Driving out the coastal highway through East Timor’s capital, Dili, en route to the road that would take me into the interior toward Aileu, where the company I worked for had coffee and cinnamon plantations, I was caught in the backup at the Ministry of Transport and communications trying to get into the traffic circle at the race track. Most of the washer boys—the boys who swarmed any stopped cars to beg for change by washing the windshield, or, rather, not washing it with a dirty rag to haze it over—were gathered at the side of the road. We were about to have the afternoon rain gusher, a given in this hot and steamy tropical climate. The downpour would be better for cleaning windshields than any washer boy could do, and most understood that. One didn’t, though, and he was attacking my windshield, not deterred even when I turned the wipers on to combat his swipes with the dirty rag.

He was a persistent little devil, though. He also was a particularly handsome young man—a young teenager. East Timor had been a Portuguese colony for two centuries before Indonesia occupied it in 1975, not giving it up to independence until 1999, and the people of the land were a mix of ethnicities. This lad obviously was of East Timorese and Portuguese origin, known in Portuguese as mestiços. These people, at least to the Western eye, presented as the most handsome of the native Timorese. His skin was paler than most, his facial features more Portuguese than Asian, and his dark hair and eyes gave him a sultry look.

He was so stubbornly working at my windshield despite knowing the skies were going to open up at any moment—either that or the jam up at the traffic circle would clear, that I had to smile and reach into the tray where I kept spare change to keep the never-ending parade of beggars from bogging down my progress. This was an East Timor phenomenon only found in Dili. In the province of Aileu, just to the south and interior from the capital, all of the boys were working, either in the fields or the processing sheds, by the time they were twelve. They were working for a paycheck, as scant as it usually was.

After over ten years of stock brokering and managing a commodities trading shop in New York, I had moved to Southeast Asia in my mid-thirties to manage coffee and cinnamon growing and processing operations for export for a Portuguese company. The conditions in the province were pretty primitive and not much better here in the capital of Dili, and the climate was hot and sweaty twelve months of the year. I hadn’t known anything about growing or processing either coffee or cinnamon when I came out here, I wasn’t enchanted by tropical conditions or primitive rural life, God knows the salary was a joke by U.S. standards, and I still hadn’t grown to love the place.

But I was here and likely to stay.

I was a product of Yale and the Wharton business school and had been most at home in the social salons of Boston and in New York City social life. My friends had been flabbergasted when I’d signed up with the Portuguese export firm and moved here to the end of the world, in Southeast Asia. They said I wouldn’t last a month here. I’d been here a year and a half now. And I was in the process of buying a flat overlooking the waterfront in Dili on the Rua Biarro Pite, near the Government Palace. A deep-porched bungalow and a housekeeping staff were provided for me out at the Aileu plantations. It looked like I’d be here a while—and not just in this traffic jam at the Avenue Bispo Medeiros traffic circle.

I wouldn’t help the people back in the States figure out why I had come here and wouldn’t now leave.

It was starting to rain and I assumed that even this lad working at my windshield would now back off. He was cute, though, and made me smile at his tenacity, so I grabbed a few coins from the tray and rolled down the window. I held the coins up.

“You are Mr. Granger, aren’t you?” he asked, in Portuguese as he took the coins. I had learned Portuguese before coming out here but hadn’t made much headway in learning the local language, Tetum, so was relieved that the boy could speak Portuguese. It was a surprise that he knew my name, although there weren’t so many Westerners in the country that we weren’t distinctive, and working with crops as important as coffee and cinnamon gave me a pretty high profile in the country—probably higher than I was comfortable with—and there was another reason why a boy such as this might know me.

He knew of me for the other reason.

“Yes,” I answered. “Do I know you?” I knew I didn’t. I would have remembered a beautiful boy like this.

“I am Taur,” he said. “I am friends with José Matan. He said that you might have a need for me.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “It has begun to rain and will continue for an hour or more as it does every day. You won’t get many windshields washed in that time, Taur. Do you want to come into the car and remain dry?”

“Yes, please,” he said, giving me a big smile and running around to the passenger side of the car.

The traffic jam had let up miraculously at the start of the deluge. Usually the rains bogged traffic down. At the circle, instead of going through it, as I had planned, to drive into the interior to the plantations, I turned back toward the waterfront.

The Discovery Inn on Rue Biarro Pite had two entrances—one on the main street where the German and East European backpacker tourists entered and another one on the alley behind, which led to the rooms renting by the hour. It was the backstairs that Taur and I took to the second floor. I had rented one of the few rooms in this section that had its own bath. There was only so much of the primitive life I was going to take.

I had Taur take a shower in the bathroom. When he came out, naked, I, also naked, was sitting on the side of the bed, facing the bathroom door. I motioned him over to me and he knelt on the floor between my legs. He knew what to do. José had told him what I’d want. Before he took my erection in his mouth, though, I ran my fingers into his hair and turned his face up to me.

“How old are you, Taur?” I asked. He knew the answer to give. Fourteen was the age of consent in East Timor. It would have been the age José would have told him I wanted to hear, as well.

“Fourteen, sir,” he said.

I smiled. “For real, Taur? I don’t want any trouble here.”

“For real, sir.”

“May I see your identity card?” He showed it to me. I took the number down. The card could be a fake, but having the number on it would at least indicate that I tried to check. I was an important Westerner, so there was little chance I’d be in trouble with the authorities here no matter what age level was my fetish.

“Very good. Make me happy.”

Taur had a soft mouth and he was very good. He, indeed, made me happy. When I needed to rest to prevent ejaculating before I wanted to, I ran my fingers into his hair again and arched his head back. I dipped down and took his lips in mine, going into a deep kiss, while I ran my free hand down his smooth chest, across his flat belly, and into his trim, just starting to curl pubes. I laced my fingers in his pert little balls, encircling the root of his cock as well. I squeezed his balls and rolled and distended them. He writhed a bit in my grip on his hair and balls and whimpered, but he held steady as I swabbed the inside of his mouth with my tongue.

Letting loose of his balls and his hair, I drew him across my lap and spanked him with one hand while fingering his hole with the other, working to loosen his passage up. He groaned, but he remained with me, steady, docile, and completely submissive. He’d seen how big I was and would appreciate my taking this time to open him up.

When I was satisfied that he was open enough to start with, I turned him onto the bed on his belly. I hooked his knees on my hips, telling him to keep them there, which he did, penetrated him to the depth of my bulb, as he whimpered and groaned, and then laced my arms under his armpits, putting him into a full Nelson. I arched his back, pulling his shoulder blades up into my chest. He cried out involuntarily as I started pushing up into his passage, and he did a little sobbing and babbling to give me the impression he was a virgin. I highly doubted he was, but I appreciated the sentiment.

When I’d worked my way all the way in, I began to pump him, rocking his body back and forth on mine. He went limp nicely and opened well for me, taking all of me but keeping a tight fit by clinching the muscles of his passage. We both panted and moaned as I set up a rhythm I liked, taking my time before I tensed, jerked, and flooded him deep with my cum.

We showered together and I fucked him against the wall there too.

He left the hotel room happy, with a week’s worth of pay that barely was more than I gave out to washer boys from the tray in my car. But I’d been warned not to cause the economy on this service to get out of control, so I didn’t—not in the hotel room. I did take him to the street for a meal from a cart there before driving him back to his washer boy spot near the Avenue Bispo Medeiros traffic circle. I’ll have to admit that I slipped him some more money too. I was an American. It was worth it in beautiful boys like Taur seeking me out because they believed Americans were the most generous of the men who had gathered in East Timor because of their fetish.

We both left happy. I was tempted to set up another meeting with him, but I was intent on not using the same boy twice at least until the purchase of my Dili flat went through—and then I’d pick from the ones I’d had and keep him in the flat as a sleep-in houseboy. When I tired of him or he had his fifteenth birthday, I’d replace him.

As I drove out onto the road to Aileu, I was humming. Taur definitely was in the running for that job—a beautiful little piece of ass, and completely yielding to my pleasure. I liked the mixed breeds. There were so many interesting combinations and to compensate for the boys not being pure stock, nature seemed to give them the best aspects of each of their ethnicities.

Having a satisfying fuck with a honey like Taur would seem to be something that would do me for a while, but that’s not the effect that sex with a boy had on me. It energized me. I went ahead and did as I had planned to do as I drove into the Aileu interior to the extensive plantations I managed. When I turned off the main road into the company’s lands, headed for the processing sheds and my bungalow, I parked in a layby near an overseer’s platform overlooking a small valley where we were growing coffee beans. I had carved out these particular fields in a beautiful spot next to a lake nestled in hills where I had only willing fourteen-year-old boys working the fields in just shorts. I came here when I was in the mood to watch them work—and to get more.