Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

Four days of agony of not being able to resist watching the twice daily tantric ceremony in the hall below but not being able to get any relief from it. A whole week without sex would have had me climbing the walls anyway, but what the demonstrations of the gay Kamasutra were doing to me without me being able even to masturbate were driving me to distraction. On the morning of the fifth day I woke to Acharya Ahitharan standing in the open door to the corridor with Ravith and Benito standing behind him.

"It's time for your interview with the master, Siddha Satyanarida," he said and motioned the two others into the room.

I moaned and protested in a desultory fashion, being totally worn out by the deprivation, while Ravith and Benito unlocked the cock chastity belt and ascertained for themselves by checking the spent douche bottles that I had purified myself.

They stripped me of my white cotton trousers and tunic and buttoned a pair of the briefs with the buttons on the hips on me and then wrapped me in the saffron robe that I had found in the dresser a week previously but not worn, and tied a sash around my waist.

The Siddha was sitting, in a cross-legged yoga position, on silk pillows on a dais in a room richly slathered in gauzy drapes cascading from the center of the ceiling and tied at the corners of the room and oriental carpets under foot. A low teak table was positioned in front of him, supporting a flask and two crystal tumblers.

His chest was bare and he was wearing a saffron dhoti that flared out around his small waist, covering his legs. He was barrel chested, with massive, hard-muscled pecs, shoulders, and biceps. I estimated that he must be well over six feet tall, and perfectly proportioned. There was no beard on his androgynous-featured, beautifully calm face, and long, silky, straight hair hung down his back to his waist. There was an emerald in his navel and a ruby affixed in the center of his forehead.

I would have thought he was sleeping or in deep meditation if he hadn't obviously been aware of my presence. As we entered the room, he lifted one palms-up hand from a knee and gestured to the loose pile of silk pillows beside him. "Please, join me here, David Kane." His voice was rich in tone, smooth, and calming—if I could have been calmed under the circumstances.

As Ravith and Benito guided me to the pillows and made me sit down right next to the Siddha, the yoga master gestured to Acharya Ahitharan. "Drink for our guest, please, Acharya."

Ahitharan poured liquid from the flask into one of the crystal tumblers, and Ravith took it and raised it to my lips. The Acharya leaned down and murmured in my ear, "You best drink this for your own well-being. And position yourself in the lotus position."

Trembling, I drank from the glass and assumed the lotus position. The Siddha waved the other men away. As they left, the Acharya taking the flask and glasses with him, I saw that we were sitting directly across from a full-wall mirror. I could see the serenity that the Siddha was exhibiting contrasted by my own nervousness.

I began to feel a little woozy. But just a little. I had no idea how I was going to prevent what was going to happen, but I certainly wasn't going to let this man know how badly I needed to be fucked. A chill ran up my spine at the memory of how long I had seen his cock was from watching him fuck the young men in the ceremony hall—always smaller men. Never the same one twice, leading me to wonder how well his Kamasutra partners endured the experience.

"I believe Acharya Ahitharan has given you a time line on your initiation period here, David Kane. The time has come for me to formally commence that initiation. What you will receive here, now, is the highest-level tantric experience, elite Kamasutra, so that through all of the coming stages of initiation, you will know what goal you are moving toward, a perpetual tantric sexual high. We will proceed through several positions of the Kamasutra and you will spill your seed copiously. Before we are done, you will become aware of the highest levels of tantric sexual satisfaction."

A moan escaped my lips.

"Do not fear it," he said. "This is the experience you are here for."

"Not really," I murmured, wondering why my voice sounded so distant and quiet. "This is not what I thought I was getting into. I . . . Oh, oh."

He had wrapped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me to him. The other hand had moved into the folds of the saffron robe I was wearing. I felt his long, sensuous fingers deftly unbuttoning the cotton briefs at each hip, and the briefs falling away from my body. I now knew why they were constructed the way they were. He had some sort of rings just below the tip of his thumb and forefinger, with metal balls on the insides of them. His hand slowly glided up my belly and sternum and then he was moving the balls on the flesh of my chest and torso.

I moaned deeply, and he turned my face to his for a possessing kiss—the only time he kissed me.

I . . . must . . . resist, I thought, but it had been too long. I shuddered and groaned as he took a nipple between the balls and rubbed them back and forth. He brushed the robe open, but just slightly, so that, in the mirror opposite us, I could see the metal balls moving on my nipple, puffing it up, making me tremble.

"Please, no, I cannot," I whispered. Too low for him to hear, I feared—not that it mattered, I was sure.

He pulled me half onto his lap, one bare butt cheek on his thigh, and his hand came out of the fold at my chest and moved to below the sash tied around my waist. Without dislodging the sash, he pushed the robe off the thigh I had straddling his lap. He ran the two balls around on the thigh, causing me, involuntarily, to watch the circles—both by looking down and by looking into the mirror—move higher on the thigh, knowing full well where they were going. I trembled and buried the back of my head in the hollow of his shoulder as he moved to the inside of the thigh. And slowly moved up, higher and higher. They were rubbing under my balls and I was hyperventilating and struggling against him—without effect, as he held me tightly in strong arms. But I was moving slowly in my totally inadequate defense, as if I was trying to walk underwater. Something in the drink, obviously, but not something that deadened my senses. Something that dulled my reactions but heightened my senses.

I groaned and begged him for mercy as he moved the balls up and down my already-hardened shaft.

His cock was monstrously hard now too—and in evidence. I could see in the mirror where the cock had erupted out from the seam in his dhoti and was standing up in a long, foot-long curve. I gasped at the size of it—not overly thick, but monstrously long.

"Please, please," I whimpered. "It's too big. It's . . . oh, fuck. Oh shit!" One of the balls on his finger had found my piss slit and he was fucking the opening with it. With a jerk, I came, exploding with cum that had built up inside me with no chance of release over the past four days. Slathered with my cum, the balls moved lower, to the rim of my entrance, where they rubbed as I moaned, and then the index finger penetrated me as the ball on the thumb continued to play the rim. Deeper inside me, searching for, finding my prostate with the metal ball. I writhed inside his strong embrace, panting hard, murmuring the mantra, "Oh god, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," my resolve evaporating before the days of forced abstinence and exposure to the visions of mass sex and his magic touch.

"Fuck me!" I cried out, came again, and collapsed against him, the surrender complete.

"The elite Kamasutra position of the Reverse Bonobo," I heard him murmur. And then I felt him pulling me fully onto his lap, facing away from him. He grasped me under both of my thighs and lifted and spread my legs. He rolled my hips up, and, although still robed, my thighs and cock and balls were revealed to the mirror opposite me and I couldn't have been more naked, and vulnerable, even though I still was fully clothed in the sashed robe. His cock was between my thighs and curved up toward my belly. He raised my hips enough for his bulb to be placed at my ass opening, and he fed the bulb and another inch or two of the cock inside me.

I gasped and cried out and another two inches pressed in, opening the channel as he moved.

He made sure I could see the whole progress of the cock. At eight inches in, leaving a good four inches of the root outside, he started to slowly pump me. I panted and groaned at the deep invasion. But I couldn't help it; I gloried in the fuck. I needed the fuck.

I ejaculated again, fully satisfied, evacuating another white-foamy spurt of the pent-up load from days of abstinence.

But, oh no, the Siddha hadn't come, and he was pushing me over onto my belly on the tea table. I raised my head and stared into the mirror, seeing his chest and head over my back as he raised up over me and, oh, shit, oh, fuck, fed me those last four inches of the foot long pole and began to stroke me in long, long, deep strokes.

"The simple position of the Greyhound," he said in his soft, yet strong, melodic voice. "But I find it quite effective in the full tantric experience. It is one where I can give it all to you."

It might have been the drugs, but I felt like I had a snake, not just a hard shaft, inside me. It rotated and swiveled and screwed and whipped around and bent to where its bulb kissed and sucked and rubbed on my walls—every square inch of my walls. I came for the fourth time, and he, finally, released his cum in a flood deep inside me.

He lowered his chest on my back and hooked his chin on my shoulder. We both were looking in the mirror, cheek to cheek.

"The height of tantric sexual experience," he whispered in my ear. "The perfection of Kamasutra. The position of the Plow." He reached down on either side of me and raised my legs off the floor, resting my weight on my chest on the surface of the tea table. My calves were coaxed to fold on the small of his back, with my ankles crossed. Then his hands moved down my arms and grasped my wrists and I cried out and groaned as I felt him, still hard, a foot inside me, start once more to plow me deep. Moments later, he rose off me, his magnificent chest looming over me in the reflection in the mirror. Grabbing my legs again, he turned me on the cock onto my back and raised my legs to where they stretched up his torso. He grasped my waist in his hands, raising my pelvis with his, and began to pull my channel on his cock in long slides.

"The position of the Stem." I could barely hear him. "Good for the long journey down from the heights of tantric satisfaction."

My ears were ringing with the sound of the ocean. I was completely relaxed, spent. I had lost count of the positions or the care of how many more were to come. Exhausted, I let my arms dangle to the floor beside me and my head arch back over the end of the tea table and watched the tightening and releasing of his massive chest muscles as reflected in the mirror. The tightening came at the end of the foot-long slide into me, the release as he slid back out. This time his ejaculation came in one long, peaceful flow that burbled up the sides of his staff and dripped out of my stretched and throbbing hole.

Beyond Sanasuma now—beyond satisfaction.

I was his featured partner at the ceremony in the hall that evening.

Docile, no longer drugged in any way, but now his complete slave, I was worked through elite Kamasutra positions, with me moving to any position he guided me into, only crying out and gasping when he penetrated deep inside me: the Bamboo, with me lying on my back and spreading my legs, the Siddha bending over me from on top, me lifting one leg and resting it on the Siddha's shoulder while the Siddha moved his own knee forward, penetrating me deep; the Yin and Yang again, in a close lotus embrace with me in his lap facing him, close, our nipples rubbing, until he pushed on my chest and I arched back and he started to stroke inside me, once again, even when I wasn't drugged in any way, making me feel like there was a snake slithering around inside me; and then, to conclude, the Bonobo, me on my shoulder blades, my thighs bent back onto my chest and the Siddha bending over me, his fists buried in the mat on either side of my head, rocking my pelvis with his, kissing every surface inside me with the bulb of his cock, encouraging me to bend enough to take the bulb of my own cock inside my mouth and sucking it—amazing me when I could. I had known I was flexible, but . . .

And pumping and pumping his cum inside me. He had held each position until I had come, but he had the control to hold himself until the end.

On the way back to my room, Ahitharan assured me that I was greatly favored by the Siddha—that he rarely took an initiate to the ceremony as he had taken me. He did not enjoy me enough that he called for me again in the following days of the next stage of my initiation, however. Although I had been thoroughly fucked—and had needed it—I couldn't say I regretted not having a foot of snake working inside me constantly.

Over the next two weeks I was in Kamasutra training with Ravith and Benito. The two of them together took care of my sexual needs much better than Teddy ever had done, even at his most virile. But that wasn't quite enough. I increasingly realized that I loved Teddy himself. I might love the cocking I got from Ravith and Benito—more from the forceful, rougher, less refined in the ways of Kamasutra Benito than from the highly delicate and refined technique of Ravith—but I loved Teddy as a person and a partner. It was during this period that I came to realize that there was so much more involved in a loving relationship than sex.

This didn't make the knowledge that he had delivered me into sexual bondage any more easy to accept, though.

Progressively, I moved out on the ceremony floor with Ravith and Benito and came within a week of moving to the next stage—more advanced Kamasutra with the older, more experienced Acharyas. Acharya Ahitharan was already eyeing me and letting me know by his touches on my body as he guided me to the cavern ceremony room, that the time that he would "know" me too was near. As my training progressed, so did the trust I was given.

On the first morning I found that my cell door hadn't been locked, I quickly changed into my Western clothes, grabbed my suitcase, quietly stole out of the ashram, and nearly rolled down the mountain and into Nuwara Eliya. I knew I couldn't stay at the Windsor Hotel, but I went there first to get my bearings and to decide how best to escape from Sri Lanka and to make my way back to, first, level Teddy for what he had done to me and then to beg for his forgiveness and hold him in my arms until I could get his cock inside me. I knew then that we'd be fine.

I was starving. Of all the indignities I had suffered in the ashram, nothing topped the diet of vegetables, fruit, and nuts. I went into the hotel café and ordered fried eggs and bacon. While I was waiting for it to be served, I opened an English-language paper. My attention was arrested by an article on page 3.

. . . . Wanted in the murder of New York manufacturer Theodore Drisal, his associate, David Kane, is being sought by New York police. He is thought to have fled the country, and may be in India. He is suspected of having commandeered the company's jet and flown to Mumbai, India. Drisal's business partner, Morten Whitley, who found Drisal's body on April 21st in his apartment, which had been ransacked, reported that Drisal and Kane, who lived in Drisal's apartment, had been fighting of late over Drisal's intention to retire and to turn the company over to Whitley. Drisal is thought to have been diagnosed with . . .

Tears came to my eyes. My first thought was to the death of Teddy. Only after that did I fully absorb that I was being sought Teddy's his murder. For his murder. Teddy had been murdered. Mort. That was why . . . that was the reason for all of this . . . it wasn't Teddy.

I knew I must—should—go back. But all of the evidence . . . just too much evidence now built against me. I had fled . . . or so everyone thought. Mort would have had plenty of time to solidify the case against me. To cover his own tracks.

I looked up and, through tear-clouded eyes, saw Ravith and Benito standing in the doorway. David looked wildly around the room. There was a door into the kitchen. Maybe I could make it through there and escape them. But did I want to?

Decision time.