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 fourteen-year-old blond American boy.

For one, 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—Howard, 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 Howard. 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. I had been barely fourteen when my male cherry was popped. 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 a fourteen-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 still was fourteen, small, and looked like an angel.

The night the American, Howard, fucked me he rented me for takeout, and I left the brothel for the first time since I had arrived and 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, in Saudi Arabia. There, in a high-rise hotel, after Howard 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 Howard 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 Howard said.

The prince, Abdul, chose me. They were all pretty much the same-looking guy, dressed in their pristine-white ankle-length robes, called thwabs 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 give away is that all of the rest of the Saudi contingent clearly showed they wouldn’t sneeze without his express approval.

I was dressed in a white thawb buttoning all the way down too, but I wasn’t wearing a ghutra. Howard said he wanted my golden curls to catch the Saudi prince’s attention, and I wasn’t old enough to be wearing anything on my head anyway.

Apparently, my hair did catch the prince’s attention. I could tell when the business negotiations had turned to success, as Howard 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, Howard 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.

After a period of fake conviviality, the prince stood and so then did all the others. Servants came into the room and ushered the prince’s guests and associates out, the two female prostitutes going with the councilor to the prince they, respectively, had been assigned to. Howard gave me a rather leery look as he left that also conveyed “don’t screw this up,” which, of course, meant give him a good time screwing you.

I didn’t leave. I had sort of moved too, seeing the others on the move, but the prince held me back, until we were the only two left in the throne room. I thought of it as a throne room, because there was an ornate throne, quite distinguishable from all the other chairs in the room. This is where the prince had sat during the negotiations, and it is where the prince fucked me immediately after the others left.

When they were gone, he unbuttoned his thawb all the way down and flared the panels aside. I didn’t notice he’d done this until it was done. He was a magnificently hard-bodied man of slightly above average equipage. He was in erection already. He pulled me to him and kissed and fondle me as he unbuttoned my thawb. He untied the loin cloth I had under it and rendered me naked. He bound my wrists together with a red silk scarf. Of course he didn’t ask my permission to fuck me. I was just an object to play with and give him release.

He sank into his throne and pulled me down with him, crosswise on his lap. He kissed my lips and my cheeks, throat, and nipples, while he used his gloved hand to stroke my cock. Seeing the black hand stroking and manipulating my shaft made me all hot and bothered. He watched it too, and he seemed to agree with my response to it. It wasn’t long before he had moved my passage onto his cock. I planted my foot on the broad seat of the throne beside his hip and raised and lowered my passage on his cock while he stroked my shaft with his gloved hand.

This was exotic and arousing. I looked down and watched the soft leather of the black hand stroking me and I had no trouble engorging or coming. Neither did he; he was hard as a rock inside me and throbbing. He groaned at the rise and fall of my passage on his cock. We both panted. I moaned at the unusual nature of this fuck. We both tensed and jerked and sighed as he came inside me. I had already burbled cum on the fingers of his glove. That hadn’t stopped him from continuing to play with my shaft with the gloved hand.

That was intriguing. A refined Arab partner who took his time and made an art of it. Now what, I wondered.

Now was the “more than fucking” activity Howard had hinted about. Two attendants, who must have watched the fuck on the throne, appeared. A curtain was drawn back to an area of the room not revealed before.

The prince’s sexual torture room.

I whimpered as the attendants lifted me from the prince’s lap, took me into that alcove, and hung me from restraints hanging down from the ceiling. I am not tall. My feet didn’t reach the marble floor. The restraints wrapped around my forearms, not just my wrists, and this helped with the strain, but I still felt my arms were being pulled out of my sockets as I twisted—and eventually writhed—while dangling there.

An attendant handed the prince a many-thonged hand whip, and the prince used it on me—not cuttingly but stingingly—for a good twenty minutes as I twisted and writhed and whimpered and sobbed and occasionally cried out for him. I surprised myself. The whipping aroused me. Sometimes when I cried out it was to beg the prince to fuck me again. But he didn’t while he was whipping me.