Chapter 9: Damian, Stanton Reach, Malaya

When the storm had abated, Jim carried me back into the house and to his bedroom. He laid me on my back on his bed, and I opened my legs to him, encircled his cock in my hands, and pulled him inside me, leaving no doubt that I wanted this as much as he did. We fucked for hours, as if there was no tomorrow, as if there was no Jane. And still I didn’t get enough of him. This was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to be fucked. Unendingly if possible.

When I awoke, it was still dark, but Jim was gone. He had gone to the rubber tree groves without me. I had no idea where that was, and Fahmeed claimed he didn’t as well. If I had known, I would have gone to him and begged him to continue fucking me.

Resolved that he was beyond my touch, though, I went back to whitewashing the outside walls of the great house. Slightly before noon, Fahmeed brought me a bucket of water and I sluiced down on the veranda outside my bedroom and entered for my regular massage.

I knew in an instant, though, that this wasn’t going to be the usual massage. Fahmeed wasn’t wearing his sarong. All he had was gold bangle bracelets at his wrists and ankles and a blue-stone gem on a leather thong around his neck, and he was in full, monstrous erection. His tattooing continued down from his torso to cover his legs as well.

The massage was perfunctory. Fahmeed soon had me on my back at the edge of the chaise lounge, and was leaning over my body with his torso and holding my thighs in his hands, smiling down into my face as his cock made a long, long, long—far longer than Jim’s had done—slide into the very quick of me. I cried out as if still a virgin, as, although Jim was of overaverage size, Fahmeed was mammoth in comparison. I could not spread my legs wide enough to take him comfortably. I begged him to stop or to go more slowly, but Fahmeed just smiled down into my face and moved ever deeper, relentlessly inside me. I was panting and groaning and writhing under him, knowing that he was splitting me in two.

“Focus,” he commanded. “Relax and it will all go well. Watch the gem upon the waves,” he murmured in a singsong voice.

And I looked at the dazzling blue stone dangling before my eyes, and, as he indicated, the undulation of his chest set the tattooing to a facsimile of waves moving across the ocean.

“Watch the stone,” he murmured. “You are melting into the stone.” He was humming a strange tune.

My eyes were glued to the stone, and I felt like my body was being transported, that I was floating on the clouds.

“You are feeling me sinking farther, farther into you. And spreading your channel. I am a tree. A mighty tree in the forest. The largest, tallest, thickest tree in the forest. And I am entering your belly.”

I could feel it. I moaned and groaned and, when that tree started to shudder inside me, started to move in and out inside me, ever deeper, ever more possessingly with each slide, I began to writhe again beneath him. But this time, I was moving in consort with him, opening to him, my channel muscles pulling him deeper inside me.

“Now, now, as the tree spreads its seed inside you, you can answer in kind.”

I shuddered and ejaculated, taken far beyond the images spun and sensations aroused by the poems of my classmates at Summerville. I closed my eyes.