The likelihood that I would encounter a country of robust men like the ship’s Sikh first officer was dispelled as soon as I stood at the top of the gangway at the Bombay piers and looked down into the teeming masses swirling around on the city’s waterfront. It was this mass of humanity that I would see again and again as we crossed half of the huge Indian subcontinent—and, for the most part, the Indian men I would see would be small, brown, and predominantly emaciated.
Four Indians I saw right off the bat, waiting for us on the dock below and looking expectantly up at the top of the gangway in front of a line of pedicabs they had commandeered, received my immediate attention, mostly because of the reaction of my travel companions upon seeing them. They were all small and brown, but not emaciated. They were young and in fine shape. I was to learn that that was because they all had protectors from among our party and they groomed themselves to be desirable to my travel companions. All of the men I had traveled with, who I had assumed would call upon my sexual services lost interest in doing so as soon as we reached India. All had, as those in London liked to say about men with extensive colonial service in India, “gone native.” Each reverted to interest in Indian men upon setting foot on the subcontinent and each already had his favorite there.
Paring up with Horace Walpole, James Evans, Colonel Fritz Franklin, and even my own Lord Dinwiddie were their four Indian “mates,” Vaseem Chopra, Ashwin Khan, Basim Purhar, and Ahjay Khurana, all of whom met our ship in Bombay, worked in one capacity or the other for our mission, and would accompany us north, each glued to his own master.
As each of these “masters” appeared beside me on the gangplank and hurried down to meet his Indian lover, it became obvious that their needs for me in a sexual way had come to an end, or at least to a slow crawl.
I couldn’t count on the possibility or reuniting with Lieutenant Owen Smythe either, and not because he now was hooked up with Mercy Ratcliff. I watched him and the Ratcliffs disembark and part on the dock, the father looking sour and the daughter absolutely livid, after being coy didn’t work with Owen. They lived in Bombay and he wasn’t going to try to break with the British Army to stay there, I learned. The army would support Smythe marrying the girl and putting down roots in India, certainly, but, in contrast to what Mercy obviously thought, the army would expect to come first in his life, dictating when and where he could add a family, and the lieutenant would understand and accept that. I’m sure Mercy and her father would hold out hope she had landed him for at least a while—and perhaps she had. But the marriage would not occur on the Ratcliffs’ schedule. Chances were good, though, that it had to occur sometime within the next eight months for society’s sake. The few times I’d seen them coupling, he wasn’t wearing protection. His farewells taken care of with the Ratcliffs, Owen had taken a pedicab, with his kit in it, before I got to the dock. Whatever we’d had before had slipped away.
“Where is Lieutenant Smythe going?” I asked Dinwiddie when I could pull him away from his very fond greeting of Vaseem Chopra.
“He precedes us north,” Dinwiddie said. “He has to make preparations for our journey all along the route.”
I was going to find that he would always be several steps ahead of us and that, when we reached the Satrap of Sagala, circumstances would keep us apart until he was gone once more.
* * * *
We remained in Bombay for three days, staying at the center of British colonial society, the Adelphia Hotel, while the mission was provisioned for the grueling trip north, to the Satrap of Sagala. During that time the men of the mission were besotted with their Indian lovers, from whom they had been parted for months. The Indian lovers, for their part, made sure I was kept at arms’ length. They were wary of me and my recent history with their British protectors. They were polite, but distant, and obviously defensive.
As for me, I was OK for those first three nights on India’s soil—because I didn’t stay on India’s soil. I sneaked back aboard the ship that had brought us from England and that was exchanging cargo and onloading provisions, and my Sikh first mater satisfied me nightly. After that third night, though, I didn’t have sex again for over a month as we journeyed north, around the eastern border of the gigantic Hindu state of Rajputana Holkar, which was antagonistic to the East India Company and the British, to Delhi, where Colonel Franklin’s army contingent was headquartered and where I hoped to catch up to—and have another chance with—Owen Smythe.
The details of the journey weren’t being shared with me, so when we boarded a train in Bombay, I thought that would be our transport all the way north—nor did I have any idea how vast India was. The rail line was just being constructed, though, and as yet went only twenty-five miles to Kallian, the departure point for all travel to northern India. From there it was buttocks- and back-breaking travel by coach, wagon, and horses in an arc around Rajputana Holkar and then north to Delhi. Every urban area we went through was teeming with little brown men and women, with their hands extended in suffering and pleading, most of them in emaciated condition. Outside of the urban areas was a seemly never-ending sea of rice and wheat fields. There was always too much of everything—but not of one thing—sexual satisfaction for me. I was randy and needy. By the time we reached Delhi, I would have lain under any man with a hard, functioning cock.
There was an office of the East India Company in Delhi, which is where the mission came to a temporary halt as Colonel Franklin went off to his regiment to check in and make arrangements for our escort further north. The company had a guest house, where we stayed. To my chagrin, I learned that Lieutenant Smythe had been here before us but had already departed to make further arrangements for our ongoing journey. There was a man, though, middle-aged, but in fit condition and with an eye for me here in Delhi. He was the assistant manager to the East India Company’s head office in Delhi. His name was Malcolm Randall. He’d lived in Delhi for nearly two decades already and knew the ancient Mughal city, elegant in design, but moldering in neglect and poverty, intimately. The city also had its decadent side, which Randall also knew intimately.
Almost by instinct, Randall knew of my need, accessibility, and willingness. He was quite happy to show me the decadent side of the old city. I knew the moment I met him that he would be the man to fuck me in Delhi, and he was. But he wasn’t the only one. He seemed to delight in not being the only one.
“Malcolm Randall,” Lord Dinwiddie said to me as we were sitting on the verandah of the Delhi East India Company guest house, sipping gin and pretending that we weren’t hot as hell under the clothing that the British insisted on wearing in this climate. “I’ve seen the looks you two have shared. If you must, let him visit you here in the guest house. But he has quite an unsavory reputation. Don’t go into the city with him.”
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been with a man,” I asked. “How long has it been since I’ve been with you?”
“I’m flattered that you care about my inattention to you,” Dinwiddie said. “But I know all you require from a man is a hard cock of significant size. I’m sorry but Vaseem is jealous and when in India—”
“I’ve noticed,” I said. “It’s the same with Horace and James and the colonel. And Owen seems to have lost interest altogether.”
“In the lieutenant’s case it’s something different. But I am trying to get you to Sagala to use you for the purpose we brought you to India. I’m not saying not to let Randall fuck you. Just to let him do so only under the roof of the East India Company. He takes going native too far, and we’ve lost more than one of our men to him.”
If that warning was meant to cry me off Randall or from going into the old city with Randall, of course, it had the opposite effect. Now when Randall finally came to me at the guest house with the intent of laying me, I asked that he take me for entertainment in the city. Taking me at my word, he made sure I was taken in the old city for the entertainment of several. And it was exactly what I wanted and needed.
I had been sitting on the verandah, after dinner, alone and smoking a cigar, when he appeared.
“I have come for you, unless I have mistaken your looks at me,” Randall said as he mounted the stairs to the verandah. He looked good to me. My saving angel. I ached for him to be mounting me.
“You are not mistaken,” I said, rising. He came to me, looked around to see if we were being observed—the other men were in the parlor, where one was playing the piano and they were thinking up ribald songs to sing. He took me in his arms and kissed me on the mouth. It had been too long.
“Do you have your own room here?” he asked. “Or do you want to come to my bungalow?”
“I thought you might take me into the city. Show me something that would excite . . . and arouse.”
“You haven’t been warned about going into Old Delhi with me? Lord Dinwiddie has warned me.”
“Yes, I have been warned.”
“But that means you are more keen than ever for the adventure?”
“Yes.”
He laughed. “I think I am going to enjoy this immensely.”
“I want you to make me enjoy it immensely,” I said.
“Are you made of sturdy stuff?”
“Try me,” I said. “Unless you want to fuck me here first.”
“I think I want the anticipation,” he said. “Come away with me then.”
We took a pedicab into the bowels of old Delhi. I could not have found my way back out on my own if my life had depended on it. Even after we’d gotten out of the pedicab, we walked through narrow, winding streets and stopped in front of a wooden door in a blank, broken-plaster wall.
“Have you ever used a hookah before?” Randall asked, and then explained. “A water pipe. The Mughals invented the water pipe and also the escape of dreams, perfectly marrying them together.”
“No, I haven’t,” I said, “Horace Walpole—”
“Ah. Horace has introduced you to his cigars of delight, has he?”
“Yes.”
“And he took you on a sensual, fully possessive journey across the stars?”
“Yes.”
“I have been told that you are a whore and are experienced. Have you ever had two men inside you at once?”
“Yes.”
“Will you come with me beyond this door for the greatest journey of satisfaction of your life?”
He hardly had to ask me I was so keyed up.
We were taken to a room just inside the door where we became native—wearing just a length of material around our hips, knotted at the waist, and reaching to our ankles. Randall told me the attire was called a dhoti. I knew what it was, as Horace had worn one on the ship, but I let Randall think he was indoctrinating me into a new world.
Malcolm Randall was a burly, redheaded man, matted like a bear. He was probably in his forties and was filled out, but more muscular than fat. He had a proud cock and low-hanging balls, which I caught more than a glimpse of as his attendant was wrapping him in a white dhoti and mine was doing the same. He was giving me lustful, “I am about to fuck you,” looks. That was quite all right with me.
We were led into a smoke-filled, large, cavernous room that we had to descend stairs to reach. Divans were spread around the space and men were milling about. Some were standing and conversing. Most of them were smoking from water pipes standing on the floor beside them. Some were sitting on divans and smoking. Some were laying on divans and smoking. More than a couple were laying on the divans, fucking or being fucked, languidly, while smoking or with a hookah nearby. All of the men were Indian. Most of them were better fed than most of the Indians I saw on my journey here. They were of all ages. Most of them watched Randall and me enter the room. Servants roamed around the room, refilling hookahs.
“What are they smoking?” I asked. They all were moving around as if under water.
“Cannabis, mostly,” Randall answered. “Some opium. Do you want to leave?” He was close behind me, his hands encasing my hips. I felt him hard against the small of my back. I ached for what he could give me.
“No.”
“Do you want to smoke, to be lifted into the clouds?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to use you? And other men here to use you?”
I looked around. We were being eyed with hunger. “Yes,” I answered.
“May I fuck you before we are both transported by the effects of the smoke.”
“Yes, oh, yes.”
I felt the dhoti being pulled away from me. He bent me over a divan, right there, next to where we were standing. He encased my hips with his hands again, entered me, and fucked me to his ejaculation. After he was well mounted, he took my wrists in his hands and locked my arms behind my back while he fucked me. I melted to the sensation of being a man’s captive as he took me, and I sighed deeply. One of the men who was watching, a younger, muscular one, came over and knelt between me and the divan as I bent over it, and sucked my cock so that I came before Randall did.
The next hour, or hours—I completely lost control of the time—I spent lying on a divan, smoking, first cannabis, I was told, and then moving to opium, as the muscular young man fucked me, then Randall again, then a different, older man, with a cock that could reach me in my soft center, and Randall fucking me together, Randall on his back, me riding his cock, and the older Indian riding my ass. I was reveling in the attention and riding on the drug-induced clouds. After that it was a succession of men . . . until Lord Dinwiddie appeared.
He came from nowhere, and I assumed he was there to fuck me as well, but he wasn’t. Colonel Franklin and a few soldiers were with him. They pulled me up from the divan, covered me with the material of a dhoti, and carried me out of the hookah den.
I slept for two days. After I woke, Lord Dinwiddie was there, sitting in a chair, watching me. Vaseem was at the door several times, but I got the impression he was there to make sure that Dinwiddie was keeping his distance from me rather than worrying about my condition.
“I don’t suppose you regret your outing,” he said when he saw I was awake.
“Not at all,” I answered. “Malcolm Randall?”
“He won’t be banished. He’s a good worker. He just has gone too native to be trusted with the likes of you.”
“Will he be coming to me?”
“No. Not again. Nor will any other men before we reach Sagala. I want you in pristine condition for the maharaja.”
And that was that. It took us another month of grueling horseback travel to reach Sagala. For the last two days of the journey, the maharaja sent out a string of elephants supporting canopied pavilions on their backs, for us to ride. Although these lurched and swayed, giving the effect of being on the sea in a tumult, I quickly got the hang of going with the swaying and was riding in more comfort than at any time since we’d left the train back near Bombay.
Colonel Franklin hadn’t accompanied us, but along with the elephants that greeted us two days before our arrival came Lieutenant Smythe, who was taking on command of our army escort. I ached for him and I thought that occasionally his eyes turned my way enough so that I was hoping that the hold Mercy Ratcliff had bound him with was slipping. But Lord Dinwiddie watched me like a hawk and made sure that I didn’t get the opportunity to even speak with Owen.
* * * *
The maharaja’s palace in the Satrap of Sagala was a long, rambling, crumbling, multiwinged exotic-looking limestone block affair that one would need to employ a pedicab to get from one side to the other in a day. It was in a breathtaking setting, though, amid lush, manicured lawns bordered by jungle-type foliage and backdropped by the distant, snow-capped, but seemingly close-at-hand, Great Himalaya mountain range. Lord Dinwiddie’s mission was housed at one extreme end of the expansive palace, not far from the stables. We were there for a week before I met my master-to-be, Maharaja Babua Jahan. Dinwiddie and the other members of the mission were engaged in talks on Britain’s relations with the Satrap, but I was being held back as some sort of reward for the maharaja when the two sides had come to terms.
I was kept in a harem-type isolation, but not imprisoned. I was permitted free rein to go where I wanted to go as long as I didn’t come close to the maharaja’s living quarters or the central area of the palace where the negotiations were taking place. That was just as well. I would have had to provision for a long journey to get to the center of the palace and I would not have known how to get anywhere specific once I was there.
There were Indian servants aplenty around and they were all polite and differential with me. But I got the feeling that they watched me constantly and reported my every movement—who they reported to was unclear to me. Whenever I had moved out of sight of one, there would always be another one to “be at my service.”
When I complained about the restrictive feeling of the guest quarters where I was left to my own devices, Dinwiddie just laughed and said, “Enjoy the freedom to roam you now have. You refer to these as harem conditions. You don’t have any idea what harem conditions are in an Indian maharaja’s palace, but you will.”
“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.
The man wasn’t old and he wasn’t young. He was dark of complexion and had the aspect of a fox about him—all sharp angles and secretive, speculative looks. He turned from looking at his swaying cobra to looking at me out of dark, piercing eyes, as he played his haunting melody on the flute. I went down on my haunches there several feet from him and became lost in his mesmerizing eyes and the tune he was playing.
As he played his tune and his cobra swayed above the surface of the basket, I found myself totally lost to the snake charmer as well. I was swaying to the same rhythm as the snake was. The soft sound of my bells was merging with, complimenting the melody of the flute. Just as the snake was lulled into a hypnotic trance, I was as well.
The snake went down into the basket and the charmer closed the lid over it as his tune slowed down and got softer. But I was still deep in a trance, conscious of what was happening but having no control whatsoever over my body. I continued to sway to the music of my bells.
The snake charmer put his flute down next to the basket, slowly rose, and walked over to me. He placed the palm of a hand on my sternum. I understood immediately that he wanted to fuck me—that he was going to fuck me. I lay back onto the pathway, spreading and opening my legs to him. I rolled my pelvis up. Without either of us having said anything, I knew he was going to cover and fuck me—and I welcomed that.
He raised his hand and a bitter-sweet smelling cloth covered my face. I breathed in deeply and went numb, my nerves coming alive and tingling. I was completely under the snake charmer’s control. He grasped my ankles with his hands, pulled me around to where my head was pointed at the outer wall and the abandoned basket with the cobra in it, and he dragged me by my ankles into the depths of the garden foliage.
He stood over me, pulling his tunic off his torso and then untying his dhoti and letting the material fall to the ground. His cock was a snake—extraordinarily long and thin. The bulb flared like the head of a snake and had a bar through it with beads, like eyes at either end and a forked trail of red material, studded with red gemstones handing down from it. The shaft would have reached his knees—and he was a long-legged, gaunt man—if it hadn’t been in full, extended-straight-out erection. I lay there before him, whimpering, but incapable of moving. Having no idea who he was or where he had come from, but so much in need of a man’s cock that all I could think of was him being inside me. This despite the fear of the longest snake of a cock I’d ever seen looming over me.
But then I realized that I could move a bit, and I did. I spread and bent my legs again. And I raised my pelvis and arched my back. I raised and extended my arms in supplication, welcome, and pleading. The man came down onto the earth on his knees between my legs in our patch of open moss with a glimpse of the sky above through the leaves of small trees. His bulb found my anal opening through the slit in my salvar, and I moaned as he snaked inside me and slithered and slithered deep into the quick of me, the eyes of the cock bar and gems of the forked tongue biting into my sensitive channel walls as he moved deeper inside me. I cried out in pain and ecstasy, all of my concentration going to that serpent slithering inside me. He hovered over me, his hands pressing my upper arms into the soil of the garden, his eyes still capturing and controlling me by holding my glazed gaze in his mesmerizing power.
He slid inside me deeper than any man had been before, not just to my soft core but farther. He came into me hard, punishing me with the beads and gemstones, but I felt him become not hard but not soft inside me. He was a slithering snake inside me, his jeweled bulb kissing me everywhere at once, the cock rubbing the walls of my channel at every point at once and sending flashes of pain-pleasure and electricity through me. My channel spread open for him, his thin cock not needing accommodation for girth, but taking advantage of the wide channel to coil and slide inside me. My body went into convulsions with these first strange sensations pulsing through me. I’d never been fucked like this before. Never before had a cock been this alive, giving and demanding, inside me, kissing and biting me in my most tender and vulnerable secret treasures, grasping me at my deepest and tearing my guts out of me.
My pelvis went into motion and I stretched my arms out to the side and arched my back, my bells making soft music as the cock slithered and danced inside me, moving unlike any other man ever had—not just slithering around inside me. Where most men who could reach my soft core with long cocks would be, pressing into my spongy core with their deepest thrusts, this man’s bulb was reaching much deeper inside me at his burying of the cock to the root and his jeweled bulb was kissing my soft core when he pulled it back.
But then he was going hard again and thrusting hard and deep. When he pulled back to my core, his bulb was striking at my sensitive walls, sending charges through me that made my body clutch and jerk and caused me to cry out with each strike into the tender sponginess of my core until I tensed and he tensed and I released my seed, and he released his seed. And then again and again. He fucked me and fucked me and fucked me, continuously, as the day dragged on and the shadows lengthened.
And then I blacked out.
[To be continued]
