He was pounding me, hard, thick, fast, deep in a close-hold missionary. He was being more brutal that he’d ever been before. He usually was attentive to my pleasures in the fuck as well as his—to the point that I sometimes wanted him to let loose and do exactly what he was doing now.

He was angry, but not at me. But he couldn’t fuck who he was angry with—the Thai general—so Carter Evans was taking it out on me in his Soi 39 Sukhumvit high-rise Bangkok apartment. He was holding me off the bed, my torso streaming down onto the bed, my shoulder blades pressed to the mattress, his beefy arm under my waist, holding my pelvis up to his crotch, kneeling between my thighs. He was forty-three and I was fourteen, and he was fucking me hard. I pressed my knees into his hips, let my arms dangle out to my side, my fists grabbing up gobs of the bedspread to hold myself in place as best I could, and I turned my face away so I couldn’t see the angry expression on Carter’s face. I sobbed my surrender as he pounded, pounded, pounded my ass, shocked that I was feeling more pleasure than pain in this taking.

Suddenly he stopped, panting hard, tensing. Then he jerked and came and jerked again and came again. I emitted a long, low moan as he pulled out of me, let me sink to the mattress, and rolled off the bed. He went over to the window, picking up a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook en route. He lit up and leaned against the window, looking out at the sprawl of the exotic Asian capital, once ruled by canals called klongs, now dominated by high-rise buildings that swayed in the occasional movement of the porous soil below to the effect of no more movement than trucks passing on the street, the land water-logged and inundated with the tides every time it rained, which was every afternoon at 4:00 p.m.

He fucked me regularly, but never before with the anger he had shown this time. I wasn’t an innocent—not anymore. He hadn’t hurt me, not really. My passage was long fitted to the needs of his cock. There had been pain, more than usual, but there had been exhilarating arousal at the passion and intensity of him that had compensated. He should be angry more often, I thought.

Carter was an exporter—from Singapore, although he was an American—of military supplies—uniforms, tents, rations, plying his trade now to the Thai generals who had taken over Thailand in yet another of their periodic military coups. I had come to him by way of his brother, Wyatt, who had been my foster father back in the States. Wyatt’s wife, Denise, had left him, and Wyatt didn’t want to be a foster father any more. Carter had visited him, found me there, ripe and willing and virginal. He had seduced and fucked me and said he’d take me off Wyatt’s hands. Wyatt got me a passport and Carter brought me here to Bangkok, where no one raised an eyebrow that a forty-three-year-old man had a fourteen-year-old blond, blue-eyed boy in his bed. We were farangs—foreigners. What Thai gave a shit what we did?

I didn’t mind. I’d known too many homes and too much rejection already in my life. I’d known some time ago I wanted to lie with men. When Carter had gotten me drunk, naked, and fucked for the first time, I didn’t object. I wanted it. I wanted it from him. He was a handsome hunk, and he was experienced. He wasn’t too large to take, but he filled and stretched me, and made me feel alive and wanted. He taught me what men wanted from a small, well-formed, blond, blue-eyed fourteen-year-old boy.

“Get up and shower, Logan,” he said from where he was standing in the window, looking out over Bangkok, not looking at me. “We’re going for a ride.”

“You’re angry, Carter,” I said. “The poker game not go well last night?”

“No, not well at all. Now do as I say. Don’t ask questions.” He was very much on edge.

“I don’t understand.”

“I lost. I lost big,” he said. “Understand that?”

“What did you lose, Carter? Where are we driving to?”

“Hua Hin. We’re going to the sea, Logan. We’re going to General Thanawat’s summer house. He’s the one I lost big to last night. You are going to give him whatever he wants.”

Hua Hin, indeed, was an old royal court seaside resort area. We didn’t say much to each other as we drove there from Bangkok in Carter’s Land Rover. The road narrowed as it paralleled the sea and, with little notice of an entrance in the dense tropical foliage and high concrete walls between the road and the sea, Carter suddenly turned into an opening in the wall with a solid iron gate closed across the drive. Carter honked his horn, the gates parted, and Thai soldiers with rifles trotted out and stood at either side of the car, at rest, but ever ready, while another soldier holding a clipboard checked Carter’s identification. Entry operated quickly and efficiently, with military precision.

When the iron gates clanged shut behind us, we were in a heavily guarded military compound and under the rules and total control of Thai General Thanawat.

As we approached the Thai-style house, constructed of polished teak, with deep balconies, a red, green, and blue patterned tiled roof, and with a beach and the sea visible beyond, my eyes went to the second-floor balcony, where a tall, substantial-looking man stood, wearing a red silk robe and watching the Land Rover approach.

“General Thanawat,” Carter said, having seen where my gaze had focused.

I would have guessed that, yes.

“You are all Mr. Evans said you would be,” the general said. He stepped back from running golden curls of my hair through his fingers. He had touched me more intimately than that, though. He was in erection. So was I.

We were in a room dominated by a thick-columned four-poster bed. Bright-colored shiny Thai silk dominated in the décor. The floor covering was of seagrass matting. The general had untied his sash, letting the robe open to show a slender, hard-bodied, muscular torso and legs. He was in an upcurved erection. I was naked, my clothes puddled to the floor at my feet, having disrobed for his inspection. He had touched me, here, there, and everywhere, intimately, and I had moaned to the touch. His hands were strong, calloused, but he knew how to touch a man. He had stood close in front of me, his eyes capturing mine, as he languidly cupped, rolled, and distended my balls and stroked my cock. I had reached for his, misunderstanding that the taking had begun, but he had brushed my hand away.

He drew back from me, his eyes assessing me as if deciding where and how to begin. I was panting lightly. The man looked like all power and control, like a panther holding himself in check, but ready to pounce.