Ay: Haziran 2024

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

“Perhaps stand over there at the center of the net with the grandstand and the Bangkok skyline in the background.”

Dent Douglas tore his eyes away from the young man who was interviewing him; turned his gaze on the photographer, Rick Rodriguez; and then, with a smile, moved to the center of the tennis court net and struck a pose. He was a tall, well-built sandy-haired, commanding figure, and he knew it.

“We can continue with the interview while Rick gets his shots,” the interviewer, Krit Kraft said. With a look of appreciation, Douglas turned his attention back to the young man whose ancestry he was trying to figure out. He had an Oriental look about him, but his hair had blond highlights and he had the facial features of a Westerner. His body was small, like many Thai, though, and was well-proportioned—perfectly, and delicately, featured in face. Douglas wondered if he’d just been in Thailand too long and was looking for Thai features in all small men he saw.

“You were telling me why you train here in Bangkok,” Krit said. “Other than Paradorn Srichaphan, I can’t think of any other player who trained in Thailand.”

“Neither can I,” Douglas responded, with a smile. “But Srichaphan is Thai. I’m not. He naturally was based here.”

“Yes, of course.” Krit said, digging at it. “But, other than the Australian Open, I wouldn’t think that Thailand is a convenient location from which to reach major tournaments. Like the Aussie players who remain in Australia to train, you have jet lag problems that other players don’t have, don’t you?”

Douglas changed poses, giving Rodriguez new angles to shoot—he was so photogenic that he was an old hand at posing for media coverage—but his gaze didn’t linger away from Krit very long at a time. “Money,” he said. Then he added, because it was nagging at him, “Are you part Thai? With the name Krit . . .”

“Yes, my mother’s Thai. My father’s French, though. I’m American.”

They shared a laugh.

“A very nice combination,” Douglas said, giving the interviewer an appreciative look.

Krit blushed—or exhibited what would be seen as a blush if his complexion wasn’t as dusky as a Thai’s. He looked down shyly before lifting his face again and giving Douglas a smile. “Money, you said. How does that figure in?”

“The majors are the big money makers, yes, Douglas said, but the competition is really stiff. By locating here I can move higher in the Asian tournaments, and the money in those is better than any of the smaller tournaments in the United States and Europe. I have the advantage here over a lot of players who don’t want to come this far for tournaments.”

Krit knew he was on a slick slope here. The Tennis Talk magazine he was conducting this interview for wouldn’t want to have to highlight that a player they were featuring was admitting that he couldn’t hold his own on the tennis court with the big boys. Douglas was ranked in the high thirties now, but it was the highest he’d been and maybe the highest his tennis talent was going to take him. The magazine’s interest was in the unusual story of an American choosing to train in Thailand and also because of how popular Douglas was with the ladies.

“So, it’s the money.”

“It works both ways,” Douglas said, giving Krit a steady look. “It’s also much cheaper living here than in the West, and the money I receive as the tennis pro here at the Royal Bangkok Sports Club is far better, with fewer duties, than I could get anywhere else.”

“That makes sense,” Krit said. He didn’t want to leave this point—this was the most significant reason he had come to Bangkok for an interview—but he couldn’t see how he could push it.

“Plus,” Douglas said, “training here in the Thai heat and humidity has toughened me up for play anywhere else in the world. I moved up twenty places since I moved here. Can you see the effect in my body?” He pulled his tennis shirt over his head and flexed for Krit, and Rodriguez fired off several photos in succession. These photos would be worth a mint placed in the right media.

Krit certainly could see the effect in Dent Douglas’ body. The man was cut and probably didn’t have an ounce of fat on his muscular frame. His body was a thing of beauty and power—sleek and as muscular as a jungle cat. Krit could see that even in his tennis togs. He didn’t know what to answer and this was an opening for him to pursue what he actually was here for, but Douglas closed the door on this avenue.

“You said you want to have photos of me at my home,” Douglas said, turning the conversation when Krit just thought it was becoming interesting and getting close to what he was after. “What hotel are you staying at?”

“The Dusit Thani, just across Lumphini Park from here on Rama IV,” Krit answered.

“To get a really good feel for my home life, why don’t you and your photographer move to my house for a couple of nights?”

“We wouldn’t want to . . .” Krit didn’t hurry to finish that sentence, because it was just the opening he had been seeking. They did, as a matter of fact, want to impose on Douglas’ altyazılı porno home life.

“I’ll send a car for you tomorrow after lunch,” Douglas said. “I don’t live far. But it’s in a Thai-style house and isn’t easy to find.”

* * * *

“You didn’t get the admission,” Rick Rodriguez said as he opened the bathroom door.

Krit, standing under the streaming shower, heard Rodriguez open the door but wasn’t able to hear what he said. He turned off the shower and asked Rodriguez to repeat himself.

“I said you didn’t get what we came for.”

“He wants us to stay at his house tomorrow, doesn’t he? It’s just a matter of time. We got enough for the Tennis Talk article, didn’t we? And enough for the Internet cheesecake shots. Or did you have the lens cap on when you were taking your photos? Those photos of him flexing his muscles with his shirt off are great.”

“Don’t be a smart aleck, and don’t forget what we need or who’s in charge here. You know why you’re here, and it isn’t for your interview skills.”

“Bite me,” Krit said and then turned contemptuously and turned the shower back on.

The Hispanic photographer, nearly twice Krit’s size, must not have liked Krit’s attitude, as he was stripped and climbing into the shower before the smaller, younger man realized he was there.

“Ricky,” he exclaimed as Rodriguez turned him and pushed him roughly against the tiled wall of the shower enclosure. Already hard, Rodriguez reached around Krit’s hips on either side, gripped the smaller man’s butt cheeks in his beefy hands, and simultaneously separated them and lifted Krit’s body off the floor of the shower. Rodriguez’ knees pressed in between Krit’s thighs.

Krit cried out as the beefier man pushed his back up the slimy tiles and then began lowering his channel on the bulb of his cock, the Hispanic moving his hips and screwing his cock up inside Krit.

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck!” Krit cried out, but then he was reduced to moans and groans, as Rodriguez brutally took possession of his mouth and began to raise and lower his small body, faster and faster on the invading cock.

They both held position there, under the stream of water, pressed against the slick tiles of the shower wall, both panting heavily, after they ejaculated.

“You remember what you’re here for, right?”

“Yes, Ricky.” Krit whispered.

“Who is in charge of this?” Rodriguez growled.

“You are, Ricky,” Krit whimpered.

“And you’re gonna get what we want here, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Ricky.”

Not long afterward, Krit found out why Ricky Rodriguez had booked them into the Dusit Thani. Just a few blocks away was the infamous Patpong red light district. Gay bars—many of them being transvestite bars, with transvestites in Thailand being known as katoys—dotted the several-block area of this district, mingled in with the girlie bars and whore houses.

Krit lost count of the number of bars they visited, with him becoming increasingly frustrated as they moved along. Although Rodriguez was free with mixing with and handling the katoys—the transsexuals—and other boy toys they met in the bars, anytime a man approached Krit—and there were many who were attracted to him—Rodriguez warned them off. And although several of these men were rough trade—mostly East European sailors—none of them were a match for Rodriguez.

The young interviewer was pouting when they finally walked back to the Dusit Thani.

“Keyed up, are you?” Rodriguez asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Krit asked. “You certainly enjoyed yourself tonight, but you gave me no leeway at all.”

“I want you ready for the rest of this interview with Dent Douglas,” Rodriguez said.

“I need it,” Krit whined, as he nuzzled up to Rodriguez. “When we get back to the room—”

“I’ll give you what you need—all that you can handle—once we’ve gotten everything we want from this interview,” Rodriguez growled.

* * * *

Krit and Ricky were picked up at the Dusit Thani in the late afternoon by a black Mercedes sedan, driven by a young Thai man who they’d seen working as a ball boy at the Royal Bangkok Sports Club when Krit and the photographer arrived there to interview Douglas and he’d been giving a tennis lesson. The Mercedes wasn’t new, but it was a Mercedes, speaking to what Douglas had told Krit about how lucrative basing himself in Thailand was.

The Mercedes drove back across town in the direction of the sports club but on the opposite side of Lumphini Park to the sports club. The driver told Krit this was Wireless Road, named because it led from the country’s first telecommunications office to the British Embassy, which originally was on the outskirts of the city but now was nearly in the center of it. En route the sedan passed the American, Netherlands, and Spanish embassies. They crossed one of the city’s main drags, Sukumvit, and were on a narrow street traversing between white cement walls of compounds. At the end of the street, a gate opened as the Mercedes approached, and the sedan entered a previous century, somewhere zenci porno seemingly far from the city.

The jungle-like foliage was heavy and led down to the bank of a wide canal, one of a network of waterways called klongs that had once been the “streets” of the city that was known as the Venice of the Orient.

Almost hidden in the thick jungle foliage were the old Thai-style buildings of the compound: pavilions made of weathered teak suspended on platforms that kept the living quarters above the periodic floodwaters of the klong in the monsoon seasons, which covered much of the year. The pavilions had steep-peaked, colorful-tiled roofs with wooden “dragon-tail” curlicues at the ends of the eaves.

Only the tennis court beside the drive inside the compound gates—closed by two more young Thai men of small stature and clothed only in ankle-length colorful sarongs wound around their waists—gave Krit and Ricky a hint that they had, indeed, come to the residence of the tennis pro.

They were met at the foot of the stairs, up to what appeared to be the main pavilion platform, by two more small, perfectly formed young Thai men, giving them bowing “wais” of hands clasped in front of them and bending at the waist. These men too wore sarongs draping down from their waists and were barefooted.

“Welcome to Mr. Douglas’ home,” one said in British-inflected tones. “Mr. Kraft is to come with me and Mr. Rodriguez is to be taken to his room by Chumphon. You will meet with Mr. Douglas for dinner in two hours.”

The other young Thai obviously was Chumphon. He gave Ricky a saucy smile, touched him on the forearm lightly, and beckoned for Ricky to follow him. Rodriguez turned and gave Krit a broad smile before turning away again and mimicking the young Thai’s butt swaying saunter down a garden path between palm trees beside the main pavilion.

With a smile, the other Thai man, identifying himself as Amphon, guided Krit up the steps into the main pavilion.

Krit was led through a series of open-sided pavilion platforms to a wing where the pavilions were enclosed by wooden walls. He was led down a corridor with a bed chamber on either side and into a large bedroom at the end of the hall that was dominated by a massive four-poster bed draped in bold-colored Thai silk.

“Is this to be where I sleep?” Krit asked, not believing he would be housed in such elegance.

The response that came back was inscrutable, though. “A bath has been made ready for you and then I am sure you will want to rest,” Amphon answered. “May I help you undress?”

“No, thank you, I think I can manage that myself.”

Amphon didn’t leave the room, though. He stood there, taking each shed item of clothing from Krit as the young man undressed and then motioned him toward a door on the back wall of the chamber.

Krit went as far as the open door of the large bathroom, featuring a large tiled bath in the center of the room and stopped there, his eyes bugging out.

“I thought you might be willing to join me,” Dent Douglas said from where he reclined in the bath water. “I thought I read the signals you were sending at the sports club correctly. I did, didn’t I? Or do you want to be taken to a room and bath of your own?”

Krit didn’t answer immediately. He was busy wondering if it really was going to be this easy.

“You kept after me about why I chose to live and train in Bangkok and didn’t seem to fully accept the answers I gave,” Douglas continued when Krit didn’t respond immediately. “I think you understand now why. I have a fetish for small and young Thai men—not boys; I want my men to be men—and I can indulge my preferences easily here in Bangkok. All of the young men you’ve seen in the compound? Yes, I fuck them all. And I, of course, find you enticing too. I’m sure you have realized that. I want to fuck you; am I wrong in thinking that’s what you want too?”

Yes, it was going to be that easy, Krit, thought, as he entered the room, climbed into the tub, and lowered his knees into the water straddling Douglas’ hips. With a broad smile and a deep laugh, Douglas raised his arms to grip Krit’s tiny waist between his hands, to help the young man center his buttocks on the thick, erect shaft, and then to start raising and lowering Krit’s channel on his cock.

Meanwhile, across the compound, in a more modern, but less luxurious outbuilding, also raised on stilts, Ricky Rodriguez wasn’t losing out on Dent Douglas’ hospitality.

Chumphon walked him up the stairs into a two-story wooden-walled building that contained guest rooms, of generous, but not gigantic, proportions, and attached private baths. Chumphon told him that these rooms were for Douglas’ coaching and physical conditioning team when they were in residence and the second floor rooms, which were smaller, with communal baths, were for the senior domestic staff of the compound.

“I sleep up there,” Chumphon said, “. . . when I am not wanted down here.”

He shyly lowered his eyes. He was standing next to a young Thai woman, aldatma porno clothed in a Thai-silk sarong and also looking demurely at the floor. “Is there any service either one of us may render for you?”

Rodriguez got the message. He could take his pick.

“I believe you are wanted down here tonight,” he said directly to Chumphon.

Without looking up, the young woman, a small smile still on her lips, glided around him and out into the hallway.

“Very good, sir. I will just draw a bath and . . .”

“Bathing can come later,” Rodriguez growled. He reached over, grabbed the knot of Chumphon’s sarong skirt, virtually tearing the material away from the young man’s body. He was unzipping himself as he pushed Chumphon down on his knees before him and started unbuttoning his shirt. While Rodriguez worked with the buttons, Chumphon dutifully took his hardening cock in his mouth.

Ten minutes later, Chumphon was bent over the end of the double bed, his arms outstretched and grasping at the Thai silk bedspread and his face turned up toward the headboard that was rhythmically bouncing off the back wall, a pained expression in his eyes and his mouth open in a big, round O. Rodriguez was crouched over him from behind, his hands grasping Chumphon’s narrow waist, and his cock beating away deep inside the small Thai man’s channel.

* * * *

Ricky didn’t get the promised nap and barely had time to shower and wrap the Thai silk sarong around his loins that he’d been told was the chosen dinner attire that evening before he had to leave for the evening meal. The young woman attendant, who had been introduced to him as Lek, had to guide him back to the main pavilions, because he’d left Chumphon lying on his back on the bed, legs spread open, moaning, but also wearing a silly grin on his face.

“I will be late in returning, I think, but I will expect you to be here when I return,” Rodriguez said to Chumphon before leaving the room. Just inside the door to the corridor, he leaned down, picked up his camera bag, and settled the strap on his shoulder. His camera equipment was his life. He left it nowhere. His attachment to his equipment didn’t extend to bringing it into the pavilion where the dinner was being served on a low teak table surrounded by pillows for the guests to recline on, however. There was a long couch, also spread with Thai silk pillows, against the only permanent wall of the pavilion. The other three sides were covered in colorful silk drapes now tied back to the thick teak tree-trunk pillars holding the roof up. Rodriguez pushed his camera case under a chair near the entrance into the pavilion and entered, to find that it would be just the three of them dining.

Douglas and Krit already were at the table, sitting close to each other. It didn’t take much imagination for Rodriguez to discern that they’d had sex with each other before coming to the dining area. Krit confirmed as much in a surreptitious glance of confirmation at Rodriguez as the photographer entered the pavilion.

Both Douglas and Krit were wearing only sarong skirts, and Rodriguez’ eyes narrowed with a flash of worthy competition when he was reminded how muscular and perfectly defined Douglas’ chest was. He was a powerfully built man with the long arms that had served him well in reaching for acute-angle volleys in tennis matches.

Rodriguez could tell, as he knelt at the table across from the other two, that his presence here wouldn’t be welcome for long after the meal was served.

The meal took nearly an hour, as course after course was brought in by a succession of beautiful young Thai men, all giving Douglas a look that told Rodriguez that Douglas fucked them all.

So it was confirmed as true, Rodriguez thought. Douglas lived here for the access to young Oriental males. His masters had guessed correctly—even to the extent of bringing the small, half-Thai Krit on board to do the interviews.

Throughout the meal Douglas and Krit remained close to each other, with Douglas feeding a morsel to Krit now and then and letting his fingers linger on Krit’s full lips.

Not long after the mango and sticky rice was served, the conversation, such as there was, having been within the bounds of information Krit could use in the Tennis Talk article, Rodriguez cleared his throat and said, “I think I’d best turn in early. I will take photos of the compound tomorrow in the morning light, if you don’t mind.”

“That sounds fine to me,” Douglas said. “I hope your accommodations are satisfactory. I thought you might enjoy the privacy of the guest house.”

“Yes, it is quite satisfactory,” Rodriguez answered. But what he thought was, you can’t fool me. You have housed me as far away from the main house as you could so that you could have your go at Krit without my interference.

But then Douglas surprised him by letting him know there was little subterfuge going on at all.

“I hope you will take it a bit easy with Chumphon tonight. I understand you have nearly worn him out and Krit and I could hear echoes of his taking from here while I was fucking Krit. Don’t look so surprised, Mr. Rodriguez. That’s another reason I choose to live in Thailand. There are no sexual taboos here. We can be very open about our sexual preferences and desires—as I’m sure you’ve already learned with Chumphon.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32