I moved to the pool seat and pulled Jorge into my lap. Our chests met and we clasped each other tightly. We always fit so nicely, like a finely crafted wooden puzzle. My eyes drifted to the basket containing towels. There resting on top was a silicon-based lube. They had thought of everything. Warm water is not the best milieu for the well-endowed top, and water-based lubes were little better.
I pushed up another stair, lubed myself and Jorge and he plunged tentatively, then quickly onto me, wrapping his legs around and pulling me tightly into his gut. Then I dropped back into the water, planted firmly inside my guy who had become almost weightless in the pool and took a few steps into the deeper center. He looped his hands behind my neck and dropped back, positioning my bulb precisely on his prostate. He whimpered. “This is only going to last a few minutes. You’ve got me just where I want you. I think we’re going to be aroused all the time while here. But, don’t let me go. I can’t swim.”
Wow, he was at my complete mercy! I stretched out my legs and plunged to his bottom. He began to spasm and spill pre-cum. I didn’t want him to pollute the pool. (I really wasn’t sure about the protocol of mixing cum with sacred waters.) So I reached down and captured his cream bringing it to my lips. Then I stood, gripped him to my chest, turned and dropped him onto the towels. I stretched out over him and began to pump, lightened by the water, and within seconds filled him with my seed.
I heard a sound and looked up. Made was staring at us. “I have brought the menu, sirs. Please do not let me interrupt. There is nothing more important in this place that the taking and receiving of pleasure. Is there something more I can do for you?” His smile was wide and his cock was stretching the limits of the sarong. He had obviously been watching for some time. And, he was definitely ready to help if we wished.
“The Astroglide was a nice touch, Made. Thank you. Now if you help me to unglue myself from this boy who fears drowning, I would appreciate it.”
Made instantly brightened, recognizing a reprimand was not coming, dropped his sarong and stepped into the pool to help me extricate myself from Jorge’s death grip and his “superglue”. Finally I stood alone in the shallow pool, my still hard penis floating on the surface. His eyes went very big. “Is that real? How does it fit? Are you descended from Kamadeva? May I touch it? I’ve never seen anything so large.”
“We shall see, Made. Maybe later. But, I think we will need new saris for cocktails.”
“Of course.” He quickly rose and in a mincing gait that wiggled his cute little brown globes for us, moved to an old wooden chest, bent over—exposing his winking little pink hole–and extracted two more. He placed them on the table. “I shall be outside unless you need me for something more now.”
Both of us rose from the pool, dried, applied a little scented oil and tied the sarongs. Jorge looked at me with a very sly contented look. “You have traumatized the boy. All of his friends will now be calling on us to see whether we need anything, hoping to get a mere glance at your divine proportions. They are convinced you are a son of their god of love. I’m pleased these sarongs are quite loose.”
“Oh, stuff it. Actually, I just did, didn’t I? Your sarcasm is bullshit. I haven’t noticed you averting your eyes.”
The happy hour was enjoyable—although the drinks were a bit exotic and sugary for my taste. The dancers were superb—and quite hermaphroditic. All were young, probably boys, dressed in silks, brightened with small mirrors, elaborate headdresses and “made-up” for the stage. Fortunately for Jorge, they are not to my erotic taste. I’m pretty sure he feels the same way. I know any one of them would have been on the dessert menu if we wished. We had only to make our desires known.
Dinner was served outdoors under the straw canopy next to our villa as the small watercraft lights twinkled in the sea on the distant horizon. They were mostly fishers, attempting to catch by attracting their prey with small lights. The food was terrific. As we finished, Made and his friend removed everything and discretely disappeared as we moved to the bed which had a massive fan and a gauzy canopy. The air had cooled, so we dispensed with closing the sliding doors and starting the AC. Jorge remarked that it looked like a bridal suite—and I added that we deserved such a bed every night.
We were tired and moved into one of our natural spoons. This time Jorge rather possessively pulled me into him and planted his semi between my thighs. “I will never tire of sleeping at your side—or,” he paused and squinted, “perhaps under or over you.”
He quieted and became pensive. “Imagine living in a place where an important son in every family is given to be trained in the giving of pleasure. Could you imagine an American Bible-belt mother or father agreeing to such a system? Think how different our lives would be if our second sons went to study pleasure, instead of to war.”
He was obviously a very deep and empathetic young man. He had read Lord Chesterton. And I loved it.
We worked out hard the next morning under the watchful gazes of probably a dozen boys—all waiting apparently for a peek. We were obviously celebrities. We showered—at the gym, much to the continued amusement of the boys. Then Made appeared with his friend, a magnificent young specimen, with dark eyes and darker unruly hair. Both were dressed in short small sarongs which they promptly untied and dropped. The friend was called Akim, not a typical Balinese name, so I wondered. He was probably from another Indonesian island. He was muscled—probably from the massage training, and like all those we had met in Bali, sported a perpetual smile. We were walked to the massage pavilion which had been prepared for us. We had asked for the “special”—which we were told was far more than a couple’s massage.
We stood nude before an altar adorned with flowers as the two boys oiled our entire bodies. Then Akim guided me to a narrow padded bench and positioned me on it, perched sideways, legs extended. Made positioned Jorge on my lap, facing me, his legs akimbo and extended in the other direction behind me. (I was not inside.) The boys stood behind each of us, supported our backs with their chests, and began a long and languorous shoulder, upper back and pec massage. It was hard, but really more sensuous. After several minutes, we were entranced—and we were rigid.
It was time to reposition. I was guided this time into a straddle at a longer bench, while Jorge was positioned again in my lap—but this time, Made and his friend gripped Jorge’s thighs and lowered him slowly onto my erection which they had liberally oiled. (I presumed they had decided I was the alpha, or at least the one paying.) The boys sat behind us—we could feel their smaller fully erect cocks in the small of our backs—and pulled us back into their chests. “This is a special tantric position. One partner is impaled while his phallus rises above the center of the other, embracing with his legs around the waist. Mr. Phillips, your energy is rising into Mr. Perez and hardening his manhood. Our strokes are designed to concentrate your energy and allow it to flow even stronger into him.” Then they began long massage strokes, beginning at our hips and ultimately our inner crotches, and ending at our shoulders and throats, lingering over our nipples. I closed my eyes and relaxed into the massage, often pushing deep into Jorge, but the boys never touched his cock which seemed to ache with its stiffness. Was I really inflating him with my energy?