The usual disclaimers apply. Don't read it if is illegal where you are, rights are reserved, comments welcome, you know why you are here....
A Guy Named Joe
Done by the Queen
It was an all-nighter, all right, and before it was done I realized I had a tiger by the tail and there was only one way to get off.
I knelt before him with the tip of his enormous black cock in my mouth. I gazed up at him, his face framed by those enormous prosthetic breasts, hard as missile cones.
He looked down on me without compassion, his eyes were cold and lidless now that he had cum and yet I knew he was rousing to the idea of another bout. His/her eyes, darkly purple shaded, bright crimson lips un-besmirched by a kiss. But the taste of him was intoxicating, and my position left really no alternative. I could get up and leave, but with his heels and natural height and afro he towered so far above me that I thought it would be wise to submit to his mood.
It was a good idea, the submission, since I do not know what he would have done to me. As it was, he reached down with the blood-red nails of his hands and gently raked my cheeks.
"That was gooood, White Bread. I like to see a boy who knows his work and his place. You are like those Germans. So proud outside and inside they just want hot black dick stuck in them and my cum dripping down their chins. Fucking Krauts."
His voice continued a rant, chanting almost. "Now you take your hand and move those sweet lips of yours and you get me hard. I got some fucking to do. I got my orders."
I nodded meekly as I began to suckle his cock. Orders? What the hell did that mean? This had suddenly become frightening. His cock was so big I thought it might split me up, make me bleed. I did not see mercy or love in his eyes or hear it in the chant of anger.
This was part of something he had not told in the story of the young black GI drag-diva of the Ku-damm. This was a dance of anger. Was it drugs? I could only suspect, and I realized for the first time I was way out of my league in a land far from home.
I raised my hands again to serve him, gently stroking the long shaft of his cock and my hands cupping his scrotum, and the hard tight curls of his pubic mass. I was shivering a little as his cock began to rise, once more triumphant. I kept my eyes on his face, hoping for some softening of his features. But what I saw was cool excitement and the radiance of the power he was demonstrating over me.
The contrast between Noy, the Thai boy who wanted to be a girl, and who cuddled against me in the night after our abortive and confused love-making could not have been more complete. As he stiffened I had to rise up as tall as I could on my knees. This tall wiry man with the enormous thrusting penis was not at all like the first black man I had serviced. There was hardness and sad learning in my first one, and tenderness, too.
Not this simmering reservoir of anger for something that was not me, nor anything I had done. I licked the piss slit of his cock and gently nuzzled the gathering of foreskin behind the bulbous purple tip.
He was almost fully hard once more when he jerked himself from me and grasped my shoulder, squeezing hard enough for me to murmur in protest. "Shut the fuck up, Fuck boy. You dumb fuck. Now Amazon is going to get down, and you are going to shout."
Then he pulled and I lurched to my feet. He looked down at me from the height of his platform shoes and his rocket breasts with the dark areolas nearly stared me in the face. He thrust one in my mouth. "Suckle on the Queen," he said, "The source of all blessings."
I took the thing in my mouth. The nipple was supple, but the mass behind was unnaturally firm, as if there had not been enough skin to cover the bags of silicon. It was lifeless, not a human breast at all. Something alien implanted in this wiry body. A breast of torment, not of solace and comfort.
He held my head there, thrusting his chest into my mouth. If it had been softer he might have succeeded in suffocating me, but it was too hard to fully cover my nose. Instead he dominated my mouth and if he would not have hurt me I might have used my teeth on the awful thing.
Then again he pulled himself from me and gripped my head with both hands. "You don't like these lovelies, do you, Kraut Boy."
Now I was a German. What was eating this man-girl?
"Well, I'll give you something you do love." With that, and the dark empty eyes he turned me and thrust me toward the back of the couch. I stumbled forward and into it, falling forward so that I had to grasp the back to keep from falling right over it. He pushed me down so that my face and arms were on the seat cushions and my ass was up in the air. I could touch the floor if I extended my toes, but he kicked my legs apart so my asshole was exposed and open to him.
I might have been born at night, but not this one. I knew he was going to take me here and this way and I just hoped it would be with some consideration. Something must have happened to this guy in Germany. Why was I paying for it? God, I wanted Alexander and a gentle loosening finger. I thought perhaps I could plead my way out of it, and the image of my first love, that slim young man with the violin and the soulful look crossed my mind. The sight of him circled by bullies in the junior high school and me saying nothing at all to stop his torment.
"Faggot," they had hissed at Joe. "Faggot! Fucking homo!"
I saw the fear in Joe's eyes and I did nothing then, and now I was about to ripped apart and there was no one to see and no one to help. My hands ripped the cushions.
"Please use something," I whispered. "Please don't tear me. Please." In response he chuckled and hawked up some phlegm. I felt a warm viscous drop hit the top of my ass crack and drizzle down to my rosebud. I jerked as his long nails pulled my buttocks apart, and then I felt the tip of his monster perfunctorily rub down through the mucous and then lodge against my asshole.
"No, Please. I've done nothing to you^ÅPlease!"
"You got that one wrong, Duetsch-fag. You fucks are going to pay for what you did to me." I felt him press hard against me. He was hard as a diamond, fully, rampant, and my pain was part of his pleasure. I willed myself to relax, to admit this intruder as best I could. I pressed back on the blunt tip of his cock, wet with our spit and he pressed again, insistently, brutally. I was not ready, and the more he pushed against me the more I tightened. I could not relax. Push, I told myself, otherwise you are going to wind up in the hospital. A Thai hospital with your asshole sutured shut.
The pressure grew and I moaned in pain, pinioned between his thrusting cock and the rigid bulk of the couch. God it hurt, but my whimpering only made him press harder. Press back, press back, God please press back^Å.
Then the fierce tip of his cock sprung the lock-ring of my anus, triumphantly entering me. I think I might have passed out in a white blazing light of pain. He withdraw slightly and spat down on me again. I thought I heard that but it could have been happening to someone else. This was pain beyond imagination, a violation so profound I could not imagine that his cock in my ass had been what I came for. I cried, shaking in pain. And then he was inside me, inch by inch, to the tip of the monster.
Ten inches were buried in me, and I could feel his balls slapping at the back of mine. He slapped my ass with an open palm, hard, but I made no sound. There was nothing that could hurt so much and so deep as his cock inside.
Then he began to move his hips, and then, slowly, the pain leveled. After a few minutes of stroking he was able to withdraw almost to the tip and then suddenly and violently lunge right to the full depth of his sword again. I felt as though my insides were being churned, and I suddenly felt nauseous. Bile filled my throat.
Ten of those sharp piercing thrusts and then came a pounding, steady rhythm. The pain lessened, and even with the pain the repetition began to bring the glow I had known from my gentler lovers. I grunted now, not in pain, but in my own arousal as my prostate was stroked by the bulbous tip and shaft. I might have moaned.
"See, now, you fucking Kraut. It always feels good after a while. I'll breed you until you shit niggers for a week." He began to hit me in time with his stroking, alternating cheeks and I was humiliated to see that I was responding to him, thrusting back on him, moaning with each thrust of that enormous device deep into my bowels.
He was right. He lasted a long time on his second session. I came on the back of his couch, over-stimulated by the impact of his lithe hips, the churning of my bowels and the wild rubbing of my cock against the coarse cloth. He cursed me and called me a Kraut bastard, and when he came himself, he grunted in triumph, and I felt the warmth of his seed deep in me. And then he hit me some more.
The third time he came he threw me on his bed, atop the comforter, and pulled my legs up on his shoulders and penetrated me that way, my hips aching, thrusting against me so hard that my head was thrust against the headboard, banging it with each stroke.
He wanted to come a fourth time, and he thrust his soft dick into my mouth, filling it with the odor of shit and taste of decay and semen, and when I succeeded in getting him hard, he just fucked my face and I thought I was going to suffocate. He pushed me on my side and pinioned me with his arms so I could not escape.
His hard breasts felt like weapons against my back, and my head swirled with pain and the end of the dope high, which had enhanced every sensation. He dozed for a while, exhausted assault on me. I might have too, even as freaked out as I was.
I should have run. But I didn't. He fucked me again in the morning and made me blow him in the shower. I could taste the coppery taste of blood on his bludgeon, and my shit, and his semen was thin.
Then he told me to put on my clothes and get the fuck out. I wondered at what he hated so much. I didn't know him well enough to earn treatment like that. But before he let me go he made me worship the hard Queen, the tit that felt like plastic and tasted like hatred. He told me I would be back.
I didn't say a word. I have never been so happy to see the daylight. Not before, and not now.
But I did find out that I could be sadder. But some mistakes you make with your heart, and some with your groin. Live and you learn, I thought. Or don't. As bad as I felt, I wondered at what had happened to Amazon to make him hate his own sex, mutilate himself and become such a complete psychotic prick.
I limped along Soi 6 and out to where the bustle of Sukumvit Road would cloak me in the anonymity of daylight and the crowd. There was a dead dog by the side of the road, hit a glancing but fatal blow by a truck or taxi. The body was swollen in the heat.
Oddly corpulent, since the dogs were skinny here. It was almost balloon like, and the legs stood out from the internal pressure of gas in the carcass. Great green flies darted to wing him to his rest. Presently the asshole would burst, or the esophagus, in a cloud that would mingle with the bus fumes and the shit in the Klongs. Then the insects would make him flat.
There was no one to complain to, for the dog or for me. The Bangkok cops would laugh at what one Westerner did another, particularly one raped by a katoy so clearly male.
You get what you pay for, I guess. Though I could not precisely understand the transaction.
My pants were trashed and I had to return to my apartment and soak the blood and daub my damaged asshole. I would not be shitting happily for some time, as I bent over and tried to inspect the damage in the full mirror in the bathroom. I hoped that I would not die of some infection in this tropical town. I missed filing my copy and Chicago was mad and I had to make up a story about a country road, some Khmer refugees and a broken motorbike. I wondered if I should talk to Oy, and decided this particular humiliation was too intimate.
Maybe if I kept a low profile I would never see the Amazon again, and when the time was right, I could slink out of town. I stayed away from the clubs, even after my poor torn ass healed up.
There is a lot to be said for kindness, I thought, and the joy of pain is much overrated.
I considered that right until the afternoon I found the envelope made of fine fiber paper that had been slid under my door.
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