly entered me—and entered me and entered me and entered me. That was one long cock. It felt like the uncoiling of a snake inside me. With that "bent up" cock of his, I could feel the head dragging along my ass canal walls as it plowed up me. There was some pain now, but I told myself it was minimal, bearable pain for a first time. He kept referring to the possibility of minor pain and promising that it would turn into pleasure.

I'd been as gently prepared as I could wish for. All the time he was working me, he spoke to me in a reassuring singsong tone. As he was rising up into me, he told me how lucky I was that his cock was thin and that my channel wouldn't be unduly stretched the first time. He didn't say anything about how incredibly long it was or that I would feel that it was straightening my intestines out with the goal of entering my stomach.

He rode me, slowly pumping me deep, for a good thirty minutes, drawing out his pleasure with the virgin as much as he could, I suppose—although later I was to find that he could ride for as long as he wanted to and ejaculate as and when he wished. He was braced on his knees behind me and either kept his hands hooked over my shoulders or palmed flat on my shoulder blades as his cock worked me. He continued chattering away in his singsong voice, no doubt—with the help of the drug he'd given me—keeping me calm and mesmerized. I could tell that the experience was quite arousing for him too, because he came quickly (for him—he was the master of self-control). His ejaculation felt like a warm fountain spurting inside me, sort of a foreign tickling sensation. I hadn't realized that I could feel cum inside me, but I could. But then, of course, I'd never imagined I would have cum inside me.

I was now fucked.

This was in the late seventies in Bangkok, a good five years before the first cases of AIDS sent most gay men—not very many in Bangkok yet, however—to the use of condoms. In those days most fucked bareback without a thought that someday there would be consequences. The Indian doctor certainly did, with the comment that all things that could be done naturally, should be. He also said there was a different, more arousing sexuality to skin rubbing on skin. Years later when I too moved exclusively to using condoms, I acknowledged that he was right. No fucking was as memorable to me as those early, barebacking years.

Some men are multiple spouters—I am one of those. The Indian doctor wasn't, though. Although he could harden and ejaculate at will, when he did ejaculate, it was in a single, powerful jet—producing more cum, though, than most could in multiple spurts. And once in there, I could feel it. And after an evening with him, it would be dripping down my legs when I walked away from him.

He held there for a while, straddling my hips, on the massage table, his cock buried to the hilt, massaging my muscles again and telling me what a lovely young man I was. I felt him go flaccid inside me. But he just kept massaging me, not letting me up. And I felt him start to engorge and fill up my ass canal again. I didn't feel sore inside, but the deadening was wearing off on the rim of my ass, and I felt a little chaffed there. It was obvious that he wasn't going to let the virgin get away with only one screwing.

He pulled out of me and walked down the table on his knees, pulling me with him, until we were both standing on the floor at the edge of the table, and then he bent me over, my chest on the table, my legs held close together, encased by his thighs. He folded himself over me and slowly entered me a second time. This time I felt some pain at the entry and let him know he was hurting me, that he was too filling this way. That I needed to widen my stance. He shushed me like one would do a fussy baby and just kept plowing up me. He said he wanted briefly to let me feel another type of fucking and that he knew I'd enjoy it. He squeezed my thighs between his, which tightened my canal around his cock even closer, and then he took me in long strokes, nearly all the way out, and then all the way back in. He did me for about fifteen minutes this way, and I was very vocal with this one, arching my back up to him and writhing my hips around. This is where I first experienced pain mixed so heavily with pleasure that I was yelling both that he was hurting me and pleading with him to keep pumping me. He claimed to really like my reaction to that position—and chose to keep pumping me.

Then he turned me on his cock, while pushing on my spine onto the massage table. He spread my legs, and, saying this was yet another style I might like, he gave me a mixed-routine fuck. He'd pump me from the front with fast shallow strokes for five minutes, then take the root of his cock in his hand and rotate it around inside me, hitting all the walls with that bent knob of his. Then back to the short, fast strokes. I did a good bit of grunting and moaning for him in this position—and wondering if it was going to ever stop—not at all sure I wanted it to. He went deep then for about three plunges and he had come again.

We showered together and that's when he went down in front of me in the cascading water and sucked me off. He did it quickly that afternoon. In later sessions he showed me he could drive me wild with his tongue and mouth work on my cock.

After drying off, he took me to his bedroom and pushed me down on the bed. By now whatever drug he'd given me had worn off, and I was fully aware of what was happening. But now it no longer mattered. I was no longer a virgin to a man fucking me. I was way past that. The "so what?" thought had permanently taken residence. And he continued to tell me how beautiful my body was and that he couldn't help himself in the face of how luscious and ripe I was. I hadn't lost my weakness to being told how good I looked.

Whatever. I'd already been fucked. Doing it again wasn't going to deflower me.

After lubing up my hole and his cock, he fucked me again in a side split—me on my left side, he on his left side behind and under me, his left arm under and around me, with his palm fanned out over my belly, his right hand holding my right leg up in the air, and his cock stroking up into me from behind and below. During this, he started showing me that men could exchange sensual mouth kisses. After he was done with me in that position, I was exhausted and slept in his arms for over an hour, with his cock up my (now throbbing and sore) ass.

So, it took me a hell of a long time to get around to any "firsts," but then my real first was a doozy.

The Indian gave me ointments and lubricants to cut down on the "getting used to it" pain, and a collection of ever-larger butt plugs—that didn't stretch the rim too much, but that stretched the first three or four inches inside, so that big cocks could get in and not do too much damage.

At the door, he told me to use the ointments faithfully until we met again. It was only when he shut the door and I was standing alone in the hallway—but not really alone, a small Thai man was peeking at me from around the curtains covering the door to the maid's room adjacent to the apartment's front door—that the glorious horror of what had just happened to me struck. I began to tremble. He had said that we would meet like this again. I had no intention of that happening. There was no erasing what had happened. But I still could control myself. I didn't ever need to do it again. Or so I told myself.