Edge Running Ch 05

The plane from the Philippines to the Middle East--Abu Dhabi, I was told, the fifth time I asked someone--was transporting more Asian workers than it had from Cambodia to the Philippines. They had been taken good care of in the three weeks we were in Cebu City, though, if being held in captivity could be considered "good care." It probably was in better circumstances than they had come from, though. Benjie Reyes had admitted that they were a mixed bag--house servants mainly, but some prostitutes too. Almost all of those were women, although some prostitutes were men. Not many, though.

"Homosexuality is very much against the law where we're going. Even when they are being lenient--as when some prominent family is involved--it can mean five years. Death is what is on the books," Reyes told me. "If they are going to risk it, they generally want a courtesan rather than just any peasant from the fields who will say he'll lay down and open his legs."

By courtesan, you mean men like me, is what I thought, but I didn't say it. "By 'where we're going' you mean Abu Dhabi?" I asked.

He gave me a pained look, probably not pleased that I even knew a place called Abu Dhabi existed, but his expression verified the destination I had tricked out of one of the stewardesses. "If you say so," he uttered, pursing his lips.

I almost wished he hadn't acknowledged where we were going or where most of these people were destined to serve in real or virtual slavery. It meant he wasn't worried about what I'd tell anyone else. I pressed the issue, since it appeared I had nothing to lose.

"So, why am I going along? If homosexuality isn't tolerated where we're going, what need is there for a male revue dancer? Am I just here to ensure the health of your other passengers?" I didn't want to rile him by calling them slaves. "Will I be going back to the casino in Cebu with you or will you be releasing me from my contract to find my own way?" I didn't want to beg the nasty question of there being other choices.

"We shall see when we get there," he said. "You are far more than a dancer, and we both know it. For now, I suggest you pass through those in the back to ensure that no one needs medical attention."

I did do a pass and, thankfully, no one in steerage was in the need of doctoring. Steerage also wasn't that bad. Reyes was delivering his cargo in good condition. I didn't have any complaints in that department, either. He'd even given me some of the money he'd promised me, although not all, by any means. Of course, my original contract with Kenon Jackson that had taken me to Bangkok hadn't panned out financially as advertised either. That seemed to the be lot of Western dancers performing in Asia. I wondered if performing in the Middle East would be any different.

* * * *

Performing in Abu Dhabi was different from the casinos of Asia. I did dance and I did often get fucked afterward, but in Abu Dhabi it was to a much smaller, more select audience than it had been in Bangkok, Poipet, or Cebu City. What came after the dance was, in general, more cruel and demanding than I had experienced before, however. I was much more just a vessel for sexual exercise for Arab men, the fuck being impersonal and done almost as a guilty, "can't help myself" or victor-putting-the-enemy-to-the-sword act as much as homosexuality was publicly reviled in the Muslim religion. It might be publicly reviled but there were just as high a proportion of Arab men who wanted to have sex with other men than any other nationality I had observed first hand.

These Arabs, as rich and forward-thinking with technical modernization as the world they created in places such as Abu Dhabi were, were primitive and not long out of the desert in their sexual activity. This was a world in which the economically successful Arab man used others not as sexual partners but as sexual prey, vanquished enemies, and slaves.

Benjie Reyes unceremoniously parted ways with me as soon as we landed at Al Bateen Executive Airport. He went with the Asian workers being deplaned and I was escorted away by Arabs in pristine white robes I later learned these were called

thobes

and white head scarves called

ghutras

, held in place by a black rope band called an egal. I didn't learn much else in Arabic. They all spoke impeccable English, with a British accent, and they didn't want me to understand what they were saying when they spoke Arabic. Reyes didn't so much as say good-bye to me. I sometimes wonder how much of a profit he took in selling me to the Arabs.

In a trip through streets incongruously bordered by both traditional mud compounds and modern skyscrapers, an ongoing urban renewal effort in the extreme, I was driven, in a black Mercedes--there were black Mercedes everywhere--into the old souk area of the city. Here, within two hours of the plane I'd been in having touched down in the desert kingdom, I had been stripped and prodded in front of men sitting around in a circle, drinking and smoking from water pipes, and I had been sold to the highest bidder. The demonstration of "the goods" included me, naked save for my black boots, being fucked in the missionary position by a big black African bull on a padded ottoman, with the buyers gathered round. The African was very big and very good and I gave the voyeurs good value in my response to his attentions.

The highest bidder was a young Arab who was close to my age and who was a handsome, well-formed young man the others gave deference too. Although pronouncedly hawk nosed, he was hard-body trim, dark complexioned, with black hair and dark, flashing eyes. The sealing of the deal--his final acceptance of the transaction--involved him unbuttoning and flaring his thobe, covering me where I lay on my back on the ottoman, still panting from the African's demonstration, and fucking me himself to the entertainment of the losers in the bid. He was very, very good and I verified the bargain he got in digging my fingers in his shoulder blades, providing "I am being royally fucked" facial expressions--which were easy to provide in his case--and moving with him in the fuck.

As it turned out, the other voters didn't give my buyer much opposition in the bidding because losing to him didn't mean they couldn't use me at some time or other as well--but without having to maintain me.

I was hustled into another black Mercedes, with my buyer and me sitting at the back, a beefy bodyguard with a mean look sitting in a jump seat facing us, and two men in the front. As we drove into the city, the mud-walled compounds giving way to the more modern skyscrapers, the young man who bought me more thoroughly--very thoroughly--checked out what he bought. This extended to cavity searches and I was tempted to ask him if he'd found the bug the U.S. intelligence agent, Winterberry, had claimed I'd been outfitted with for the Thai insurgent gun running caper.

I held for him, under the eagle eye of the bodyguard and let myself open to the young man's touch. I lay back in the corner of the backseat, with him hovering over him, and spread my legs and lifted my tail. If he wanted to fuck me again there, I wouldn't struggle. He was young, handsome, appeared to be well-muscled and was, I thought, probably as good as I was going to get in Abu Dhabi.

In that I was right.

He opted to nearly fist me, leaning over me, with his hand up to the knuckles inside me, with me slitting my eyes and rocking on the knuckles, both of us, I surmise, wondering if he'd breach the sphincter and fist fuck me. He seemed a bit surprised that I was rocking on the hand rather than sobbing and begging him not to fist me. The ride was shorter than a decision was made to do it.

The Mercedes turned into a garage under what looked like a soaring skyscraper of fifty or sixty stories, I was gruffly told to put my clothes back on, and, when I had, I was escorted out of the car to a bank of elevators, an Arab on either side of me and the young man walking in front. We entered an elevator, and it whispered its way up into the heavens. I never, over the next few months, came back down to ground again. I wasn't in Abu Dhabi as a sightseer.

The three top floors and roof pool and caged tennis court of the skyscraper were occupied by a club--a very exclusive male-on-male entertainment club and brothel, which, no doubt was kept secret from anyone but its very select high-flying clientele. This clientele included most I'd seen at the auction for me, which meant they could rent what they hadn't been able to buy.

The lowest floor was for group entertainment. Here I and other young men danced for the older men coming to the club, then were selected and paid for, and were taken to the bedrooms in the next flight up and fucked. The top floor housed a gym, the offices of the club, and the corner apartment of Badr al-Bunduq, the young man who bought me and who was the manager and presumably owner of the club. It was here, spread-eagled and tied off at the four corners of a bed floating over the ancient-modern, water-surrounded capital city of the United Arab Emirates, where Al-Bunduq slapped me, helpless, into groaning submission and fucked the stuffing out of me immediately after I first entered the brothel where I was to be a lead dancer and favorite lay for the next three months. He was a cruel top, but not the most cruel of the Arabs who used me to get themselves off in that time--not by far. I think much of it was because I was an American and they felt empowered when they had put it to America.

Despite not being the cruelest, Al-Bunduq did, in the comfort of his own silk-pillow covered divan, put a greased and gloved fist inside me, and fucked me interminably with it. This was to prove to be a favorite Arab demonstration of domination of another man.

* * * *

I hung, naked, on the St. Andrews cross, spread-eagled and restrained at wrists and ankles, by aching back to the room, staring out beyond the apparatus through a full wall of glass down into the peninsular city of Abu Dhabi. I had been bound loosely enough that I could writhe as the whip laced into my back, buttocks, and thighs. The leathery-skinned old man of the desert standing behind me and welding the whip was teasing me, I knew, or was just at the beginning of a long ordeal. He was not striking me with the force behind it that I knew his sinewy-muscled body could muster, but there was the threat of that to come. His pauses, to run his hands down my flanks and to bring them around to stroke my nipples, belly, balls, and cock were longer in duration than the whippings were.

"Ah, still hard as a rock," he murmured. "Still want it. You're such a slut."

In some sense he was right. As long as it was going to happen, I tried to get some pleasure out of it myself. I did what I could to please him--and to prolong the pauses, leaning back into him, panting and moaning, and offering my face for kissing, if he wanted. He didn't want. He wasn't a lover; he was a user. He wanted to use my body for his own arousal, not to treat us as lovers.

He gave me a couple of more lashes and ran his hand down from my pecs to my balls. "Even harder now, I think," he whispered in my ear. "What shall we do with you?" Standing close behind me, he hefted my balls in his cupped hand, lacing his fingers in them and distending them until I groaned. Then he gave my cock several strokes, only stopping when I moaned. We clearly weren't here for my pleasure.

His thobe was unbuttoned down the front, showing a hard-worked, leathery-skin, sun-burnt body of a man in his fifties who had lived the toughened life of a desert sheik. It also showed his massive erection. He clearly enjoyed the cruelty of this work.

He struck me again and again, enough to raise welts; not enough to break the skin. Badr al-Bunduq stood across the room, a room filled with implements of sexual torture, both primitive and modern in design, several of them having already been employed with me over the past few days, and watched, his thobe also unbuttoned down the front and flared aside, his hand stroking his cock, and his tongue licking his lips. These were two hawk-nosed colleagues of the desert, the younger the spitting image of the older, both cruel, although the old man working me now was the crueler by far. He also was the more experienced in bringing both me and himself to the edge and pulling back to get more mileage out of the sexual torture.

I cried out as the first whip slice to do so broke skin. I was loathe to acknowledge it, but his attentions had made and were keeping me hard, and if I'd had a hand free, I'd have been stroking myself in a heightened emotion of need, desire--and I'm afraid to say it--pleasure. Before coming to this Middle Eastern kingdom, I had become numb to what one man would do to another in sex--what men did to me, almost daily. The Arab men of Abu Dhabi had shown me that there was pleasure in pain--in being subjected to sexual torture--that heightened and focused the sensations.

I was hard for this leathery-skinned, sinewy-muscled, cruel old Arab of the desert. He struck me again and again as I writhed under the lashes.

"Yes, yes! Fuck me. Fuck me now!" I cried out--involuntarily, although some nerve inside me sensed that if this went too much further blood lust would consume him and I'd be unconscious for the fucking part, at least, or dead at most. I wanted the cock, and I wanted it now. I also wanted to live.

"Fuck me! Give it to me! Stick it in!"

The old man laughed, but then he dropped the whip and saddled up close behind me, preparing to give me what I was crying out for.

"Oh, so you want it now. You want your master's shaft."

"Yes, yes, fuck me, master," I cried out. It mostly a plea for the beating to stop, but it also was a need for the cocking to start. I ached to have the old man inside me. His erection pressed into the small of my back. He would be hard to take he was so thick, but I trembled and moaned, wanting it inside me. His hands moved over my body, around to my pecs, fingering my nipples as he licked the welts and the few cuts he'd made on my back. His lips and tongue moved down to the welts on my buttocks, and his tongue flicked into my butt crack, found the goal, and pressed inside.

Writhing, I cried out, "Now! Now!"

A tremulous voice mimicked that from across the room. "

Jamaih al-bahth alami al-holandih! Alane aptah

--Now! Now, Father!" And the old man released my ankles from the X-frame, coaxed my legs up so that my feet pressed into the window I was facing, grasped and spread my butt cheeks in his gnarled hands, thrust up inside me, and fucked the shit out of me. I helped him, rocking against the buried shaft inside me by leveraging off my feet pressed to the hot window glass--unashamedly crying out for the cocking.

He had a whole lot of stamina and jism for a man his age. Once he was saddled, grasping my hips in his hands, snorting, straining, panting, and thrusting up inside me again and again, he was much as any experienced, big-cocked man--meaning he took his pleasure but he gave me pleasure as well. I wasn't a male whore because I had to be. I got pleasure from giving primeval pleasure such as this to other men. For the long time--the twenty minutes or so--that it took him to work me with his shaft and release, I was transported to another dimension, my arousal heightened if anything by the possessive pain he had put me through to get here. From time to time, he stopped thrusting to savor my own dedication to the fuck--leveraging off the window with my feet to fuck myself on the thick shaft--and he laughed at the knowledge that I had to have him as much as he wanted to have me.

After a respite, with me still hanging on the X-frame and the old man and his son taking tea and cookies at a table, served by an Asian servant, no doubt one supplied by Benjie Reyes, two burly Arabs came into the room, released me from the St. Andrews cross and dragged me over to what the old man called the prayer bench. I was set, kneeling on a padded bench, facing a railing topped by stocks for my wrists to fit in. My belly lay on the top of the rail, and my torso hung over the side. Once secured, the old man approached me with a paddle in his hand and moved from patting me on the buttocks to striking me hard enough to make me writhe and cry out. When he was in the mood for it, he mounted me from behind and fucked me, running long, leathery fingers into my hair and arching my head back cruelly into his chest.

Once again he showed that he could fuck for twenty-minutes or more and had the release of a much younger, virile man.

After he was done, his son spoke from across the room, "You are satisfied? Do you wish to keep him down here for a while?"

"He is a beauty and quite sufficient for now. Handsome and experienced if a bit overused. I do enjoy putting it to Americans, though. I wish to have him for my exclusive use," the old Arab answered. "You will not miss him in the club?"

"He was a favorite there, but they are always looking for variety and something fresh. We have a couple of new dancers--Germans. You may have this one, if you like."

"And when I grow tired of him or he's too damaged to continue to use?"

"Dispose of him as you will."

The guards came back into the room, released me, and laid me on the floor on my back. Exhausted, I lay there, panting. The old man crouched beside me, smiling. He took my legs, one after the other and bent and spread them, placing my feet flat on the floor. I knew better than to fail to leave them exactly where he placed them. I lay there, looking into his eyes, eyes still full of lust and cruelty, not struggling in any way, letting him manipulate my body as he wished, signaling my surrender to whatever he did with me. One guard handed him a bolster, which the old man put under the small of my back, raising and rolling up my hips. The other guard brought a bowl of oil. My wrists were bound to a post above my head. The guards withdrew from the room. The son moved his chair closer to us.

He was going to do more than just fuck me. I knew what it was. I had already learned this was a favorite form of sexual mastery with the Arabs. I was whimpering--I couldn't help it--but I knew it wouldn't do me a bit of good.

The old Arab was humming as he dipped his right hand into the bowl of oil. I felt the lubricated fingers at my hole, entering the channel. One, two, three--slowly, up to the knuckles. As the knuckles breached my sphincter muscle, I arched my head, staring at the dark blue ceiling which had been decorated with the stars of the firmament... and began to whimper and groan.

I panted, harder and harder, as the fist was buried up inside me, moving, in and out, flexing, in and out. He hovered over me, his face close to mine, his free hand on my brow, running fingers into my scalp, massaging me there, humming and intently watching the expression on my face as the hand moved--in and out, flexing in and out. I knew he wasn't watching my response so closely to ensure I was enjoying this--with my secret being that despite the challenge of it, I was giving me a certain level of sexual satisfaction--but to gauge how close I was to losing consciousness--and thus negating his pleasure. He pulled the hand out, moved his body over mine again, ran an arm under my waist to lift and tilt my pelvis to him, penetrated, and resumed cock fucking me--in and out, in and out.

He punched in deep and I blacked out.

* * * *

After the three months in the club, serving under Badr and the men of his choosing at the young Arab's whim, I no longer was a novelty, I had been moved to the floor below the club. Here lived Badr's father, Sheik Zayed al-Bunduq, no doubt the power behind everything. He was a virile, vigorous man in his fifties, tall and muscular, so hawk nosed and ugly that he was attractive, and cruel in his sexual demands. He worked me sexually in ways I'd never experienced before--the X-frame, the stocks, whipping, the fist, sounding, and anything else that amused him. One of his favorite positions was covering me in the dog position while I was in a four-point kneel on the floor, and me baaing for him, at his direction, like a stuck sheep, while he covered and pounded me from above. He was a man running along the edge just as I had been doing for some time. But his perspective was from the primitive desert and he controlled the edge and called the shots.