Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"The Sanasuma Ashram is one of providing a men only tantric journey toward enlightenment and fulfillment," Acharya Ahitharan said to me on the morning of the third day as we sat across from each other, each in the cross-legged lotus position on a platform in a small room with light coming into it from high windows on the courtyard side of the wall.

"Tantric?" I asked. "Isn't that—?"

"Tantric relates to sexual techniques that will channel your erotic energy, unlock your creativity, transform your sexual experiences, and significantly alter all other aspects of your actively homosexual life."

"My homosexual life?"

"Yes, this is a men-only ashram. Homosexual men only. And there are certain, ah, attractiveness requirements. We received instructions about you and your needs before we accepted you as an initiate into the ashram."

"Instructions about me?"

"Yes, we were assured that you needed constant sex. We are in the need of young men who will fulfill the needs of those adherents who retreat with us on a temporary bases. We also received photographs and a record of your statistics, and I must say—"

"I don't understand."

"It's really quite simple. You will be trained in the positions of the Kamasutra through the practice of tantra. Tantra alone is a very energizing experience, but blending the benefits and principles of yoga with tantra sexual practices will transform all aspects of the years you will spend with us?"

"Years?" A chill raced up my spine. What have you done, Teddy? I silently cried out.

"Young men coming to us as you have are initiated into the Tantra and service to our adherents in stages. You have started into the stage of self-denial, which will develop into uncontrollable need, upon which you will be initiated into the training stage by Siddha—the enlightened—Satyanarida himself. 'Siddha' means just that—the enlightened one. And only Satyanarida has reached the level of total tantric sexual enlightenment in this ashram. After the Siddha has marked and accepted you, you will be trained in the Kamasutra by our sub Acharyas, such as the two young men you have already met. Then you will become a sub Acharya yourself and will instruct men who come to us on retreat. Upon reaching the age thirty, if you are still deemed desirable and among us, you will move to the Acharya level until the age forty and—"

"Excuse me. I'm only here for a two-week retreat. I'm only twenty-three. Age thirty? That's—"

"Seven years from now, yes."

I stood, trembling, almost unable to control myself in my anger and confusion. "I . . . will be going . . . now . . . I cannot stay."

"I think not," Acharya Ahitharan said in a calm voice. He clapped his hands, and Ravith and Benito immediate appeared in the doorway. "I have been told of you and I observe it is true. You cannot exist without the sex. Your need and your lack of self-denial have already been in evidence here. But we will train you. You will embrace the journey to tantric sexual satisfaction. That is what we provide here. That is what Sanasuma promises—satisfaction, tantric sexual satisfaction."

He waved to the two men standing on either side of me and holding me tight, and they muscled me, screaming and cursing, back to my cell. They dropped me on the cot, left through the door, and locked it.

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.