Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

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.

But that was only for one more month, until the evening of the Chopin piano concert I went to at the Bangkok Opera hall. As president of the local society, I had been invited to sit in Ambassador Bacher's box. His wife, Lidka, was the honorary sponsor of the concert, so we were in the king's box. Kemp and his wife were there too. And, to my consternation, a political officer from the American embassy was in the box as well.

Nothing untoward happened until the interval, although I could feel the heat coming off the ambassador as he took occasional glances in my direction. There was no pretense, I knew, in how much he wanted me, how hooked he was on me. The Indian doctor was still lending me out to his friends during this period, and I was finding that I melted more to a rough thug than to someone as elegant and refined as the ambassador. So, although I liked him well enough and enjoyed being doubled by him, in particular, he did not hold me in thrall. Certainly not as much as the Indian doctor did with his variety and his mesmerizing voice—and with perhaps the longest cock I'd had in Bangkok, a cock that was like a snake and could kiss my channel walls from any direction with its rubbing bulb and almost seemed to be able to suck on my prostrate until I came in prodigious flow.

At the interval, the men in the box were separated from the women. The women were sent down to the lobby to mingle with the other high rollers in the audience. The men withdrew to a nearby parlor for, the ambassador said, a smoke. As we were ushered toward that room, I realized that the ushers were all station assets from the embassy. I knew then that something was coming down, something important.

We had all been wearing tuxedos, and all, I knew, looked very good in them—as good, I had to say, as we looked out of them. The ambassador and Kemp started taking theirs off as soon as we entered the small parlor. The political officer from the American embassy stood at the closed door to the corridor and motioned for me to disrobe too. I knew then that he was from the station as well.

Bacher and Kemp fucked me, standing, with me suspended between them, my knees hooked on Bacher's hips and Kemp's dick pressed shallowly inside me from the rear. This time, Bacher was urged to take the lead in the fucking, and he did so, with gusto, coming first and then withdrawing as Kemp bent me over the arm of an upholstered chair and finished with his ejaculation. Bacher was invited to take me again, and did so in the same position.

Only afterward, while we were toweling off with wet cloths and dry towels provided, did Bacher begin to "get" what had transpired and why. He'd never asked about the political officer at the door, watching the double fuck intensely. But when he was putting his tux back on and murmuring that it probably was well past the time we returned to the opera hall, Kemp gently placed a hand on his chest and said that Bacher's evening at the concert was over, that they had something to discuss.

Kemp motioned me to dress and leave, saying I would be driven home from there. He was taking charge, and now the assignations at the Indian doctor's apartment and the two glasses and bottle of vodka on the doctor's dining room table each time, and my leaving and the two men staying all came together. Kemp wasn't just a highly placed German-origin American businessman in Bangkok. He was one of us—and probably the senior agent here. This was his defection operation.

As I headed for the door, I looked back at Bacher, who looked sheepish and somewhat confused and lost even as Kemp was pointing out the cameras attached high on the walls of the room, their lenses pointed down to where the two men had stood and shared me.

I was surprised—but in later years wouldn't have been—to find that the chauffeur who drove me home from the opera hall was Bacher's own chauffeur, who obviously had been embedded on Bacher's staff and was part of the operation. He stopped in the familiar quiet cul-de-sac short of my apartment compound and pounded my ass hard in the backseat. He was thug and rough enough for me, and I continued to see him and writhe under him for the rest of my tour in Bangkok.

Weeks later, I read in the newspaper that Ambassador Bacher had defected to the British in Singapore—everything well away from Bangkok. His family had been sent to London ahead of him. All neat and tidy.

"Regardless," the station chief said to me, looking down at me over the rim of his glasses, as we "discussed"—with him not sharing all that much—this matter in his office later that morning, "I don't think it would be wise now for you to accept that invitation to the Chopin competitions in Warsaw this year. You should arrange for your vice president to go. She's a classical pianist and you play show tunes, so I think you should manage to rationalize the switch."

"Oh, also," he said, as I was leaving his office. "There's a Russian freighter captain in town whose ship, we think, is carrying Russian arms to Vietnam. He's a rough thug, but we know that he likes your type. Rodney will brief you and arrange the encounter."

"Yes, sir, I understand," I said, as I turned and left the office. Not a preferred double, but the "rough thug" aspect was intriguing.

"And he has a first mate he likes to include in the play," the station chief called after me. "We have an officer in place on board who might be included too."

Even better, I thought, as my smile broadened. I was beginning to get a handle on my job here.