Bango Summer Seduction

Chapter One: Mile-High Club

I had thought that no one could see us when Kwame pulled me into his body and kissed me behind a column at the San Francisco airport departure lounge, but then I saw the built black dude sitting almost alone in a bank of chairs in the adjacent departure lounge. He was staring directly at us. Coming out of the kiss, I buried my face in the hollow of Kwame's shoulder, as the Nigerian giant ran a hand down my chest and belly to cup my package and squeeze. I don't know, maybe I buried my face in his chest with the thought that, if I couldn't see anyone, they couldn't see me either.

I didn't stop him, though. I was so aroused I wanted to climb his hips right there in the crowded airport departure area. Kwame had opened a whole new world of pleasure for me. And now I was leaving him.

"You know what I'd like to do to you right here," Kwame murmured in my ear.

I did, in fact; our farewell—at least for the summer—last night had been quite athletic and filling. I felt like I wasn't walking straight today. Kwame squeezed my package again. I supposed the black hunk got a load of that too.

At that moment I didn't care. Kwame and I had only recently gotten into it heavy, and here I was, leaving for Bangkok for the summer. My dad had said it would be good for me to see some more of the world and that I hadn't seen my mother for some time and should visit her. He also said it would be good for me to earn some more of my freight between my freshman and sophomore years at Stanford by working in my mother's Bangkok bookstore for a couple of months.

Dad didn't know about Kwame. He knew how I swung—just as I knew how he swung—but he didn't know that I was letting a Stanford graduate student from Nigeria live for free in my apartment and eat out of my refrigerator for only the cost of covering me—frequently and totally—on the bed. I almost told him the last time we met, Dad having flown over from Honolulu to L.A. for a business meeting. I think I neglected to do so so as not to give him an "I told you so" moment. After years of suppressed feelings, my dad had, in the last year, taken on a man nearly as young as I was as a lover. Now he was urging me not to hold off on, as he said, "going for the gold," for as long as he did.

"Get out there and experience it all; find your level of satisfaction; enjoy life to the hilt," he'd said. I wanted Kwame, who was quite a step beyond for me, not only in his exotic race, but also in what I would do with him in bed, what I had risked in the size of his equipment, to be a step I took on my own, not one I was goaded into by my father. Maybe it

had

been my dad's challenging, but I'd let Kwame pick me up at a Stanford gay student union mixer and fuck me that first evening we'd met. I hadn't been that immediately open to any guy before that. Indeed, there had been few guys before that at all—certainly not guys that challenged me being open enough to accommodate them.

I'd never met anyone as tall as Kwame before—or anyone before who had nearly a foot-long cock. Life with Kwame, which had just begun, was a real education, and now I was already leaving for three months. He also was my first black man. I was sometimes taken for black myself, but I wasn't. My mother was French-Vietnamese and my father Hawaiian. That gave me a dusky tint, but refined features, thanks to the French and Vietnamese mix.

Kwame gone, I don't know what made me sit in the almost-deserted departure lounge next to the one I was leaving from, which was teaming with people because the gates were about to be opened. Maybe it was my sudden fascination with black men.

I sat down across from the black dude who had observed me with Kwame. He still was staring at me, with a slight smile on his face. He was one well-cut dude—more than well cut—bodybuilder muscular and good-looking, all shipshape, with a short crew cut. He looked military—in his mid-twenties, probably about five years older than I was. He certainly seemed self-assured. I wanted to talk to him, get him to stop looking so knowingly at me, but I couldn't think of anything to say—and I couldn't argue with him thinking he knew something about me. He'd seen me virtually making out with another black man, and I'd come in this almost-deserted seating section to sit across from him. I didn't consciously want him to think I was flirting—but unconsciously . . .

Truth time: Just coming over here and sitting near him in an otherwise deserted section told him he could have me if he wanted me.

I wanted him to say something, if only something as blatant as, "So, do you take black cock?" But he didn't. He undoubtedly already knew I took black cock.

He was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, with sockless sandals, just as I was, wanting to be comfortable for the near-full day of flights facing me, and it was the emblem on his T-shirt that was catching my attention. It was the emblem of the American Embassy in Bangkok.

This flight was just going to Tokyo, where I was going to spend a few days before going on to Bangkok. I was studying landscape design, so taking photos and drawings of some of the public gardens in Tokyo would put me ahead on a study project next semester. But it looked like maybe he was going to Bangkok, just as I ultimately was.

"So, are you going on to Bangkok?" I asked, using his shirt as a prompt. "The emblem on your shirt. The American Embassy there."

"Yes," he answered. A man of few words apparently. I expected him to ask me where I was headed, but he didn't. He didn't stop looking at me, though. And he flexed his chest and bicep muscles, as if I couldn't readily see that he was built, opened the stance of his thighs, and let a beefy hand drop to his basket. His quizzical look to me was as good as having asked, "So, will you take this black cock?"

I gave him a small smile and an incline of my head—and opened my own leg stance. I didn't really expect anything to come of this, but I'd just been lifted in arousal by one black man, Kwame, with no chance of immediate satisfaction. I guess flirting with another black hunk helped me come down easy from being with Kwame rather than drop precipitously into the reality of a long series of airplane flights into the arms of my flighty mother, who I'd managed to mostly avoid since she failed to move back to the States with my father and me nearly fifteen years earlier.

The dalliance went no further there, because they were announcing the flight and opening it to business class. I stood, gave the black hunk a little shrug, and went off to claim my seat.

Once on the airplane, I was seated in business class, next to an aging hippy who seemed to be some sort of rock star from yesteryear. As the economy class people came streaming down the aisle, I watched for the black hunk from the departure lounge. He seemed to have been looking for me too when he entered the cabin. He gave me a leery sort of smile and turned his pelvis toward me as he passed. He was in enough of an erection that I could follow the line of a thick cock in his shorts.

Too bad there'd be no opportunity, I thought, but it was helping to weather the separation from Kwame to fall immediately into flirting with another black hunk.

The day on the plane moved on into the evening, with drinks and snacks followed by dinner, the dimming of the lights, and the start of the movies. The old hippy sitting next to me had drunk himself into a stupor and was leaning against the window wall, his mouth wide open, and snoring.

A passing stewardess who was passing saw that he was asleep and bent down and asked me, in an excited whisper, if I knew who he was. I didn't. She told me—a member of some rock band from before I was born. I wasn't any more impressed with him after she told me that, but I tried to act sufficiently gratified. After she passed on, I got up in the darkness and went to the head. No one around me even looked up; they were all busy reading or were glued to their TV consoles. As I was coming back to my seat, there he was—the black hunk—leaning up against the pillar between economy and business class sections, beefy arms folded over his torso, and giving me the eye. He nodded his head back toward economy class and then unfolded himself, turned, and walked away.

Sometime during dinner, I must admit, I'd forgotten about him. I told myself that it had just been a flirtation as I was coming down from having to say good-bye to Kwame. But now he suddenly was front and center in my attention again as I watched his bulbous buttocks roll in the dancer's steps he was taking in retreating from me down the aisle into the depths of the darkened economy section. My cock was stirring.

Thoughts entered my mind of my father goading me not to pass up the opportunities presented when another man stirred my cock.

I looked down at the snoring and aging-by-the-minute rock musician and then around for what the stewardesses were doing. They weren't in evidence—taking a break, no doubt, with all of the well-fed passengers supposedly absorbed in their choice of movies. I turned and walked into the economy section. The black hunk was already all the way in the back of the plane, where seat occupancy was sparse. This, gloriously, wasn't a packed flight.

The black guy was looking around at the banks of seating in the rear as I approached. Everyone back here who I passed had their faces buried in their TV consoles. The rows before the one he stood by and across the aisle from it were deserted. No stewardesses were on the move.

"In here," he growled, pointing toward an empty row of three seats. He had a hand in the bin overhead, pulling out a blanket. He gave me a little shove as I moved past him into the bank of seats and landed on the middle seat on my hip and nearly hit my head on the window wall.

He remained a man of few words. "Yes?" he asked in a low, hoarse whisper as he looked down at me. I took that as shorthand for "Do you take black cock?"

"Yes," I squeaked.

He sat in the aisle seat, his legs turned to me, and covered our laps and legs with the blanket. Going right to town, he unbuckled and unzipped my shorts with one hand under the blanket while cupping the back of my neck with the other and bringing my face up to his for a deep kiss. The kiss, conducted below the top level of the seat bank in front of us, lasted for the full time it took him to strip off my shorts and briefs.

As he let go of my lips, he whispered, "Lay back and enjoy. Dream of what comes later." I leaned over against the window wall as he slowly jerked me off to an ejaculation.

So, there you go, Dad, I thought. Open enough to sexual adventure for you?

What came later came soon enough. I heard the unzipping of his shorts, the snap of a condom. My right thigh was being drawn up to lay across his lap under the blanket. I have no idea where the lubricant had come from, but his fingers were covered with it as he fingered the rim of my entrance. A hand closed over my mouth and nose, as I began to whimper at the invasion of the lubed fingers.

It wasn't a stranger on an airplane, I kept telling myself, my eyes tightly shut to imagine that I was in the privacy of my own bed with Kwame. I wasn't letting a perfect stranger fuck me on an airplane a mile high in the sky with other passengers almost within arms' length.

"Open it. Open," he growled in my ear. I worked to open to his probing fingers. I began to pant and groan, his hand hold on my mouth and nose tightening, rhythmically opening and closing my air passages, causing me to concentrate almost as much on continuing to get breaths as I did to the feel of the massive bulb of his cock at my entrance when he pulled my buttocks full up on his lap. Then to jerk and struggle as I could—which wasn't much—as the bulb breached the sphincter. He was impossibly thick. Far thicker than Kwame.

"Steady, steady," he whispered in my ear as, a few inches inside me now, he stopped and waited for me to open more to him. Which I did.

The thick, hard cock was on the move again, up inside me. I whimpered and strained against him.

"Give it to me. Relax and give it to me. You've done this before; you can open for me."

I sure as hell hadn't done it like this before, I wanted to scream. But I gave over to him as he invaded me deep and then began to slow pump me, telling me to fuck myself on the shaft as well. Dutifully, I did so, taking him deeper with each rise and fall of my hips. He took his hand away from my mouth and moved it, with his other hand, under the blanket, using both to grip and separate and squeeze my butt cheeks as he also used the hands to help pull me up and down on the cock and to hold and move me back and forth on the shaft.

I took in great gulps of air and panted hard, every fiber of my body concentrating on the hard, thick shaft inside me. I heard his deep intake of air and the shudder of his body, and he was finished. I'd already come a second time, shooting up into the fuzzy nap of the blanket.

Afterward I collapsed, hunched over against the window wall. I felt his body relax and slump against mine. He pulled my face around for a lingering kiss and the muttered comment, "The was nice; you give good fuck," and straightened up his torso and reclined the aisle seat. He was lightly snoring when I dozed off, his flaccid, but still thick, cock still inside my passage.

When I woke, he was gone. The lights in the cabin were still out. The movies were still running. I knew I'd been fucked. Not as deeply as Kwame could do, but much thicker. And he probably just hadn't had the angle that was ideal for depth.

I looked for him in whatever his real assigned seat was as I hobbled back up the aisle toward business class. I didn't want him to know I was looking for him, though, and I didn't see him anywhere. When I got back to my seat, the old hippy was still leaning against the window wall and snoring up a storm. I hadn't been missed at all, it seemed. I could hear the stewardesses behind the curtain in front of the cabin, preparing steamed towels and another beverage service, it seemed before the plane closed down in full-night mode. I wondered if I could maneuver one of those steamed towels between my legs to alleviate the burning sensation there.

I'd only been gone forty-five minutes. It seemed like I'd taken a journey over the moon. The image of the T-shirt the black hunk had been wearing made me tremble at that thought that we both seemed to be going to Bangkok. Maybe this wouldn't be just a one time of initiation into the mile-high club.

Chapter Two: Mommy Dearest—and Friend

Marie met me at Suvarnabhumi Airport east of Bangkok when I flew in on Thai Air from Tokyo three days later. I'd only seen photos of her for the past three years—an annual photo was her Christmas gift to my father and me—but she stood out in the swirling crowd. That is to say that such was her royal bearing that the crowds left a good six feet of open space all around her whether she stood or moved.

I hadn't called her mother since she'd abandoned us—or, rather, since she'd refused to leave Bangkok when my father was transferred back to Hawaii with Dole Pineapple from being the export manager for that company's pineapple export business in Thailand. Even before that, she tried to train me to call her Marie, and she let maids do most of the mothering.

She was a beautiful woman still. She had married young, a refugee in Thailand from Vietnam, conceived in what was then Saigon, but born in Bangkok shortly after the fall of that city in 1975. Her family had already owned the bookstore when she'd met my father. I knew that being born in 1976 made her almost forty now, but she looked several years younger than that. Her features were exotic—which I mirrored a good bit. Her demeanor was regal and cool despite the sultry heat of Thailand, her figure trim, her persona commanding. She was dressed in a Jim Thompson green-silk shirt dress that fit her like a glove—with impeccably white gloves for her hands—an outfit that was more appropriate for an audience with the Thai crown princess than in meeting a plane at the sixth-busiest international airport in the world.

I can't say that she was looking anxiously for me at the arrivals gate. She was one to assume that everything would fall into place for her, which, of course, it always did—and did in this case. I walked right up to her and she met me coolly—yet marginally affectionately, with a peck on each cheek—as if we had last seen each other just that morning—and we were in Paris at the time.

She said both the inevitable and the expected. "My, you've grown up."

We both, of course, knew that wasn't wholly true. I was almost twenty, but I still was small of stature and of an androgynous and exotic appearance that caused others to note my beauty more than my manly handsomeness. I think she was pleased, though. My father was manly and handsome enough. Marie would mark it as a some victory that I had turned out favoring her more.

"And so handsome too. A real heartthrob," she added. Again, I had the sensation that she was speaking more of how much of her was in me than about me.

With very little else to say to each other, Marie didn't take long to turn to a man I just then noticed was standing behind her, touch his arm, and say, "Let me introduce you to Mom Rajawongse Krit Srihipan. As you know . . ." which I didn't ". . . I have no car of my own and the M.R. was kind enough to volunteer transportation for us."

A distinguished Thai gentleman, probably in his late forties, trim and tall for a Thai, stepped forward. He was dressed as impeccably as my mother was and now that I noticed him, he was being accorded an area of inapproachability by the crowds in the airport terminal that was even greater in respect than my mother's was.

He gave me an open smile, clasped my hand briefly—only brief contact, but leaving the impression that only a few would dare to touch him—none certainly without his permission—and said, "Let's not overwhelm him with a mouth full of title such as that, Marie." He turned to me. "You can just call me Sri. If you'll describe the luggage you have to pick up—I assume it is labeled with your name, we'll send Lek here to fetch it and go directly to the car."

The liveried chauffeur came into the picture for the first time, a young Thai man not much taller than I was—very good looking and all shy smiles. And when we went out to the curb, a late-model Mercedes-Benz S550 sedan was waiting at the door, being watched by a policemen, who, I got the impression, would be ticketing the car instead for a mere mortal rather than a Mom Rajawongse. I knew from my close study of Thailand—because that was where my mother was—that the M.R. was a fringe title for Thai royalty, but close enough to the divine for most of the Thai public to bow and scrape to in a society that revered its royals.

"M.R. is taking us to dinner before dropping us off at the flat," Marie said, as the car got under way. I started to protest. Going out to dinner was possibly the last thing I wanted to do after a long plane trip from Tokyo to Bangkok. And I wasn't dressed for any restaurant my assessment of Marie and Sri told me they'd go to.

Sure enough, the Mercedes glided up to the front entrance of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel on the banks of the Chao Phya River, for a century, until the building boom of recent years, the premier hotel in Bangkok. If the maitre d' or wait staff of the Riverside Terrace restaurant where Sri led us had any reason to look askance at my shorts, T-shirt, and sandals, which they surely did, they were keeping it to themselves in view of my being with the M.R. I got the impression that my mother wasn't a stranger to them either.

I did my best to keep my eyelids open while we were waiting for our food and then eating it. But in that time I learned that the Sathon Road foreign-language (meaning English and the European languages) bookstore that Marie's family had owned since before I was born had reached safety since my mother had last written. There had been a good chance earlier in the year that it would go under financially, but now, thanks to a silent partner, it was doing fine. It didn't take much of an imagination for me to discern that Sri was the silent partner and that he partnered Marie in a more intimate sense than book sales.