This was different. I hadn't been fucked in this position before, and I'd been fucked a whole lot since I'd been brought to the brothel in Manama, Bahrain, four months earlier. It seemed that every Saudi man coming across the causeway into Bahrain for a "what happens in Bahrain stays in Bahrain" gambling, drinking, and sex vacation wanted to fuck a small, blond, nineteen-year-old American boy.
For once, this one was an American—tall and muscular, nearly bald, ugly, over forty, and big. Big where I felt it inside. He was my first American, though—ever. I was kneeling on the bed, my knees drawn tightly into my chest, cheek to mattress, and my tail lifted high. My arms were pulled over my head, bound to the restraints at the headboard. The American—Robert Bradford, an arms dealer, I was to find out—was in the crab position behind me, facing up toward the ceiling, his arms and legs bent and supporting his body. His thighs were holding my slim hips between them, his big, thick cock was buried in my ass channel, and he was rocking back and forth, fucking me deep. The man might have me by twenty years and be ugly, but he was quite fit and athletic.
I didn't always come for the john, but I came for Robert. He was big and inventive, giving me something new to think about. I ejaculated more than once. When he came, it was a rolling gush, deep down into my soft core.
It had been barely six months since I'd first been fucked, not yet nineteen, just out of high school and not intending to go to college or trade school. I planned on going into the Army, but they said I was too small. I was a know-it-all runaway, only living under the bridge in Baltimore for a couple of days but already finding that you need money to eat. Turning tricks was the quickest alternative; the other guys under the bridge had said an eighteen-year-old boy who looked like an angel could make good money. The first man who rolled to a stop under the bridge was an Arab. He was young and good looking, all darkness, with black hair and flashing eyes. He fucked my virginity out of me in the backseat of his car in a cramped doggie fuck and then he handed me around to his Arab friends, ultimately turning me over to Arab sailors working a freighter bound for the Arabian Gulf. They, in turn, sold me to the Bahrain brothel, where I became somewhat of hit with visiting Saudis. By then, of course, I was a seasoned male whore. But I was barely nineteen, small for my age, and looked like an angel.
The night the American, Robert, fucked me he rented me for takeout, and I left the brothel for the first time since I had arrived. We flew, with two women prostitutes, a blond German named Ingrid and a small Thai named Lek added to the entourage, from Bahrain to Riyad. There, in a high-rise hotel, after Robert fucked me again, sitting on the foot of the bed, with me cantilevered out from his lap, my legs streaming back from his hips, him palming my chest, my arms dangling over the carpet, and him pulling me on and off his cock, he told me why I was there. I came for him again then, panting and moaning from the exotic nature of the position and the length, thickness, and vigor of his cock.
I was getting the definite impression that Robert could be cruel and brutal in the fuck if he got excited.
The two women and I were to be candy to ease a multimillion-dollar business deal with a Saudi prince. If the deal went through, the prince had his choice of the three of us and his associates shared the rest. I should be back in the Bahrain brothel on Monday morning, or so Robert said.
* * * *
The prince, Salman, chose me. They were all pretty much the same-looking guy, dressed in their pristine-white ankle-length robes, called
thawbs
or
dishdashas
, with white-and-red-checkered head scarfs, called
ghutras
. All of them were alike save that of the one, central Saudi, who I could tell was the prince. His thawb was white, but so was his ghutra, and he had a black gauzy cloak over it all, called a
bisht
. I knew that the latter was for higher-ranked Saudis and ceremonial occasions. His thawb was different from the rest too, I noticed, in that it buttoned all the way down, whereas the others just buttoned down the bibs. Another giveaway was that all of the rest of the Saudi contingent clearly showed they wouldn't sneeze without the expressed approval of the one who must be the prince.
I was dressed in a white thawb buttoning all the way down too, but I wasn't wearing a ghutra. Robert said he wanted my golden curls to catch the Saudi prince's attention.
Apparently, my hair
did
catch the prince's attention. I could tell when the business negotiations had turned to success, as Robert handed the prostitutes out. I went to the prince, by his vocal choice, and, as the meeting moved into the drinking coffee and smiling and chatting phase, he held me close to him and touched me intimately.
I knew he was going to fuck me. Before we came to his palace, Robert had said that, if the prince chose me, he would do more than fuck me.
I had already noticed that there was another attire difference with the prince. He had very slender, expressive hands, with long fingers that were accentuated by a black, soft-leather glove on his right hand.
