You're Hired

I was bent over the general's desk. Thai general Chumpon, taller and more muscular than most Thai—certainly bigger than I was—hovered over me, holding my wrists, my arms spread, the heels of my hands pressed into the desktop. I began to pant when he grasped his shaft and rubbed the mushroom cap over my hole.

"Open your hole to me!" he growled, and I relaxed my channel open to receive the cock, not for the first time from this soldier. I cried out as he entered me, strongly, deep. I hadn't been prepared enough; I hadn't dilated enough yet. He didn't care. He wanted me tight, to feel me give, opening to him. He'd told me so.

"Hold still. Take it." It was a command. A general's demand. I moaned at the stretch as he moved up into the channel and willed myself to relax and open to me. And then he was in. I panted as he stroked inside me, releasing one of my wrists, running his long, sensuous fingers into the blond curls on my head and arching my head and chest back, painfully, into his bulging pecs. He buried his face into the hollow of my throat and sank his teeth in. I yelped.

"Fuck. Shit. Hold off. Give me time . . ."

"Shut the fuck up. Open up."

He didn't hold off. He pounded and pounded, setting up a rhythm that was brutal, vigorous, tenacious. He must be in his early fifties, but he was supremely fit and virile.

When he had my channel spread open to accommodate the vigorous raw slide of him, I clicked into the arousal of it. He was a big-cocked man. The cruelty of the taking was arousing as well. He slapped me on the buttocks, hard, and bounced my head off the desk top a couple of times at first, but that was before I full surrendered to him. He was a soldier; he had to conquer. After a while, I became impressed with his ability to hold cadence, and he laughed when I signaled my full surrender by moving my pelvis, fucking back at him as he pumped me. I relaxed to him, fully sheathing his shaft as I had done before, moving in smooth motion with the fuck now.

I took his "Dimak—Very nice," as approval that wasn't easily conceded by such a man—a man, who, in Thailand, could take what he wanted by right of position—a man who took it as by right from me. A man I let take what he wanted. We moved together, his hands grasping my hips now, in cadence, fucking, fucking, fucking.

He had played tennis like a pro too. I was in Bangkok on a gap-year trip between my freshman and sophomore year at the University of Maryland, where I was on an athletic scholarship in tennis in the mid-seventies. I wanted to see Asia, so here I was. I was bumming around, using tennis as my "in" for invitations into people's homes and to their dinner tables, and, when need be, into their beds—both men and women, as my finances dictated.

Here in Bangkok, I was being financed and humped by Horst Gerson, head of an engineering firm, working with the Thai military. I met him at the Royal Thai Sports Club, playing tennis. We played tennis and Gerson played me. He told me about the Saturday-morning informal tennis play at the Thai Army Officers' Academy and invited me to attend. I had done so, not knowing that he'd give me to General Chumpon to screw after we played. Gerson wanted something from the Thai military, and Chumpon had a preference for young, blond, Western males who would lie on their backs and pen their legs. Asian soldiers—possibly most soldiers from third-world countries—got an extra kick out of mounting and conquering young Americans.

We were in Chumpon's office after a morning of tennis. He was screwing me on the desk in one of the school's offices. This was a repeat performance of the previous Saturday.

After he came, he left me, belly to desk, and panting hard and stood off to the side, wiping his dick off with a handkerchief. He had been a gusher; his cum was dribbling down my inner thighs. When he'd finished, he reached around and handed me the handkerchief to clean up, as I was able. He didn't ask for the handkerchief back. He had a business card in his other hand, which he dropped beside the cheek I had pressed to the desktop. I assumed it was his card. It wasn't.

"Very nice. Fit young blonds with green eyes are rare here," he said. "You'd do well there."

Do well where, I wondered.

"Your tennis is superb. Next Saturday again . . . and afterward?"

"Yes," I murmured. He didn't say anything about paying for the sex. I didn't expect him too. Gerson had told me he, Gerson, would pay, saying it was business with the general—and he'd continue to pay as long as the general wanted it. Gerson paid me too. I needed the money to get me on to Malaysia from here. I took the money and I lay on my back and opened my legs. It wasn't all about Gerson's need now, though. The general was a master with the cock. I spiraled higher into the clouds from the soldier roughness of him than I did for men wanting to fancy themselves to be lovers.

The general was dressed and gone before I felt together enough to rise off the desk. The card wasn't for contacting the general. It was for some male strip club, Tommy, on Soi Cowboy, one of the red-light districts of Bangkok. Somebody had written "hiring strippers" on the card.

It was worth a shot, I thought. I had told the general that was what I was—a male stripper. I was a college student on summer travels, but it seemed so much more exotic to be a rent-boy and stripper. I'd done some amateur work as that and I thought I'd pulled it off well enough. I think the general took me harder thinking that was what I was, and I didn't mind if he thought that.

* * * *

"Go up on the platform, into the light."

I walk through the dark room, which is not as large as I thought it would be. There's a platform, raised just a couple of feet, at the far end of the room. Two spotlights are trained on poles, one in the center, toward the front edge of the platform, with two other poles located at either side and back a bit, rising from the platform up to the high ceiling. The whole stage area, the sides not toward the audience, is sheathed in black curtaining.

The voice has surprised me—a deep bass, rich tone. I hadn't seen anyone here although I was directed this way to see "The Man" by a guy at the bar of Tommy on Soi Cowboy, the club General Chumpon had given me a card for. As I approach the stage in the partially dark room I see why I didn't see him initially. I brush past him almost without seeing him. He's a massive black man—massive in tall and heavily muscular, not as in fat. He's bare-chested, but wearing a black cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and black cotton harem-style trousers, as many Thai do. He's not Thai, though. His accent is American.

"Very nice," he says when I've mounted the platform and am standing there, a hand on the center pole. I know this will be an audition—that I'll have to dance the pole for him unless he sends me away before I can show him what I can do. I've danced the pole before. I wouldn't have come to try this out if I hadn't. I know, in fact, this being Soi Cowboy, that I'll probably have to do even more in an audition to work here as I try to gather enough money to go on to Kuala Lumpur.

He doesn't ask my name. There are more important things he needs to do—that he needs to know—before I can work in one of his bars.

"Are those eyes green?"

"Yes, sir."

"They'll attract a lot of attention. And are you really blond like that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not from a bottle. You're blond like that all the way down?"

I understood what he's asking. I am, in fact, a natural golden blond, but I know enough about this business that I'd have had blond pubes from a bottle anyway—or at least that I'd shave it all off. I had it trimmed in a short V that made it interesting, I thought. If he wanted me to shave it smooth, I'd do that, though—if it would get me the money I needed to keep bumming through Asia.

"Yes, sir. Natural. It's all natural. I can shave it, if you want. So, do you want me to show you?"

"Not yet. The job's for stripping as well as dancing. Can you do a strip and dance for me?"

He's pulled up a chair in front of the platform, almost in touching distance, and is sitting there, huge and as black as I'd ever seen a man. He is bald, maybe in his early forties. His muscles have muscles. I've never seen a more muscular chiseled body before. His torso gleams in the light coming off the platform spots and reaching not much farther than where he is sitting.

"Show me," he says. He leans over and I see that he has a cassette player with big speakers connected to it. "Starting energetic for the strip and moving into a slow bump and grind for the sell."

I recognize the number, "Take It Off" by the Genteels. Energetic indeed. I throw myself around as artistically as I can to the beat of the music, using the pole to keep myself from flying off the platform into the wings. While I throw my hips this way and that, snap to the right and the left and gyrate my pelvis out to where the black bull sits, watching me, I'm taking my clothes off.

I've worn a shirt with buttons so I can take my time. The sailor bellbottoms I'm wearing have a buttoned fly too, so that I can "perform" them. I can jut my pelvis out to the room and slowly unbutton each button of the flap. The shirt comes off first, though, and the tank-top T-shirt under it. I normally wouldn't wear an undershirt, but I knew this would be a strip and that it shouldn't be over too fast. For the same reason I've worn a bandana around my neck, and bare-chested, I use that and the pole as a prop while I'm still in the bellbottoms. They dip so low at the waist—on purpose—that they show the curls of my pubes and the curve under my flat belly on either side disappearing toward the goods. I know guys like to see that.

This guy does. He gives me a wolf whistle and an "All right!" as I straddle the pole and fuck it to the music. The music stops, abruptly, when I get down to just red silk bikini briefs and my black, calf-high leather boots.

So, is this the end? I hadn't done the strip well? He is sending me away? I look beyond the platform to where the black giant is sitting. I had been playing to him all the time and I thought he was getting hot and bothered, but he's stopped the music. I think momentarily I've failed. But then I see I haven't failed in getting to him. He is slouched down in the chair, butt on the front edge. His legs are spread. His fly is open, and he has the biggest, fattest erection I'd ever seen grasped in a hand.

"Come to the front of the platform," he says. If anything, his voice is deeper, raspier than it had been the first time I heard it.

I go to the front of the platform. He leans in and wraps a big mitt, with beefy black fingers around one of my booted ankles. "If you come work here," he says, "you'll have to do more than strip and dance. You understand that?" He's sitting there with his monster dong in his hand where I can see it.

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"OK, change of music. It all comes off. Make love to the pole."

I recognize the song again. Bill Grundy's "Walkin' and Strippin'," slower paced, but still a raunchy bump and grind song. I strip off the bikini briefs—not fast and immediately, of course. I work them off in a tease while I still working the pole. When they're off, I'm fucking the pole—to the slow bump and grind of the music. I go hard, because I'm watching the black guy, sitting below me, and he's stroking that massive meat of his.

He stands and slips off the black harem pants. Then he's up on the platform with me, on the other side of the pole, fucking the pole to the bump of the grind, just as I am. For a big man, he's graceful in the dance. He's still wearing the cowboy hat and boots. He touches me on the chest.

"Rings in the nipples. Nice," he murmurs.

I want to say something about the big ring in his cockhead, but I don't. I just give him a "Do me" smile, and he smiles back. He's going to do me. I know it. He knows it. It's part of the audition. Doing it to whoever pays for it is part of the deal in this job. I understand that. I just want a big slice of it.

I'm trembling, though. I don't think I've ever taken one that big. I've never taken a black one. I both want it and am scared to take it.

He touches me on the dick. I, of course, am rock hard now. Proud, but nothing like he is. I reach out for his. We move to beside the pole, where it's no longer in the way. We come in closer together and he takes both cocks in hand, frotting them together. The music continues and we continue swaying together with it. He has the music on some sort of continuous feed now. It would go on as long as it's needed.

He's going to fuck me now. He's a bit friggin' black bull with a monster cock, and he's going to put it in me and fuck me.

He's a strong brute, putting both hands on my waist and slowly lifting me up his body, working my body with his lips and teeth from throat down as he lifts me up.

I give him a deep moan.

"We're gonna do this," he murmurs. "We're gonna see how sweet that channel of yours is."

"Yes," I moan.

"How well it stretches."

"Yes."

"How much spunk it takes."

"Yes." Any yes he needs to be given has been given.

When his mouth reaches my groin, he opens it over my cock and takes me inside. He's still swaying to the music as he gives me head, and I just hold there, head arched back, arms dangling at my side.

"Yes, yes, yes." Overflowing with yes to him.

He persists until I come in his throat, completely overcome by the atmosphere and the black god of him. Then, he slowly kisses back up my torso as he lowers me. His lips brush mine, but only in passing, I'm lowered on his body, now, kissing and licking him until I'm on my knees, giving him gagging, insistent head.

He doesn't come then, though. He picks me up—less than half his size, drapes me, belly down, over his shoulder, and leaves the platform, coming back around to the front of it. He gently lays me down on my back, butt to the edge of the platform, and manipulates my legs, bending and spreading them, and pressing the soles of my feet to the edge of the platform. Panting heavily, I let him manipulate me like a rag doll.

He's going to fuck me. He's going to put that big, black shaft inside me and fuck me. I knew this would be included when I came here. I didn't know he'd be black, though, and oh, so, big. I hear a low, mewing sound, taking a few moments to realize that it's me.

I arch my back and head and moan deeply, as his mouth and tongue push into my crack. My trembling hands go down to grasp his bald head, sans hat now, between my hands and set my pelvis in motion.

"Yes, Yes!" I cry out. "Eat me. Fuck me!"

He lifts his face and then stands, showing me the big, black mambo between his legs, waving it languidly at me. It's blacker than the rest of him, and says, "One last chance. Job or no job. Say yes. You have to say yes."

"Yes. Oh, God, yes."

He returns to eating me out—he's got a tongue longer and thicker than many men's cocks—and then rising and hovering over me, he penetrates me with his huge, black cock. I cry out again—both wanting it and not knowing if I can take it. He takes his time—it takes time. I pant and groan, working at stretching for his need.

Shit, he's big. Gigantic. I gulp for air as he presses it in.

"Steady, steady," he whispers. "Take it. Open to me, baby. Take the man. Let me in."

He's inside me, and, in time, me moving my hands from his waist to his bulging black biceps to his shoulder blades, he is stretching me and sinking inside. I can feel the ring in his cock sliding across my walls, punishing me, caressing me, as he forces me open, going deep.

When he's buried, he grasps my ankles, raises and spreads my legs in a Victory V, and begins to pump. He pumps to the rhythm of the music. Every nerve in my body goes to feeling him . . . gigantic . . . moving . . . inside me. I answer his slow thrusts with the rocking of my hips. He fucks me and fucks me and fucks me. Then he tenses and jerks, and breeds me; tenses and jerks; and seeds me; tenses and jerks, and floods me with cum until it's burbling out of me and dripping down my butt cheeks.

I cry out with each ejaculation, thrusting my pelvis up into his thrusts and bursts of cum, using the leverage of my feet, joining him in climaxing—each time.

"Hot damn!" he exclaims. "What a fuck!"

Afterward, I lay there, legs still spread open, cheek to the surface of the platform, eyes glazed over, panting hard, purring. I turn my head, looking at the big, black stud with awe in my eyes. I have never before . . .

He is standing below the platform. He leans down and turns the cassette player off, scooping up his black harem pants and putting them back on. He picks his black cowboy hat up off the chair he'd been sitting in and puts that on his head. He looks at me and smiles.

"I think you lay better than you strip or dance. You're hired. You'll start in the midnight slot. I'm T.G. Edwards, by the way. T for Tommy, but most just call me Cowboy."

Cowboy follows me out to the bar area. General Chumpon is sitting at the bar, drinking a beer. He looks up as Cowboy and I enter the room and nods to Cowboy. Cowboy nods back.

"I guess your shift starts now," Cowboy turns to me and says. "There are rooms upstairs. Everything you need will be in the nightstand drawer. The general can show you the way."