Slave to Two Hung Masters

I became the sex slave of two big-cocked masters in Bangkok. Not simultaneously. Neither would have acceded to shared control. But one after the other. I tried to fight them off initially, but once they had nailed me to the quick and bathed me in their cum, I went docile and let them do whatever they wanted with me.

I was not a promiscuous submissive—well, not before I arrived, traumatized, in hedonist Bangkok in 1976, having been chased all across Southeast Asia by forces that wanted to kill me. But I

was

a submissive to men, and, whether or not I wanted to admit it, to big-cocked, dominating men.

I was a field reporter for UPI, the international news agency. I was in Saigon in April of 1975 to report the fall there. I had been in Phnom Penh, until the last, earlier in that same month to cover the invasion there. I even made the bloody coup in Bangladesh in August of that year, being confined to my quarters for seven months afterward, not sure whether I would be freed to leave or put on trial under suspicion of being a CIA spy. The coup had been credited to that Agency.

I was dumped out in Bangkok in the spring of 1976, glazed-eyed, jittery, and contemplating death—in time to stand at the gates of Thammasart University on October 6th to watch the Thai Army mow down the students and hang their ringleaders from tree branches and set their bodies on fire on the Saram Luang parade ground in a failed democracy coup before the Thai king opened the gates of his palace to give what remained of the students sanctuary.

I should have been pulled home, but instead, I fought off the horrors of what men could do to each other by pulling up the latent desires I had suppressed over the years, finding the gay bars of the city, and spiraling to the heights of licentiousness in a giddy "whatever brought short-term pleasure" unleashing of desire, celebrating life as long as I was able to live. A gay bar with active sexual activity was not hard to find in Bangkok in the mid '70s—nor is it now, for that matter.

I had been fucked before, mostly during times of tension in military situations in Vietnam and Cambodia, where desperate men clung together, not knowing if there would be a tomorrow. The soldiers were fit, virile, and as needy as I was. These invariably were furtive couplings on the moist ground or on cots in tents, still fully dressed in combat gear, which started with hugs, furtive kisses and then occasionally moved to mutual hand jobs or blow jobs. On rare occasion it ended, with the sound of unnerving and desperation-inducing gunfire near or far, with the fumbling of belts and zippers. And with me turning my face to the open tent flap to eye the bursts of light and sound of the restless night "out there," while, hard and throbbing, he entered me from behind, deep, and held me close. Both of us striving to forgot where we were in the pain-pleasure of the ultimate connection and intimacy that can exist between two frightened men. Usually, as keyed up as we were, it took no more than five thrusts, and his cock was withdrawing and he was adding his cream to the buildup of other stains on the material of my fatigues. It gave us relief from what was happening around us for that moment in time—and a release of the tensions of our bodies.

It wasn't sex as much as it was calming therapy—a statement that, among so much death, the two of us still lived—that we still could shoot our loads. That we could receive pleasure and release of tension even under these circumstances, no matter how brief or fleeting.

But I never engaged in sex regularly before I went whole hog with it as therapy for war shock in one of the back rooms of a Bangkok club. I had drunk far too much and let men touch me far too intimately when The Major, a heavily muscled, hung, black bull, who was assigned to JUSMAG—the Joint U.S. Military Advisory Group—got his cock in me in a struggle that was both emotional, made moot by my being half drunk and him being a massive, muscular soldier, and physical, as I had never taken a man as thick and long as he was. I continued to struggle weakly and ineffectually when he was fully saddled and pounding my ass, but once his cream flooded me deep, I lay there, docile, panting, and watching him with my eyes.

I had convinced myself that I'd only done it in the field as a form of desperation and an escape from the horrors of combat. I had reasoned with myself that I wasn't really "that way"—that I didn't need it. The Major took any guilt from the act in the back of the Bangkok club away from me. He gave me no choice. I didn't give him anything. He took it. At least that first time.

He stood away from me after he'd unloaded, the huge meat of him hanging between his legs, dripping his cum, still half hard, and stared down at me with the unspoken question of "What will you do next?"

"Do you want to leave?" he asked me in a gruff voice.

I pulled myself up on the bed in the room and, panting hard, turned onto my back, bent and spread my legs, rolled up my pelvis, and grabbed for and spread my butt cheeks, showing the massive black bull standing over me a still-gaping hole, dribbling with cum, that The Major had just reamed to his specifications. With a low, guttural laugh and a "I didn't think so," he came down on his knees between my thighs, possessed me again with his cock, and fucked me deep. I lay docile, under him, no struggle or resistance now, completely open to him, while he fucked me again—and again. Signaling full surrender, as he held me to him with an arm under my waist, I let my torso recline back on the bed and my arms open wide, in defeat, and resting docilely on the surface of the bed.

He took me home to his walled house off Sathorn Road and fucked me through the night, dominating me with his muscular, fit, virile, and vigorous body and his ever-ready big, black cock, daring me to resist. His sex slave now, I just lay there and took everything he did to me.

After that, I was his. He could do anything he wanted with me. When he entered a room, I went down on my back and opened my legs for him. I denied him nothing. Once at a pool party at his house, I lay on a pool bed and opened my legs to eight men in succession—simply because The Major told me to—and because he wanted to brag to other men that he possessed a sex slave.

When he was unexpectedly assigned away from Bangkok, I didn't mourn, though. I resolved that never again would I be sex slave to a cruel master, no matter how well-hung he was, and I substituted going to a gym for the trips to the gay clubs. It was a gym for gay men, though.

* * * *

I put my efforts to releasing tension and blocking out the situation in Southeast Asia, to the extent my job allowed, by toning up my body again. I had come to Bangkok trim, well-muscled, and cut, from moving in the field with soldiers and exercising constant in my Bangladesh confinement. I was in as good a shape as any twenty-five-year old could be. The Major had said that he was drawn to me not only by my looks but also by my toned body. I hadn't gone to fat since coming to Bangkok, but I wanted to be in top shape again. So I applied myself to the muscle-building machinery of the gym floor, tempered with the cleansing of the sauna, and the release of the Thai-particular massage.

The Thai masseurs at the club gave full-body massages, which invariably concluded with an oiled dick, tension-relieving hand job and balls squeeze. The hand job came with the regular contract and supposedly was based on the claim that a release of old semen to make way for fresh was good for the body and thus a legitimate part of massaging it. For a bit more money in the contract, which we weren't told about but had to learn by word of mouth or by following the moans and peeking in on massages in progress, the masseur would give you a blow job, would ride your cock, or, if you were inclined, would dildo or fuck you. It seemed that any masseur—all Thai men—at the club was prepared to fulfill any of the contract specifications.

I hadn't known about the extra contract options when Kassem became my regular masseur, and I even opened my eyes wide from a pleasant doze near the end of my first massage, when, the rest of my body oiled up, Kassem started oiling up my cock and assured me that, yes, he would be stroking until I ejaculated and that this was part of the regular massage—releasing tensions and clearing the balls, which also were oiled and had the cum teased out of them by hand manipulation.

Kassem's massages progressed to more sensual services over the year without my having to add to the contract, once I'd found out about the option. I didn't even have to think whether I wanted to pay extra for the option. I was still being fucked regularly after The Major was transferred—it was just in more casual settings avoiding a strong dominator and with more normal-sized cocks. And slowly, although Thailand was still under curfew in the wake of the October 6th coup, the tensions of wartime coverage were seeping away from me. But Kassem added the extra service on his own. During one massage he was complaining to me that his mother's kitchen had burned down. Thai country houses often had the kitchen separated from the main house for this exact reason. I asked him how much it would cost to rebuild and that perhaps I could loan him the money (which I took as a hint to offer when he'd told me the story to begin with). The cost was less than $100 in U.S. terms.

"Hell, I'll give you the money," I said. And, bowing his gratefulness, he said he'd work the amount off. At the end of the massage, as I came close to an ejaculation from the stroking of the oiled cock, Kassem finished with a balls-squeezing blow job. The next time, with me on my back, and his hand having worked me into an erection—more of an erection, I should say, as the regular massage invariably gave me an erection—Kassem came up on the table, straddled my cock, and rode me to that evacuation of my balls that I was told the gym routinely and unabashedly ended massages with. Thereafter, Kassem established a revolving routine for ending my massages: hand job, blow job, cock ride, hand job, blow job, . . .

The gym workout part of the contract didn't become the focal point of my continued membership—the massages did. I liked the workouts on the machines, but I didn't particularly like the attention I was given by the other gym members and the temptation this entailed. The gym was completely gay men; Bangkok in the '70s was all-out "anything goes as long as it's pleasurable" hedonist. I could be on a weight machine huffing and puffing from raising weights, and a couple could be right beside me on a weight bench, fucking. Invariably fucking—sometimes double penetration—was going on when I entered the sauna. The signal for wanting company or not in the individual shower cubicles was whether you closed the shower curtain or not.

I could resist most guys, but after the black bull major and having learned to take him, I found myself attracted to other tall, muscular, hung, arrogant, demanding, and possessive men—exactly the ones I was determined not to give my life over to ever again.

Magnus Amundsen was just such a man, and he took up a campaign to get his cock inside me. The Norwegian UN contingent military officer—in Bangkok to protect the interests of various UN offices in the city during the unrest in Southeast Asia—was a six foot seven, 240-pound, forty-plus year-old Zeus, with the hardest of muscular bodies and an "I'm God, open your legs for me" attitude.

When I was on the exercise floor when he was there, he saw himself as my spotter. I permitted him this role far beyond when I realized what he wanted. He aroused me and scared me at the same time. I knew he was a dominator, but I couldn't allow myself to fall under the sway of another The Major.

I knew he was monster hung because he left his shower curtain open and made sure he was working his cock anytime I walked past. I knew he was a cruel dominator because I heard the groans and moans of his masseur whenever Amundsen was being given a massage at the next cubicle over from where Kassem was working my muscles. And Kassem told me that Somdet was the masseur of choice for Amundsen because he was the one who could sheath the man's cock least painfully.

I knew he came here to fuck young men—there was nothing about his own body that could be developed or enhanced further—because he had fucked a young Canadian on the bench press next to where I was doing squats soon after I started at the gym, and I'd walked into the sauna on a later date to see him spiking an American teacher from the International School.

I knew he wanted me, because, increasingly, his spotting included touching and fondling me more than being there to keep a barbell from falling on me or me falling off the parallel bars. He also always seemed to be coming in or out of the shower when I was, and flashed me with his huge cock. I let that go too long, probably. Just as he made sure that I knew how low he hung and how hard he could get, he learned far more than was necessary about me one evening. He had me kneeling on one knee, my other foot on the ground, on a bench on the exercise floor. I had been doing curls with pretty heavy weights, and he was close behind me, supposedly spotting me. As I set the weight down, I realized just how close behind me he was.

Amundsen exercised as much in the altogether as one could get without being naked. He wore a jock strap and gym shoes without socks. He was an exhibitionist. He wanted all of the men to see how beautiful his body was—perhaps as a goal for all of them to strive for. I saw it as advertising, though. I think that's why he was pursuing me. For all other submissives working out at the gym, he had to do no more than stand before them, hands on hips, and give them the eye and they'd lay down on a bench and open their legs to him, even though they knew they'd be screaming bloody murder at the effort to take his cock. I didn't respond this way. So, I was a challenge.

And here he was behind me, thinking, no doubt, that this was his time to make a move. He embraced me with his arms, one hand cupping my chin and pulling my head back into the hollow of his shoulder, the other hand pushed under the waistband of my gym shorts where he was hefting and measuring the size and weight of my balls, discovering my cock was cut, and finding that he could encircle the base of my cock with his big hand and rub the side of the bulb with the tip of his index finger when I was still hardening. I certainly could feel the hardness at his cock at my back through the jock pouch.

I was struggling against him, at least until he started stroking my cock inside my gym shorts, which made him laugh. Any minute he'd have me bent over the bench, surrounded by all the other guys working out on the floor, and would be banging me in a doggy fuck. How embarrassing it would be, considering the judgment I'd passed on other young men I'd seen letting him fuck them in public. I couldn't give in to him, I knew. He was just another form of The Major. I couldn't let him get inside me deep and bathe me in his cum. I didn't want to be a slave solely to one man again.

Someone laughed a hee haw laugh out at the reception desk, which startled Amundsen and allowed me to slip out of his grasp and stumble back to the changing room, foregoing the massage and a shower—just needing to get away, to avoid the temptation heaving through my body to just go back, lie on a bench, spread my legs, and let Amundsen have his way with me.

He didn't prevent me from leaving the gym that night, but he followed me back to my apartment, me in one tuk tuk and he in another. I was aware he was there. When I reached my third-floor apartment, I dared not turn on the lights. I went to a window overlooking the street and watched him, leaning against a lamp post, smoking a cigarette, and looking up at my building. He remained there for an hour. I remained at the window, stroking my cock. I didn't really think I took a breath all of the time he stood there. I was warring with myself—leave him standing there or admit the inevitable and bring him back up to the apartment, to my bed, to deep inside me?

I had seen him fuck other young men. I knew he would fuck me as roughly, as totally. I shivered at the thought, whether in anticipation or fear, I dared not contemplate.

No more than a week later, I was in the sauna, a towel wrapped around my hips, when Amundsen entered. Two men were fucking over in the corner, and I had been about to leave, but Amundsen placed his large and powerful body between me and the sauna door. He gave me a cruel smile and let his towel drop. His body was achingly magnificent, his cock in half erection. He stood there for maybe twenty seconds, making sure I took in his body and his rising need and determination. Then he reached over and snatched my towel away.

He laughed, knowing I would be hard—and I was. I was aching for him.

"You want me; don't pretend you don't," he growled.

If he had come to me—into me—there, in the sauna, I would have spread my legs, rolled up my buttocks, and received him. Instead, though, another young man, the Canadian, entered the sauna, naked, perched up on the shelf on the wall to the left, and spread his legs. Amundsen gave me a grin and then turned, crouched down, thrust his cock inside the Canadian, and started to pump. The Canadian flopped about in ecstasy under the assault, his eyes bugging out and his mouth formed in a big O.

I fled the sauna, padding quickly to the shower cubicles, jerked the curtain closed behind me in one of them, turned the shower on, and masturbated to completion under the jet of water. I arrived at the massage cubicles twenty minutes early, a towel around my waist, and had to wait on one of the lounges in that section's waiting room for Kassem to be free.

Kassem's massage was thorough. I was hard throughout, and he kept giving me little strokes to keep me hard all the time that he was working the other body parts. I was so oiled up that I was afraid I'd slide off the table. There was nothing amateur about a Thai body massage. Everything was worked hard and everything felt so much better after the masseur had finished torturing it. The same could be said of the cock and balls—and for the little special thing Kassem always did for me.

Tonight he massaged my front first, and after he'd worked over everything on this side, he latched onto my hips and pulled me to the end of the board. This wasn't difficult as heavily oiled as I was. He bent and spread my legs, placing the feet down at the outer and bottom edges of the table. He encircled my cock with one hand and started a slow stroke, and, in that special little thing he did for me, he entered my ass with a finger of his other hand. I sighed and moaned. A second finger went in. This sometimes was done before, but not usually. But it was pleasurable. He was able to find and give attention to the prostate. His mouth came down on the cock head, and he had started sucking me off. My sensations focused on the cock, so that I wasn't really aware that the third and forth fingers had gone in until I felt his knuckles at my rim. Kassem had long, sensuous fingers, a thin but strong hand. More than one finger was working my prostate. He took his mouth off the cock, which he had been deep-throating, and, one after the other, swallowed my balls, and sucked on them.

My pelvis-thrust-up ejaculation reached for the ceiling of the room.

The hand was pulled out of my ass, and he told me to turn over on my belly and scoot up the table. He gave a deep massage to my arms, my back, and legs, but he didn't spend as long on them as usual. Instead, he kneaded my butt cheeks until I wanted to scream, parted them, and blew on my hole. I tensed up and he told me to relax. He ran his fingers over the hole and thumped it with a finger tip until I did let the tension flow out of my body and felt my channel opening, the entrance going slack. The lubed fingers went back in the hole and he was moving them in and out, at first slowly and then more rapidly. I moaned and reached back with my hands to spread my cheeks and the hole opening.