Sail to the Sun

I wasn't quite so anxious for a session with the young blond after the brutalization by the older man. I was sore and exhausted from having been taken by three men already that day—and the tension of the near miss on being taken by many more. I needn't have worried, though, When the young man was shown into my cell and the door had clanged shut behind him, my world took a strange turn in a way that had never happened to me before.

He came over close to where I was lying back on the platform bed, my torso raised by elbows digging into the rough, mussed sheeting, and still panting from the ordeal the older man had put me through. "I'm Buddy," he said simply.

"Hello, Buddy," I murmured in a husky voice I hoped sounded more sultry than exhausted. "Let me help you with that." I sat up in the bed and was reaching for his belt buckle with one hand and tracing his clearly hard cock under the material of his trousers with the fingers of the other hand.

"No, you don't have to do that," he mumbled. "You look like you've been through the wringer. I don't want to do it this way. Maybe we can just sit and talk. OK if I sit down on the bed?"

I was speechless. So many "never befores" crowding in all at once. Nobody had paid for just talk before—in fact, I couldn't remember when anyone other than the guys working beside me had wanted to just talk with me—and some of them just did it because they wanted to make me too. And nobody had shown any concern for whether I was tired or not. And must certainly no one had asked permission to sit on my bed before. At least not since I had come to America. Once more my thoughts went back to the kind and gentle young pilot, and the similarities between him and this Buddy gave me an inner glow.

"I . . . I . . . OK, I guess so. It's your money. And of course you can sit. It's your money." I stammered out the words. I felt dumb for repeating that it was his money, but that was just reality talking. Whatever a man wanted to do with me was because he'd bought me.

Buddy—I could call him that now, as he'd given me his name. Yet another "never before" for me. The clients sometimes gave me names, but I always knew they were fake. For some reason—maybe because of the honesty in his face and voice or because of his warm smile—I knew that his name really was Buddy. Buddy lifted up the sheet as he sat down, lowering himself to the soiled mattress underneath.

"Here, you can cover yourself with this, if you want," he said shyly, as he handed the corner of the sheet to me. I then did just that, pulling the sheet up and wrapping it around my naked body toga style. Yet another "never before." I felt demur and chaste now. He was treating me like I was virginal, like this would be my first time and he wanted to make it special. I found this arousing, and my thoughts went back to how the young pilot made love to me—each time as if it were the first time and wanting me to feel it was special, meaningful.

"Uh, don't you like me?" I asked. I was triangulating between disappointment, awe, and thinking that Hoagie somehow would go all red-faced angry that I wasn't turning a customer on. This was all confusing to me. Someone I actually felt arousal with and it was the one man who wasn't moving quickly to get his cock inside me.

"Sure, I like you fine," he whispered. "Just not like this. This isn't what I thought . . . what's your name?"

I sat and looked at him for the longest moment. This was completely new ground to me. Another in a lengthening lists of "never befores."

"Atid," I mumbled. "My name is Atid. It's Thai. It means 'sun.'"

"Atid." He rolled it over in his mouth, trying to pronounce the "A" as an "ah," as I had done. "An interesting name," he said.

I'm glad he didn't say it was beautiful or nice, as I could see in his face that he hadn't made up his mind whether he liked it or not. I appreciated his honesty. And now I wanted him. Now I wanted him to make love with me. Not have sex; make love.

But this wasn't just a come on. He didn't make a move on me then. Instead, he asked me questions about where I had come from. He didn't ask how I had come to be a plaything for other men. He didn't ask me about the men who had owned me. But he asked me questions about Thailand and my village there. He asked me about my mother and my father, and I told him that my mother assumed that my father was just one of several American airmen she had opened her legs to at the time of conception—and he told me about himself. That he didn't work in the mines, which I had already supposed, but was a garage mechanic and had gone to a special school for it and thus was well established.

But he was lonely, feeling out of place in this mining region, not being able to fit in.

I poured out my own loneliness to him—being the only Asian I ever saw in this strange America—and even not having much of an idea where I was other than somewhere in a remote region of the United States, which itself was such a vast territory that I could not talk about it and be thinking of any one particular place. And how I had always dreamed of rising above the surface of the earth—above the trees and ultimately above the clouds—and of sailing into the heat of the sun.

He sat there, giving me an encouraging smile. Not asking me what I meant by sailing into the sun. Just letting me talk—until I was snapped back to reality by the pounding on the door and the gruff voice of Hoagie announcing that the young man's time was up.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, as Buddy stood up from the bed. "I've wasted your money. You haven't gotten what you came for."

"Nonsense," Buddy answered. "I got more than I came for. But I don't want you to misunderstand. You asked if I didn't want you. I don't want to mislead you. I do want you. Just not like this. Can I see you again sometime? Can I show you how much I want you?"

"Yes, please," I whispered, as he went to the door, opened it, slipped through, and was gone.

When I looked on the table beside the bed, I saw that he had left enough money to cover not only his tip, but the one the businessman before him hadn't left. Buddy had saved me from a beating—or, at least, had endeavored to.

I felt different—in a way I couldn't define—that had me smiling and feeling that I was someone else other than I'd been before Buddy came to me. And the feeling didn't leave me—I was able to transport myself above the reality—even after Hoagie had dragged me back to my room and punched me in the gut with a blow that had me doubled up on the floor as he bawled me out about not fully pleasing the gray-bearded client earlier. I smiled at least inwardly and separated myself from the present even when Hoagie slammed me down on my bed and slapped my thighs apart, took my neck in both hands, and throttled me to the edge of unconsciousness as he slammed his hard dick deep inside me and began to pump.

I didn't even feel humiliated—although the fear of what was to become of me did creep in—when Hoagie pushed me over onto the carpet in the corner of my room and left briefly and then came back with a bedraggled Estaban under his arm and fucked Estaban on my bed. The inference was obvious. If I displeased Hoagie too much, I was easily replaceable.

After he had finished with Estaban and the two left my room, it dawned on me that this was the first violation of my private space here—and that this too was a message to me. The next day, Hoagie supervised the clearing out of one of the sex cells by a couple of the dancers, and Estaban was moved into the inn and his status was ominously approaching mine.

The message was clear. When Hoagie took me to his bed that night, I used all of my wiles on him, pushing him back on the bed, straddling him, fucking him, and raising his hands to my throat with my own and of my own free will—just hoping that the choking would only take me into unconsciousness and not into the next world.