I lay there agonizing and seething, throwing my body about and muttering in frustration. He had done it, completely fooled me. Teddy had said he was doing what he knew I needed for me-sending Mort to tell me that it was a peace offering. Not coming himself. I should have known. He was punishing me, not just sending me away, and also having me imprisoned. Getting his revenge for what he thought I was going to do to him-desert him in his time of need.
I was beside myself, my mind racing on where I was and how I was going to get out of here. It was some time before I realized that I could hear the sounds of men moaning and groaning again-and now so much clearer than before. I looked up at the shuttered window. But it wasn’t shuttered anymore. I rose from the cot and went to the window. It was barred. The spindles were wood, but where they joined at the top and bottom showed me that inside the wood were iron bars. There would be no escape through this avenue.
But I didn’t think of that now because of what I saw beyond the window. The window didn’t open to the outside; it opened to a large two-story room, and not just a room, a large cavern. The ashram must have been built into the mountainside at the mouth of a large cave. It was some sort of meeting hall, ornately painted in frescoes-frescoes of waving scenes upon uneven rock walls of naked men fucking in a lush jungle. The positions of the Kamasutra. The positions that I had been studying in the yoga books for two days.
There were men in the hall, in spaced ranks on mats on the uneven stone floor below. As I focused I could see that the men were in pairs. They were all naked, with their white cotton trousers and tunics folded neatly beside them, and they were all fucking. This was the source of the mass male moaning and groaning I’d heard on earlier occasions.
Still snuffling and my heart racing, I raced over to the desk to retrieve the book on the gay Kamasutra positions and went back to the window. Plastering myself there, I studied what was happening below, my eyes darting between the fucking pairs and the illustrations in the book in my hand. They were replicating the Kamasutra positions-in an organized fashion. There was a raised dais at the far end of the room, supporting only one pair of copulating men. Below that, from the back of the room where I was overlooking the hall and toward the dais, the positions seemed to be progressing to the more expert positions.
Nearer to me were examples of the familiar Missionary position, the “catcher” on his back, legs spread, and the “pitcher” lying between his thighs, the two face to face; the Greyhound, known better in the West as the doggy fuck; the Elephant, with the catcher on his belly, his hips raised, and the pitcher kneeling over the catcher’s hips, supporting his weight on his arms planted beside the catcher’s chest; and the Andromache, known in the West as the Cowboy, with the pitcher flat his back and the catcher saddled on his pelvis and riding his cock.
Further up in the ranks were those practicing the positions of the more confirmed in the art: the Oyster, the catcher on his back, thighs raised and calves hooked on the pitcher’s upper arms as the pitcher knelt between thighs; the Anvil, with the catcher rocked up on his upper back and shoulder blades, his thighs pulled up to his chest and his ankles on the pitcher’s shoulders as the pitcher stretched out full length on top of him, leveraging on his knees or even just his toes as he rocked his cock back and forth inside the channel; the Spoons, with the two lying on their sides, the catcher’s buttocks pulled into the pitcher’s crotch and his legs slightly tucked toward his stomach as the pitcher embraced the catcher and penetrated him from behind; the Octopus, with the catcher flat on his back, his thighs running up over those of the pitcher crouched between his legs, the catcher’s calves crossed behind the pitcher’s back and the pitcher either gripping the catcher’s waist or stroking his cock; and the Wolf, the catcher standing on his feet, bent forward, with his hands flat on the mat in front of him, and the pitcher standing behind him, holding and spreading his buttocks, and penetrating him from behind.
Those in the expert positions were just in front of the dais: the Butterfly, with the pitcher on his back, legs straight in front of him, raised on his elbows, and the catcher, sitting on his cock above him, the two face to face and the catcher supporting his weight on all four appendages; the Tree, with the catcher on his back and the pitcher in a standing crouch between his thighs, one of the catcher’s legs raised along the ribcage of the pitcher and the other bent, with his foot flat against the pitcher’s breast; the Reed, with the catcher on his back, his weight borne on his shoulder blades, his legs bent, heels on the mat, leveraging his own thrusts, with the pitcher on his knees between the catcher’s thighs, his arms circling the catcher’s waist and raising his channel to the cock; the Swing, with the pitcher on his back, legs spread, and the catcher, facing away from him, crouched over the pitcher’s pelvis, legs bent, feet flat on the mat by the pitcher’s thighs, and his arms stretched to the mat in front of him; and the Stem, the catcher on his shoulder blades, his torso and legs raised up the trunk of the pitcher, who was on his knees between the catcher’s thighs and holding his waist with his hands.
Only the commanding figure on the dais, magnificently muscled, black hair flowing down his back, was using an elite Kamasutra position-on a small-bodied, berry brown, Sri Lankan. The man in control, quite evidently the Siddha himself, was of indeterminate origin. There were aspects of the Indian and also of the larger-boned Westerner, and he likely was some mix of those two. Whatever he was, he obviously was the master of the room.
When I first lifted my eyes to the dais, they were in the Yin and Yang position, the yoga master in the cross-legged lotus position and the smaller man in his lap, facing him, chest to chest, with his legs wrapped around the master’s waist and his ankles crossed. It looked like a simple position, but it wasn’t the books on the Kamasutra in my cell explained. It was one in which the cock’s penetration was at the maximum, the touch of other body parts was most intimate, and the balance between the two figures was most demanding. I could tell from the way the Sri Lankan was shuddering and how he began to faint even as I watched them, that the penetration was deep. As I watched, the Sri Lankan began to slip backward, the master grabbed his waist but let the young man arch his back to the floor and lay his cheek against the mat. Even from here I could see that the young man was swooning and going glassy eyed.
And then I knew why. The master started to pull the young man’s channel off his cock and then pull him back on, in long strokes, impossibly long strokes. The yoga master’s cock had to be a foot long.
Trembling, I fell away from the window and, moaning, crouched on the floor below-and masturbated myself to solitary completion.
Later that evening, when Ravith came in for my supper tray, Benito came in with him. They held me down on the bed, and, while I struggled ineffectually, they fitted my cock with a locked, hard-plastic chastity belt that would permit me to pass urine-but not to masturbate.
Four days of agony of not being able to resist watching the twice daily Tantric ceremony in the hall below but not being able to get any relief from it. A whole week without sex would have had me climbing the walls anyway, but what the demonstrations of the gay Kamasutra were doing to me without me being able even to masturbate were driving me to distraction. On the morning of the fifth day I woke to Acharya Ahitharan standing in the open door to the corridor with Ravith and Benito standing behind him.
“It’s time for your interview with the master, Siddha Satyanarida,” he said and motioned the two others into the room.
I moaned and protested in a desultory fashion, being totally worn out by the deprivation, while Ravith and Benito unlocked the cock chastity belt and ascertained for themselves by checking the spent douche bottles that I had purified myself.
They stripped me of my white cotton trousers and tunic and buttoned a pair of the briefs with the buttons on the hips on me and then wrapped me in the saffron robe that I had found in the dresser a week previously but not worn, and tied a sash around my waist.
The Siddha was sitting, in a cross-legged yoga position, on silk pillows on a dais in a room richly slathered in gauzy drapes cascading from the center of the ceiling and tied at the corners of the room and oriental carpets under foot. A low teak table was positioned in front of him, supporting a flask and two crystal tumblers.
His chest was bare and he was wearing a saffron dhoti that flared out around his small waist, covering his legs. He was barrel chested, with massive, hard-muscled pecs, shoulders, and biceps. I estimated that he must be well over six feet tall, and perfectly proportioned. There was no beard on his androgynous-featured, beautifully calm face, and long, silky, straight hair hung down his back to his waist. There was an emerald in his navel and a ruby affixed in the center of his forehead.
I would have thought he was sleeping or in deep meditation if he hadn’t obviously been aware of my presence. As we entered the room, he lifted one palms-up hand from a knee and gestured to the loose pile of silk pillows beside him. “Please, join me here, David Kane.” His voice was rich in tone, smooth, and calming-if I could have been calmed under the circumstances.
As Ravith and Benito guided me to the pillows and made me sit down right next to the Siddha, the yoga master gestured to Acharya Ahitharan. “Drink for our guest, please, Acharya.”
Ahitharan poured liquid from the flask into one of the crystal tumblers, and Ravith took it and raised it to my lips. The Acharya leaned down and murmured in my ear, “You best drink this for your own well-being. And position yourself in the lotus position.”
Trembling, I drank from the glass and assumed the lotus position. The Siddha waved the other men away. As they left, the Acharya taking the flask and glasses with him, I saw that we were sitting directly across from a full-wall mirror. I could see the serenity that the Siddha was exhibiting contrasted by my own nervousness.
I began to feel a little woozy. But just a little. I had no idea how I was going to prevent what was going to happen, but I certainly wasn’t going to let this man know how badly I needed to be fucked. A chill ran up my spine at the memory of how long I had seen his cock was from watching him fuck the young men in the ceremony hall-always smaller men. Never the same one twice, leading me to wonder how well his Kamasutra partners endured the experience.
“I believe Acharya Ahitharan has given you a time line on your initiation period here, David Kane. The time has come for me to formally commence that initiation. What you will receive here, now, is the highest-level Tantric experience, elite Kamasutra, so that through all of the coming stages of initiation, you will know what goal you are moving toward, a perpetual Tantric sexual high. We will proceed through several positions of the Kamasutra and you will spill your seed copiously. Before we are done, you will become aware of the highest levels of Tantric sexual satisfaction.”
A moan escaped my lips.
“Do not fear it,” he said. “This is the experience you are here for.”
“Not really,” I murmured, wondering why my voice sounded so distant and quiet. “This is not what I thought I was getting into. I . . . Oh, oh.”
He had wrapped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me to him. The other hand had moved into the folds of the saffron robe I was wearing. I felt his long, sensuous fingers deftly unbuttoning the cotton briefs at each hip, and the briefs falling away from my body. I now knew why they were constructed the way they were. He had some sort of rings just below the tip of his thumb and forefinger, with metal balls on the insides of them. His hand slowly glided up my belly and sternum and then he was moving the balls on the flesh of my chest and torso.
I moaned deeply, and he turned my face to his for a possessing kiss-the only time he kissed me.
I . . . must . . . resist, I thought, but it had been too long. I shuddered and groaned as he took a nipple between the balls and rubbed them back and forth. He brushed the robe open, but just slightly, so that, in the mirror opposite us, I could see the metal balls moving on my nipple, puffing it up, making me tremble.
“Please, no, I cannot,” I whispered. Too low for him to hear, I feared-not that it mattered, I was sure.
He pulled me half onto his lap, one bare butt cheek on his thigh, and his hand came out of the fold at my chest and moved to below the sash tied around my waist. Without dislodging the sash, he pushed the robe off the thigh I had straddling his lap. He ran the two balls around on the thigh, causing me, involuntarily, to watch the circles-both by looking down and by looking into the mirror-move higher on the thigh, knowing full well where they were going. I trembled and buried the back of my head in the hollow of his shoulder as he moved to the inside of the thigh. And slowly moved up, higher and higher. They were rubbing under my balls and I was hyperventilating and struggling against him-without effect, as he held me tightly in strong arms. But I was moving slowly in my totally inadequate defense, as if I was trying to walk underwater. Something in the drink, obviously, but not something that deadened my senses. Something that dulled my reactions but heightened my senses.
I groaned and begged him for mercy as he moved the balls up and down my already-hardened shaft.
His cock was monstrously hard now too-and in evidence. I could see in the mirror where the cock had erupted out from the seam in his dhoti and was standing up in a long, foot-long curve. I gasped at the size of it-not overly thick, but monstrously long.
“Please, please,” I whimpered. “It’s too big. It’s . . . oh, fuck. Oh shit!” One of the balls on his finger had found my piss slit and he was fucking the opening with it. With a jerk, I came, exploding with cum that had built up inside me with no chance of release over the past four days. Slathered with my cum, the balls moved lower, to the rim of my entrance, where they rubbed as I moaned, and then the index finger penetrated me as the ball on the thumb continued to play the rim. Deeper inside me, searching for, finding my prostate with the metal ball. I writhed inside his strong embrace, panting hard, murmuring the mantra, “Oh god, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” my resolve evaporating before the days of forced abstinence and exposure to the visions of mass sex and his magic touch.
“Fuck me!” I cried out, came again, and collapsed against him, the surrender complete.
“The elite Kamasutra position of the Reverse Bonobo,” I heard him murmur. And then I felt him pulling me fully onto his lap, facing away from him. He grasped me under both of my thighs and lifted and spread my legs. He rolled my hips up, and, although still robed, my thighs and cock and balls were revealed to the mirror opposite me and I couldn’t have been more naked, and vulnerable, even though I still was fully clothed in the sashed robe. His cock was between my thighs and curved up toward my belly. He raised my hips enough for his bulb to be placed at my ass opening, and he fed the bulb and another inch or two of the cock inside me.
I gasped and cried out and another two inches pressed in, opening the channel as he moved.
He made sure I could see the whole progress of the cock. At eight inches in, leaving a good four inches of the root outside, he started to slowly pump me. I panted and groaned at the deep invasion. But I couldn’t help it; I gloried in the fuck. I needed the fuck.
I ejaculated again, fully satisfied, evacuating another white-foamy spurt of the pent-up load from days of abstinence.
But, oh no, the Siddha hadn’t come, and he was pushing me over onto my belly on the tea table. I raised my head and stared into the mirror, seeing his chest and head over my back as he raised up over me and, oh, shit, oh, fuck, fed me those last four inches of the foot long pole and began to stroke me in long, long, deep strokes.
“The simple position of the Greyhound,” he said in his soft, yet strong, melodic voice. “But I find it quite effective in the full Tantric experience. It is one where I can give it all to you.”
It might have been the drugs, but I felt like I had a snake, not just a hard shaft, inside me. It rotated and swiveled and screwed and whipped around and bent to where its bulb kissed and sucked and rubbed on my walls-every square inch of my walls. I came for the fourth time, and he, finally, released his cum in a flood deep inside me.
He lowered his chest on my back and hooked his chin on my shoulder. We both were looking in the mirror, cheek to cheek.
“The height of Tantric sexual experience,” he whispered in my ear. “The perfection of Kamasutra. The position of the Plow.” He reached down on either side of me and raised my legs off the floor, resting my weight on my chest on the surface of the tea table. My calves were coaxed to fold on the small of his back, with my ankles crossed. Then his hands moved down my arms and grasped my wrists and I cried out and groaned as I felt him, still hard, a foot inside me, start once more to plow me deep. Moments later, he rose off me, his magnificent chest looming over me in the reflection in the mirror. Grabbing my legs again, he turned me on the cock onto my back and raised my legs to where they stretched up his torso. He grasped my waist in his hands, raising my pelvis with his, and began to pull my channel on his cock in long slides.
“The position of the Stem.” I could barely hear him. “Good for the long journey down from the heights of Tantric satisfaction.”
My ears were ringing with the sound of the ocean. I was completely relaxed, spent. I had lost count of the positions or the care of how many more were to come. Exhausted, I let my arms dangle to the floor beside me and my head arch back over the end of the tea table and watched the tightening and releasing of his massive chest muscles as reflected in the mirror. The tightening came at the end of the foot-long slide into me, the release as he slid back out. This time his ejaculation came in one long, peaceful flow that burbled up the sides of his staff and dripped out of my stretched and throbbing hole.
Beyond Sanasuma now-beyond satisfaction.
I was his featured partner at the ceremony in the hall that evening.
Docile, no longer drugged in any way, but now his complete slave, I was worked through elite Kamasutra positions, with me moving to any position he guided me into, only crying out and gasping when he penetrated deep inside me: the Bamboo, with me lying on my back and spreading my legs, the Siddha bending over me from on top, me lifting one leg and resting it on the Siddha’s shoulder while the Siddha moved his own knee forward, penetrating me deep; the Yin and Yang again, in a close lotus embrace with me in his lap facing him, close, our nipples rubbing, until he pushed on my chest and I arched back and he started to stroke inside me, once again, even when I wasn’t drugged in any way, making me feel like there was a snake slithering around inside me; and then, to conclude, the Bonobo, me on my shoulder blades, my thighs bent back onto my chest and the Siddha bending over me, his fists buried in the mat on either side of my head, rocking my pelvis with his, kissing every surface inside me with the bulb of his cock, encouraging me to bend enough to take the bulb of my own cock inside my mouth and sucking it-amazing me when I could. I had known I was flexible, but . . .
And pumping and pumping his cum inside me. He had held each position until I had come, but he had the control to hold himself until the end.
On the way back to my room, Ahitharan assured me that I was greatly favored by the Siddha-that he rarely took an initiate to the ceremony as he had taken me. He did not enjoy me enough that he called for me again in the following days of the next stage of my initiation, however. Although I had been thoroughly fucked-and had needed it-I couldn’t say I regretted not having a foot of snake working inside me constantly.
Over the next two weeks I was in Kamasutra training with Ravith and Benito. The two of them together took care of my sexual needs much better than Teddy ever had done, even at his most virile. But that wasn’t quite enough. I increasingly realized that I loved Teddy himself. I might love the cocking I got from Ravith and Benito-more from the forceful, rougher, less refined in the ways of Kamasutra Benito than from the highly delicate and refined technique of Ravith-but I loved Teddy as a person and a partner. It was during this period that I came to realize that there was so much more involved in a loving relationship than sex.
This didn’t make the knowledge that he had delivered me into sexual bondage any more easy to accept, though.
Progressively, I moved out on the ceremony floor with Ravith and Benito and came within a week of moving to the next stage-more advanced Kamasutra with the older, more experienced Acharyas. Acharya Ahitharan was already eyeing me and letting me know by his touches on my body as he guided me to the cavern ceremony room, that the time that he would “know” me too was near. As my training progressed, so did the trust I was given.
On the first morning I found that my cell door hadn’t been locked, I quickly changed into my Western clothes, grabbed my suitcase, quietly stole out of the ashram, and nearly rolled down the mountain and into Nuwara Eliya. I knew I couldn’t stay at the Windsor Hotel, but I went there first to get my bearings and to decide how best to escape from Sri Lanka and to make my way back to, first, level Teddy for what he had done to me and then to beg for his forgiveness and hold him in my arms until I could get his cock inside me. I knew then that we’d be fine.
I was starving. Of all the indignities I had suffered in the ashram, nothing topped the diet of vegetables, fruit, and nuts. I went into the hotel café and ordered fried eggs and bacon. While I was waiting for it to be served, I opened an English-language paper. My attention was arrested by an article on page 3.
“. . . . Wanted in the murder of New York manufacturer Theodore Drisal, his associate, David Kane, is being sought by New York police. He is thought to have fled the country, and may be in India. He is suspected of having commandeered the company’s jet and flown to Mumbai, India. Drisal’s business partner, Morten Whitley, who found Drisal’s body on April 21st in his apartment, which had been ransacked, reported that Drisal and Kane, who lived in Drisal’s apartment, had been fighting of late over Drisal’s intention to retire and to turn the company over to Whitley. Drisal is thought to have been diagnosed with . . .”
Tears came to my eyes. My first thought was to the death of Teddy. Only after that did I fully absorb that I was being sought Teddy’s his murder. For his murder. Teddy had been murdered. Mort. That was why . . . that was the reason for all of this . . . it wasn’t Teddy.
I knew I must-should-go back. But all of the evidence . . . just too much evidence now built against me. I had fled . . . or so everyone thought. Mort would have had plenty of time to solidify the case against me. To cover his own tracks.
I looked up and, through tear-clouded eyes, saw Ravith and Benito standing in the doorway. David looked wildly around the room. There was a door into the kitchen. Maybe I could make it through there and escape them. But did I want to?