Twink’s Happy Ending
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I’ll always remember the Israeli by the image of him standing there at the window of the Oriental Hotel room, the strong Bangkok sun bathing his body in afternoon light—that and by the cockiness with which he took control.
The Israeli army officer, a military attaché at his country’s embassy in Thailand, had just two weeks earlier been part of my first threesome. He had seen me working out in the gym, and my Egyptian sexual mentor had said the Israeli could have me if he would agree to a threesome with the Egyptian. The Israeli must have been pleased by me, because the very next day he started a campaign to get me alone. He had begged and pleaded with me and had declared that he’d treat me like a priceless gift, and I had finally agreed to meet with him alone.
I was attracted to him, so the decision was not a hard one to reach. He was intriguing, almost simian in appearance, but in an attracting way. Somewhere in his early forties, but a magnificently maintained early forties, he was quite hairy, my first experience with anyone so heavily pelted, but also very muscular, and with arms longer in proportion to the rest of his body than normal. There had been nothing spectacular in the length and girth of his cock, but he had used it quite masterfully on me up against the tiles under the cascading water of the gym’s shower. I had thought of the churning of his cock inside me, the strength of his arms around me, and the silkiness of his hair against my skin ever since that threesome.
He was good at his word about showing me how much he valued this meeting. He had booked a room in Bangkok’s most exclusive hotel, the Oriental, on the banks of the Chaopya River in the center of the city’s commercial area. The first thing I noticed when I was ushered into the eight floor room suspended over the busy river was the sumptuous Jim Thompson silk appointments, a model of understated wealth and refinement. The second thing I noticed was the bucket on a table in the center of the room with an uncorked bottle of Mumms champagne cooling in it. I also couldn’t miss the tube of lubricant lying next to the champagne bucket alongside a money clip thick with Thai baht, left there no doubt after having tipped the hotel staff heavily in advance to enable this tryst.
The third thing I noticed was the Israeli officer, draped pensively at the corner of the full-length window, dressed in his military khakis and black boots—outfitted Israeli military style at least from the waist down. He was bare chested, those long powerful arms of his folded under his bulging, hair-covered pecs. He had been staring out of the window when I arrived, but as soon as the bellboy had departed and quietly clicked the door to the room behind him, the Israeli turned and gave me a broad smile of welcome, obviously delighted that his campaign to meet me again had been successful. He undraped his arms from around his chest and walked over to the table, poured champagne into a glass and turned to me.
I assumed he was going to hand me the glass of champagne, but he didn’t do so right away. Instead, he took a deep drink from the glass himself and then leaned into me. It was obvious he wanted me to kiss him, and when I opened my lips to him, he transferred the champagne into my mouth. He did this twice again before he refilled the glass, handed it to me, and moved to close behind me. He was forceful, almost cocky in his movements. Throughout the preliminaries he was quite precise and authoritative in telling me what he wanted me to do, no doubt, I thought, a natural function of his military position, but also a sign of high self-confidence, as it he assumed I’d acquiesce in anything he asked of me. I might have found his direction brusque and presumptive, but I quickly was finding that I liked this form of domination.
I was wearing a light cotton safari leisure suit from the Bangkok designer, John Fowler, which was popular with the foreign community at that time. The shirt tail was hanging outside my pants, and the Israeli ran his hands under that at both of my sides and moved his strong hands up between my shirt and my skin to come resting on my pecs. He pulled my back in close to his front, and I could feel the urgency of his cock against the small of my back. He was flicking my nipples and I moaned for him and almost spilled the champagne. One of his hands slid down my belly and followed the thin trail of hair running from my navel down to my pubes. His hand went below my waistband, and he was cupping my cock and balls. I groaned and laid my head back against his shoulder. He was kissing my temple.
He started undoing my belt and zipping my pants down, but I put my hand on his and asked him if I could shower first. No one could go out in the noonday sun of Bangkok and avoid getting hot and sticky, and I was no exception in this. He consented, although I could tell he was a little peeved that I had interrupted his own schedule, and waved his hand toward the bathroom. I disengaged from his embrace, placed my obviously very expensive crystal champagne glass carefully down on the table and entered the bath. I was about to shut the door, but he instructed me in a rather gruff voice to leave it open so that he could watch me shower from the bedroom.
I stripped down just inside the bathroom door to give the Israeli a good look at the goods—which, of course weren’t really new to him, as he had fully fucked me very recently—and cleaned myself out well with the preparation I’d brought, knowing I had quite an ass session ahead of me. Then, leaving the shower stall open, I took my time washing the grit of the Bangkok streets off my body. When I was finished, I wrapped my body in the lush terrycloth robe the luxury hotel had provided and padded out into the bedroom.
This was the second time I found the Israeli posing pensively against the window overlooking the river, his arms wrapped under his hairy pecs, but this time he was naked. The sun caught and highlight what was dangling between his legs, and I could have sworn it had grown in length and girth since it had last traveled up my ass.
He turned and smiled at me and beckoned me to the window, where, standing very close in front of me, he slowly untied the sash around my robe, opened it, pulled me to him, and pulled the robe back around us both. I reached for his cock with my hands, but he brushed my hands away, intent on his own campaign.
He was kissing me deeply on the lips and his hands were all over my body. He pulled me close, and I felt his cock, insistent, poking at my belly, and his silky pecs were rubbing against mine. After several minutes of this exploration, the Israeli pushed the robe off my back, and turned me and pushed me, rather forcefully, against the full-length window. I was splayed against the window, my palms against the warm glass, and gazed down eight flights to the river below, which was teeming with long-tail boats swamped with fruits and vegetables, as the merchants plied their wares in the water market. The Israeli’s mouth was at my ass, and his hands were pushing my butt cheeks wide apart to give his tongue and fingers maximum access. He had retrieved the lubricant from the table and was working gobs of that into my asshole with his fingers.
He was driving me wild, and I was sure that he had several fingers fucking up into me as well as his tongue before my legs finally started to give way. I expected him to keep me from collapsing to the thick rug underfoot then and carry me to the bed to make use of my now nicely opened ass canal. But he didn’t do that. He supported me with his powerful arms as my knees gave way and I started to sink, but he brought me to the floor on my belly in a controlled collapse. I started to rise, but he barked at me to stay where I was.
One of his arms wound round my belly from behind, and he pulled me up onto my knees on the floor, with my hands palmed on the floor, supporting the weight of my torso. With a loud grunt from him and a low scream of surprise and sharp pain from me, he thrust his hard dick up into me, driving it in to the hilt in one forceful movement, and then he stroked me like this, doggie style, for a good five minutes. I pled with him to slow down, to give me time to adjust to him, but he just laughed and continued stroking hard.
Just when I thought this was going to take him all the way to the finish, he pushed me onto my belly and lay covering me, my legs pulled together between his thighs, and his cock stroking me at an even pace with my canal constricted. His cock was definitely thicker, if not as long, than my Egyptian mentor’s, although he was neither as long or as thick as the giant Swede who had taken me in a massage room at the gym a week earlier had been. So, I was doing a good bit of moaning, and mouthing off, and writhing under his weight and the power driving of the Israeli’s tool, which he seemed to enjoy immensely.
He was definitely the dominating kind, with just a touch of cruelty. If I told him he was fucking me too fast, he’d speed up. If I told him that he was making my nipples sore, he’d dig his fingers deeper into my aureoles and pinch harder. If I told him his hand was crushing my balls, he’d squeeze and pull harder.
A good nearly ten minutes later, he started revolving around his cock inside me until his legs straddled my chest and pushed in, his head was down near my ankles, and his hands were wrapped around my ankles. I felt like a too thick screw was being twisted down into my too-small hole. I cried out as much in wonder and pleasure at the image of what he was doing to me, though, as in pain.
With the strength of his hip muscles, he then stroked down into my beleaguered canal at a whole new cock angle. Off and on, he wishboned my legs with his hands on my ankles and then brought them back together, giving me a loose and then constricted feel in addition to the different stroke angle. He continued this until he shoot off, me moaning and groaning in new-found appreciation the whole time.
When he was spent and I had felt his cock soften inside me, he, at last, pulled me off of the rug and tossed me onto the bed. He came down beside me and wrapped his strong arms around me, and we both snoozed, I in the warmth and silky softness of his hairy embrace.
Exhausted from the Israeli’s calisthenics with and inside my body, I probably could have slept there until evening, but not long after—the sun still streaming in the window, if at a somewhat lower angle that brought its rays up onto the gaily colored smooth silk of the Jim Thompson bedspread—the Israeli woke me with the sensation of intimately search hands around my body once more. A rejuvenated cock was poking at my thigh.
I suggested, still half drowsy, that I was exhausted and sore. He laughed, rose up on his knees, grabbed my hips with his big hands, and roughly pulled me down to where my butt was suspended on the edge of the foot of the bed. He was below me in a flash, holding my legs wide with his hands, and, barely awake, I cried out and arched my back, as he thrust his cock inside me again and rode me hard, his hands cruelly twisting and pinching my nipples and beating my cock, to another ejaculation, with me trying to catch my breath, arching and unarching my back in rhythm with his thrusts, and bunching up the silk bedspread in my fists in an effort to maintain an anchored position.
At length, his rhythm slowed, he brought my legs in to his body so they were propped up against his shoulders, and he started kneading my pecs with his hands, rubbing the nipples, at first gently and then harder again, as he felt himself climaxing—quickening his rhythm again, taking longer, deeper strokes, and throwing his shoulders back as he shot his seed up into me once again out of that thick Israeli canon of his.
He held there for almost a minute, savoring this proof of his virility. Then he patted me on the belly, murmured “good job,” and pulled out of me. He padded over to the table supporting the champagne bucket, picked up the money clip, and started pulling off baht bills on the way back to the bed. By the time he got back, me still collapsed, with my butt at the edge of the foot of the bed and my heels dug into the thick carpet, he had pulled off five ten-thousand baht notes (something like $200 at the time). He tossed these down beside me on the bed spread and said:
“Great job. Really good with the fresh innocence and mild reluctance act. I’d like to see you again soon, if it can be arranged.”
“What?” I exclaimed. It hit me hard, immediately, and right between the eyes. He thought I was an experienced callboy and that the Egyptian was my pimp.
“What?” I repeated, sitting up on the edge of the bed, now all indignant. “You thought I was a male whore? You thought I came here for the money? I didn’t. I came here because you attracted me. I didn’t give you any sort of an act. You’re one of the few men I’ve been with; I hadn’t done this at all before last month. I came here for you, not for your money.”
He stood there for the longest minute, stunned at what I was saying. And then he went all red in embarrassment, and sank down on his knees in front of me, and apologized profusely between kisses he was applying all over my bruised and roughly fucked body.
In the shower later, as he tenderly soaped and rinsed me off, he apologized again and again for taking me so roughly, saying that he just couldn’t control his urge to fuck me and had genuinely thought I sold my body for this sort of sex. Right before he knelt in front of me and serviced my cock, he asked if I could forgive his roughness and meet with him again. I told him that he needn’t have worried about that—that I was learning that I wanted to be dominated in just the way he had dominated me.
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