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I froze in the middle of talking about the next season of the Bangkok Chopin Society at the ambassador’s residence, as the ambassador walked into and around the side of the room to get into another room. I don’t know if I audibly gulped or not, but none of the women—and the few men—sitting in a circle of upholstered chairs and couches in the commodious room obviously meant for entertaining seemed to notice. The ambassador himself, though, as if he’d heard me react to his presence, turned at the door of the room he was entering, and looked directly at me. If he had a reaction of surprise or concern, he was too much the trained diplomat to give one. He just inclined his head a bit, gave me a controlled smile—I had every impression it was directed at me—and then turned and left the room.
I returned my attention to the meeting, having been invited there by Lidka Basher, the ambassador’s wife, because the East European country sponsoring the annual Chopin competitions in Warsaw this year was mustering all of the international Chopin societies that had formed to invite their chief executives to sit on the presidium of the next competition. I had, in a convoluted way known only to such social organizations, been roped into the presidency of the Bangkok Chopin Society for the coming year, and thus was being invited to Warsaw. I had had no intention of attending and had told my seniors at the American embassy as much, fearing that I’d done something wrong in even being approached by a communist-country embassy, this still being during the Cold War. But my seniors showed no concern at this nondiplomatic contact and made clear that they had other ideas altogether.
“We would like to get close to the ambassador of that country, very close,” the chief of station in the embassy had told me. “You are to foster, not avoid this contact.”
That was a surprise. But this was my first posting. I knew I had a lot to learn about this spying game. So, I’d come to this meeting, intending to follow my chief’s directive but not really make the contact he wanted me to make. I’d tell him that I hadn’t even seen the ambassador, that he wasn’t part of the committee. But now that I had seen him, I planned on saying it was just fleeting—that I hadn’t had the opportunity to talk with him. Fate had other plans, though.
I perhaps would have known about the ambassador if the chief of station had shown me a photograph of him, even though the contexts were so different that maybe I couldn’t have recognized the photo. But he had neglected thus far to do so. He, however, seemed already to have known that I would make contact with Ambassador Bacher and even how that would transpire.
Luckily, I wasn’t expected to make more of a contribution to the embassy residence meeting on Chopin Society activities, because my mind kept wandering back to where and when I’d previously encountered the ambassador.
It had been in the sauna of the men’s gymnasium club I went to in Bangkok—a very special sort of club that flourished in hedonist, “whatever” international cities such as Bangkok.
I was sitting in the lap of the Indian doctor who had originally seduced me in that sauna some months earlier, facing away from him, toward the door of the sauna, and riding his cock, when the man I now knew as Ambassador Jacek Bacher came into the sauna. He stood there, tall, thin, graying hair at the temples and on his chest, and distinguished looking—perhaps in his fifties, but handsome and well muscled—with just a towel wrapped around his waist, and watched me rise and fall on the Indian’s cock with interest and curiosity rather than surprise. Other than a twitch in his cheek muscles, the man initially didn’t move while the doctor held my waist in his hands and helped guide me—up and down, a couple of revolves, with me leaning forward then, putting my weight on my feet, and the Indian doctor slamming his long, long, thin cock deep up into me a few times, me huffing at the depth he managed, before pulling me back to rise and fall on the staff myself.
After a few moments of observing, Bacher’s towel dropped and he fisted his cock, which looked to be thick and long in contrast to the thin, wiry, tallness of him. The trimmed bush at his groin revealed that he’d had darker hair as a younger man, and his ball sac hung low and heavy. I looked on, mesmerized, the heavy gold signet ring on the middle finger of the slender-fingered hand he was stroking himself with catching my attention, as his cock lengthened and thickened impressively before my eyes.
The two—the Indian doctor and the stranger I didn’t then know from Adam—must have known each other well, because the Indian doctor spoke up in his singsong voice that had helped seduce me and then to do whatever he wanted me to do. “Come, Jacek, join me inside him. He’s a delicious piece. He knows the double.”
And, indeed, I did know the doubling, thanks to the Indian doctor, who had spent months developing me to be able and willing to take anything he suggested.
The man hesitated, Cebeci Escort but only for a moment, as the Indian doctor’s hands went to the underside of my thighs just below the knees and he lifted and spread them, rolling my pelvis up to where the man would be able to see the root of the Indian’s cock inside me as well as the rim of my hole clutching the cock.
“Are you sure?” the man asked in a husky, heavily accented voice in a mix of guttural tone but perfect British diction. Despite the question, I knew he would have me because already that long slender finger with the signet ring was inside me and along the upper side of the doctor’s buried cock, and he was rubbing the rim of my opening with the gold metal. I gasped and reached down and, cupping his balls with one hand and his dick with the other, pulled the cock toward my hole.
“Fuck me, oh, god, fuck me too,” I murmured, letting him know that he was more than welcome to join the Indian inside me.
“He will open right up for you,” the doctor assured him. “I have trained him to double.”
And, indeed, the Indian doctor had trained me to take two men at once. At first men with thin cocks like his, but eventually rough thugs with thick cocks. And, if truth be known, I had come to thoroughly enjoy the feel of two cocks inside me at once, especially liking the feel of two active dicks, moving in and out in a countermovement, rubbing against each other, the men breathing heavily and groaning at the effort, as I speculated which of them would come first. This was barely a year before the scourge of AIDS reared its ugly head—a time when every man in Bangkok was still barebacking. Every man pursuing an even more ultimate fuck.
Of course I had reported this sauna encounter to my seniors at the embassy—I had done so the first time the Indian doctor had seduced me here in the sauna and then taken me to his home and fucked me three ways from Sunday, only letting me go when I was crawling across the floor toward him, begging for the cock. I knew that there was no keeping secrets from the secrets specialists in the embassy. And I had expected to be sent home in disgrace. But, to my surprise, my seniors had been pleased and had said that they had known I would succumb to the wiles of other men—even if I hadn’t known it or, even if suspecting it, had had no intention of falling to it. My seniors said that now I would be even more useful to them and that I was to continue seeing the Indian doctor and letting him train me to male sex.
It was then that they explained to me that the oldest techniques of spying were based on sex, on fulfilling someone’s sexual desires to the point that they belonged to you, whether willingly or not. My tradecraft training hadn’t been accelerated, the station chief told me, because of my great intellect and natural abilities, but because I was blond, cute, cut, and fit the profile of a man who could be fucked by another man—and still fuck women, as needed.
They left little doubt that after I was fully trained for it, I would be using it to further my government’s interests, whether the target was male or female.
I have thought on more than one occasion since then that the Indian doctor was actually in the employ of my seniors in the Agency, and that the most important part of my Agency training occurred here, in Bangkok.
Having been assured by both the Indian doctor and me that I would take his cock along with the Indian’s, the tall stranger hadn’t waited for a second invitation. He was crouched between my raised and spread thighs and, with grunts and groans, was allowing me to guide his cock to my entrance and force it inside me, above that of the Indians. I let loose of the cock when the bulb cleared my sphincter muscle, not being sure I could take him further and grabbed his ribs as if to push him away. But he was forcing his way deeper into me and I just gripped his sides hard and began to pant.
He faltered, but I whimpered, “Yes, yes,” to egg him on, wanting this fuck, wanting to please my Indian teacher. Being willing to endure how it started for where I knew it would lead. I moaned and whimpered as I always do at the first entrance of even one cock, until my opening and channel had got the measure of what I had to take. But the Indian doctor was whispering encouragement in my ear between moments of sucking on the lobe and even biting it to move the pain I was enduring while the tall stranger was saddling his outsized cock.
I realized that the Indian and this man had done this before, though, because, once saddled, the Indian’s cock remained dormant, although still hard, inside me as the stranger bottomed and began to stroke. The stranger wrapped one fist around my cock and stroked me and grabbed my waist with the other, while the Indian continued to hold my thighs raised and spread.
Harder, deeper, faster, the stranger fucked, his balls making a slapping sound on my butt cheeks that reverberated around the Kolej Escort wooden walls of the sauna, while I writhed around between them, giving little cries—almost ashamedly cries of pleasure and wantonness—while the stranger pulled hard on my cock and fucked me hard like he was the only one inside me. Slap, slap, slap, the sound of his balls thumping against my butt cheeks, was synchronized with the thrusting of his cock. I moaned and arched my shoulders back deeper into the Indian’s chest, rolling my pelvis up to the stranger, wanting him deeper inside me.
“Harder, deeper,” I cried out in a moan-tormented voice, wantonly wanting there to be no question what I wanted from the man. My reaction inflamed him to renewed vigor.
But he wasn’t the only one inside me. The Indian’s cock came to life too, and he was counterstroking me and sucking and biting me on the ear and singsonging to me how good I was doing and how sweet my ass was.
I came first and then the stranger and only later, as the stranger pulled out of me and wiped himself with the towel while standing there and watching the Indian lapping me again, did the Indian doctor come. Then he just gently moved me aside, off his cock, with me exhausted and filled with the cream of two men, turning over on my side on the sauna bench. The two of them left the sauna arm and arm then, speaking in low tones. I wanted them to be remarking what a good double lay I was, but I had no inkling what they were discussing.
I hadn’t seen the tall stranger in the men’s gym since that evening, although it wasn’t the last time the Indian used me to double or turned me over to one or a group of men, as he fancied.
That night, the evening of the meeting on Chopin societies in the ambassador’s residence, I was approached by a young Thai man dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, after the meeting dispersed, and while I was walking across the compound to the gate, where I’d parked my car out on the street.
Whereas many Thai men were small and thin, although being well muscled, this man was tall and bulky and heavily muscled. “Compliments of the ambassador,” he said to me in a low voice, as he drew near to me and other people who had been in the meeting drifted by toward the compound gate. “If you have a moment, he would like to have a word with you in the garden.”
It was more than a word Ambassador Bacher had. He—and the chauffeur—fucked me, together, in a garden pavilion beyond a swimming pool in a back corner of the compound.
Both were thick, and I gasped and huffed at taking them both, with the ambassador lying on his back on a lounge bed, his thick, long cock pointing straight up at the ceiling of the pavilion, while the hulking chauffeur lifted me as if I weighed nothing and settled me down on the cock. Immediately afterward, he was straddling the ambassador’s thighs, grabbing and spreading my butt cheeks, and rolling my buttocks up to his own thick, deep thrust inside me.
They pumped me hard and deep—both pistoning me—there in the dark, the ambassador worrying my nipples and cock, while the chauffeur held my waist with one hand and pulled my head back to his shoulder with the other, his hand covering my mouth and nose to muffle the cries I was making at the much rougher and more brutal double fucking I was getting than I had received from the ambassador and the Indian doctor in the men’s gym sauna.
I would complain about the brutality of it, except that I thoroughly enjoyed it. Yes, there was more pain—at least until the emotional pleasure swept over me that there were two men working me, wanting me, enjoying me together. I couldn’t get past the thrill of this sensation of desirability. I’d always want more of it; it would block out any pain involved. And I had been trained well to take it. The only thrill that approached it was being on a chain—we called in being on a string in Bangkok in those days—with men standing in line to fuck me, all of them watching me being fucked, all of them wanting to be inside me too, all of them getting their turn. But in those circumstances, the men weren’t having intimate sex with each other at the same time. Nothing served this fetish as doubling did. My only guilty thought was what my employers would think about it. I would have to tell them. They couldn’t learn that I was keeping anything back from them.
I protested that my car was there outside the compound when the chauffeur was pulling me toward the embassy limousine, saying he would drive me home. But he paid no attention to me and could—and did—manhandle me at will.
The ambassador was sitting, naked, in the center of the backseat when I entered the limousine, and I sat in his lap, facing him, and fucked myself on his tool during the ride back to my own compound. The chauffeur stopped short of my compound, on a dark cul-de-sac where the buildings were still under construction, and joined us in the backseat, crouching over my buttocks and thrusting up inside me for Yenimahalle Escort a second double fuck.
In the morning my car was parked in my spot in the embassy apartment compound parking garage. I remarked on this mystery to the chief of station when I got into the embassy and had told him about my nocturnal encounter with the ambassador—and his Thai chauffeur.
“We drove your car back for you,” was all he said.
“What now?” I asked, trying not to think of just how much my own people knew about the encounter and, perhaps, how much of it they were responsible for. “How do I get out of this Chopin Society business and avoid this situation?”
“You don’t,” was the reply. “We want you to cultivate the ambassador. We think he’s ready to defect, and we want him to defect to us. You just have to fuck him. We will pitch him. You are the candy for the deal. Blackmail, if necessary.”
Oh. That was my first operation for the station to this effect. I was to become less naïve about these matters later—much less naïve.
* * * *
My “affair” with Ambassador Jacek Bacher, if it could be called an affair, went on for two more months before he disappeared from my life altogether. I attended two more meetings, hosted by his wife, Lidka, during this time, but the ambassador didn’t appear to me there again. Instead, I would periodically receive notes in my mailbox at my apartment compound from the chauffeur that just listed an event happening somewhere in the city. He would say no more in the notes or sign them, but if he thought he was fooling anyone, he was the fool. I certainly wasn’t fooled. I knew that someone from the station was reading them before I received them—and I turned every one that I received over to the station chief, as well. I was holding no secrets while still being amazed that the Agency could have a stringent policy on sexual activity and still use me in this way.
Without exception, the station chief directed me to make ever assignation.
Most of the notes were about sporting venues. I played tennis on the embassy circuit. So did Ambassador Bacher. And I went to the horse races at the Bangkok Sports Club near the corner of Wireless and Ploenchit roads as did many of the rest of the diplomatic community. So did Ambassador Bacher. The ambassador’s car would pick me up at a bar near my apartment compound on Soi 51 an hour before the event. Sometimes the ambassador and the chauffeur would fuck me somewhere private at the event. More often than not, though, it would be the ambassador lapping me himself on the way to the event and the limousine being parked somewhere hidden on the way back and rocking on its springs as both Bacher and the chauffeur took me together in the backseat. At the actual event, my seat wasn’t anywhere close to the ambassador’s. Apparently he thought we were being discreet. It didn’t take me long to notice that we were being watched by agents from the station.
Bacher said he couldn’t get enough of me, and he started to talk of me coming back to Warsaw with him. And I believe he had become that infatuated with me; it came across in his lovemaking, which was becoming less frenetically rough and more attentive and sensual. When I told the station chief this, his eyebrows raised, and, with that simple gesture, I “got” that we would move on to a new phase.
Less than a week later, the Indian doctor summoned me to his apartment. Ambassador Bacher was there. But so was another man, a man I knew in passing but who I had no idea was interested in other men. He was of German ancestry but was an expatriate American, Gerhard Kemp by name. And he owned and operated a well-regarded architectural firm in Bangkok. He was on Lidka Bacher’s Chopin Society committee as well as I was and was a big financial backer of the expatriate arts community in the city. He was married to a Thai princess and moved in circles of Bangkok society even above that of the diplomatic community.
He also had a thick, if not long cock. He was on the beefy side, but not quite what I’d call fat yet. And he was quite athletic and vigorous. It wasn’t until he was plowing me from between my thighs, as Bacher leaned back on the edge of the Indian doctor’s examining table and held me in front him with his cock deep inside me and his hands on my waist, that I realized that I had seen him around the men’s gym I went to. He had always been absorbed in a vigorous workout so I hadn’t connected him to the underbelly side of the gym.
Until now. He was stubby enough that it was Bacher who had to hold deep inside me and let the architect, buried only shallowly in my channel, make hard jabs into me and, periodically, revolve his thick cock near my entrance to make the most of his size. The cock could reach my prostate, though, so I could pant and moan—and spout—for him as well as the next man.
The Indian doctor brought the three of us together a few times after that. After the sex, I’d be sent on my way. The doctor would see me to the door, sometimes even coming out of the apartment with me and only separating when we were down on the street, leaving the other two men in his examination room. I could see, in passing, that two glasses and a vodka bottle had been set out on the dining room table each time. I didn’t know at the time who they were for—and only later did the significance of them hit me.
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