Writer’s note: This story contains dominance, submission, sadism, spanking, and humiliation in public places. Just a heads up in case that is not your cup of tea.

***

It was past one in the morning now. The bar with the grass roof had closed long ago.

A handful of rooms were lit up at the hotel behind us like a switchboard on a not-too-busy day.

A few figures strolled along the water a ways away while others reclined in wooden chairs. Otherwise, this side of the beach was almost empty. The party would be back toward where we came from.

The only thing illuminated where we sat was Prasang. His naked body lay splayed on the beach chair shining in the light of Martin and Gary’s portable lantern.

The wooden clothespins on his ears, nipples, navel, and scrotum shone almost white against his cinnamon brown skin. The wind carried his light breathing toward us, just barely audible against the crashing waves.

There was the occasional wheeze of pain or discomfort as he snored uneasily through the cum-soaked tissues stuffed in his mouth.

We had decided to let him get some rest after that miraculous orgasm we forced out of him.

Others must have heard his cry of ecstasy as the white lava spurted out of him, but it hadn’t drawn any notable attention. This was Pattaya, after all. People surely assumed it was just some tourists freed of the confines of their homeland and engaging in time-of-your-life, unbridled beach sex.

Martin, Gary, and I sat cross legged in the sand beneath a palm tree fifteen feet from the dozing Prasang.

Using his pocketknife, Martin peeled a big strip of green skin off the plantain, revealing pale, mushy-looking flesh.

I held it in my hands like a submarine sandwich and sank my teeth in, taking a big, lusty bite right out of the center.

It had the resistance of a pear and tasted of starch and soil, more like a potato than a banana. Martin, who seemed to be something of an expert on plantains, said you were supposed to cook them first.

But the taste, of course, was not the point. It had been deep inside our handsome young sex slave moments before, stretching him to the max. Even in the cool ocean air, I swore I could still feel the heat of him within it.

I passed the plantain to Gary, who took a huge, greedy bit of his own.

“Incredible, isn’t he?” I said, whipping my mouth.

“Jesus H. Christ, Jim!” Martin blurted in a shout whisper. “Where in the bloody hell did you find that kid? I mean, this country’s crawling with gorgeous men, but fuck me!”

“I met him in Bangkok, in a club in Gay Alley. He was just an ordinary sex worker, believe it or not, the kind you can spend a few hours with in a cheap motel for fifteen hundred baht. I guess you could say I saw his…potential.”

“I should say you did!” Said Gary, wiping his mouth on his shoulder as he passed the plantain to Martin, “But what is this inexplicable power you have over him? The boy looks like a Thai movie star, but here he is acting like he’s not fit to shine your shoes!”

I smiled and rubbed my thumb and forefinger together. “Everyone has their price. I’ve got him on salary, paying him more per week than most of those guys could make in four months.

“Sure, I’m putting him through hell right now, but if he played his cards right, he wouldn’t have to work for a year after this if he didn’t want to.”

I explained some of the intricacies of the Thai sex industry to the two men, something I had researched thoroughly in preparation for my trip.

I had learned how you could get a young man such as Prasang to be at your whim and beckon 24/7 for the right price tag.

Though, of course, Prasang was something of a special case and I truly had hit the jackpot with him. Not everyone would have the personal fortitude or stamina to live up to my particular demands.

“He can be a lot more than just a whipping boy, you know? He’s sweet as pie and desperate to please. He can give you the full boyfriend experience: Take you dinner, buy you flowers, write you love letters if that’s what you want.

“He can be your tour guide around Thailand. Help you translate and negotiate prices. He’s even trained as a masseur and has some powerful magic fingers, let me tell you. Or, if you just want to use and abuse him like we’ve been doing tonight, well, he’s up for that, too.”

I pulled out my phone and started flipping through the many pics from my excursions with Prasang thus far. Gary and Martin’s mouths hung open in the light of the screen, fascinated.

There were photos of Prasang naked in hotel rooms, in the shower, or resting between the sheets.

I had documented the many times I made him strip down in public so I could jerk him to full erection or gag on his huge cock mere inches from the public view.

I forced him to get naked in a (mostly) empty wing of the National Museum, in public bathrooms and dressing rooms.

Then, of course, there was the bus ride to Pattaya today and the courtyard of the Royal Elephant Hotel where I had put Prasang’s incredible body on display, much to the delight of leering tourists.

“Give me your Instagram,” I said, “I’ll be happy to share these with you.”

I was already kicking myself for not recording that last, physics-violating orgasm of his. It was something I would have enjoyed watching over and over for the rest of my days and the kind of thing no one would have believed without visual proof.

On the other hand, there were signs in every Thai temple claiming that photographing the sacred brings on bad karma. What Prasang had achieved could probably be classified as a religious experience, so better to be on the safe side.

“He’s not actually gay, though, is he?” Gary asked, “I certainly don’t get that vibe from him.”

As if on cue, I came across the photos of him earlier that day with my backpack strapped to his chest, wearing only his red thong and his slave collar, beautiful European girls putting their hands all over him.

“I think it’s pretty clear from this one, wouldn’t you say? You can see it on his face, not to mention in his cock.”

I remembered Prasang back at Male Body Palace telling me he was “seventy percent straight.” A genius line, probably taught to him by Lom the madam or one of the club managers.

How many gay men came to Thailand wanting to fulfill their fantasy of being with a hot straight guy they would never be able to get with back home? And wouldn’t it be perfect if he were just gay enough not to find you completely repulsive, evening shining the narrowest of hopes on the idea that he might want you back?

“But straight or not,” I continued, “You saw it for yourselves. How much load he can shoot. The way he took this whole plantain. He is, as you said, a ‘champion.'”

“Well, if I were you, Jim, I’d never let the boy out of my sight again,” Gary said. “I’d pack him up in a suitcase and take him home with you. He’s a bloody gem!”

“So, what about you guys, what brings you to Thailand?” I asked, changing the subject.

They told me they lived in Melbourne and had been together for twenty years. Gary wasn’t a big traveler, but Martin was actually the editor of a travel magazine specifically for gay men. It held the sophisticated name “The Gentleman Traveler.”

Martin had traveled to many parts of the world, sniffing out the best gay experiences. He handed me his business card with his contact info.

They were spending an entire month in Thailand, having come, like many others, for the men. For the sea of beautiful toned flesh.

“At this point in our relationship, we’ve gotten a taste for the wilder side of life. Doing the sorts of things we’ve always wanted to do before we both land in the old folks home.”

We continued passing the plantain around, devouring it with a kind of ritualistic fervor.

They confessed they themselves had considered a Thai boy for companionship. Someone they could share between them and play out their own fantasies.

“Then, of course, we saw you and your naked young stallion playing your little punishment game and thought, ‘Well, when in Rome…’ We would never have imagined you could take it this far, though…”

“Rather extraordinary is what it is,” said Gary with a gleam in his eye.

I told them more details of Prasang’s “employment.” It was clear the gears were turning in their heads, as they were in mine.

“Where are you guys staying?”

“Gary and I are over at the White Sands Resort about an hour that way.” Martin pointed back toward Central Pattaya Beach, the very place we were staying. “It’s nice but bloody crowded, that’s why we came over here.”

“Can Prasang and I escort you back?”

Martin and Gary looked at each other and grinned, obviously up for anything having to do with Prasang.

By now, we’d scoured every last bit of flesh off the plantain with our teeth and tongues.

The peel was like a big leather wallet in my hand and I tossed it away.

“If you gents don’t mind chilling out here for just a little longer,” I said, standing and dusting myself off, “Maybe having another beer or two, I just need some time alone with Prasang. To discuss a thing or two.”

They both obliged, agreeable as always.

…

Prasang had managed a semi-comfortable position. He lay on his side to avoid putting pressure on either his scalding ass or the many clothespins down the front of him.

Even in his light swoon he continued to suck on the jizz balls, which were mostly a lump of mush in his mouth by now. They pulled his cheeks downward and a stream of drool ran down to his shoulder.

He reached up and reflexively scratched the skin on his chest just above the row of clothespins on his left nipple, which was becoming inflamed. It must have hurt like hell, but he was so obedient he didn’t dare remove a single one or spit out the revolting tissues.

In the golden light, he was a cross between a tormented martyr and the god Vishnu, dreaming upon the cosmic river.

He was so vulnerable, having put himself completely at my mercy with no idea how far I would push him or what I would make him do. Apart from the once-in-a-lifetime money making opportunity, you really had to wonder why.

A few nights before, as we lay in bed together, I’d asked Prasang to tell me more about himself.

He said he was from a very small, very poor farming village in Northern Thailand near Chiang Mai.

He went and got his phone out of my bag and pulled up a picture of four Thai women.

These were his mother and three sisters, who still lived in his hometown. They stood all in a row, the mother at the front a head shorter than the sisters.

They smiled brilliantly, decked out in their finest sabai. Each one as beautiful as Prasang himself.

Prasang was the youngest of his siblings and also the only man in the family. Times were hard and he had made his way to Bangkok to work as a masseur. But like many Thais who come to the big, bad city, he soon found the real money was in selling himself.

Lying close to me in the dark that night, his breath upon my face, he was particularly nervous to admit the whole “I’m a university student” line he fed me at Male Body Palace was, in fact, just a line.

“I’m sorry, master,” he said, lowering his head, eyes moist with regret, “Lom told us to tell customers that. He said nobody would buy us if we gave them a sob story about a poor family in some ‘shithole’ village.”

It was surely for that “poor family” in that “shithole village” that he was doing all this.

During our time together, I had kept hold of his phone, partly because most of the clothes I had him wear didn’t have pockets, but also because I wanted his attention completely on me.

Still, there was one person he insisted on calling at the end of each week. “Swasdi khun, mae,” he would say when she answered. “Mae” I understood to mean “Mom.”

I reached down and stroked his face, feeling the hard knot waded up in his cheek. “Wake up, sweet boy,” I said.

He looked up at me, having clearly sensed my presence and being too on his guard to actually sleep. “URRM-URMF,” he said, gagging down another mouthful of his own spit and cum.

“Open, Prasang.” I pulled a big clump of wet tissue out of his right cheek, then another one out of his left.

He sat up and gnashed his jaws, finally able to relax them a little bit. “Mah-thur…” he began, but then coughed up more of the white mush. There were additional bits of tissue, dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth.

I picked up a half-drunk bottle of warm Singha from the table and held it to his lips. “Drink this down.”

I placed my hand to the back of his head, caressing his thick, luxurious hair as I washed what remained of the nasty tissues down his throat. He swallowed hard and grimaced at what would surely become an uncomfortable lump in his stomach.

I took his face in both my hands, drawing it up to me as I rubbed and caressed his sore jaw muscles. “It’s time to go now,” I said. Despite how all around bad he must have felt at that moment, a light came into his eyes. He was desperate to get back to the hotel, to finally be in a private place where his naked body was exposed to no one but me.

“But before we go back, there’s something I need to tell you.”

I took off my sun hat and sat it next to the fruit plate. Then I took the heavy backpack Prasang had carried all the way here and strapped it to my back.

I helped him up out of the seat as delicately as I could. He groaned and hissed for what could have been any of the many discomforts assaulting his body.

I turned him around, examining him in the lamplight. Welts were forming on either of his royally spanked cheeks, which would lead to itchy blisters as soon as tomorrow.

His scrotum was so riddled with clothespins that it looked like a kind of deflated puffer fish with excessively large quills.

Then, of course, there was his very stretched hole. “AH! OUCH!” He protested as I pulled his buns apart to inspect it.

His hole still looked amazing, stretched wide, clenching and quivering like a flesh vortex. “It’s pretty red,” I said, probing with my finger a bit, “But you’re not torn or bleeding. Looks like I used enough oil.

I let go of his buns and put my arm around his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go down here.”

Prasang walked a little bowlegged, though that may have been from the clothespins knocking together on his sack as much as from his sore anus.

We moved in a meandering diagonal path down closer to the waves.

When I thought we were far enough out in the darkness, I helped Prasang kneel down in the sand. He tried to sit on his butt, but it hurt too badly and he remained on his knees.

I sat down in front of him. He waited with head bowed and hands behind his back, so very tired and obviously trying to brace himself for whatever cruelty I could possibly have planned for him next.

Was I going to beat him? Was I going to chastise him for those pictures with the pretty girls on the beach? It could have been anything and all he could do was wait and hope.

I reached up and unhooked one of two clothespin on his left earlobe, then tossed it away into the foaming water. I did the other one too, then moved on to his right ear, then to the two biting into his armpits.

He flinched when I reached for a peg on his nipple, expecting me to yank it. I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you anymore. I promise. Take a deep breath.” He drew air into his lungs as I completely liberated one nipple, then the other.

Once freed, he scratched the inflamed flesh above the left one again. It looked swollen and pinched, but began to immediately stretch itself back into shape.

I carried on this way with each individual clothespin assaulting his body, tossing them into the waves. I had promised I wouldn’t hurt him, but the nine on his scrotum were like porcupine quills and he hissed and flinched as I removed them.

Once he was finally free of every last clothespin, a shudder went through his body from his head to his knees.

He drew in a big breath and his entire being appeared to sigh in relief: His skin and his muscles along with all his most sensitive areas.

Once the clothespins were all gone, I took his right hand and undid the leather cuff on his wrist, pulling it free. I did the same with the left. Then, at long last, I unhooked his collar and removed it from around his throat.

Now blessedly naked again and free of any kind of assault or restraint, Prasang slumped down onto his backside. He rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had been and tilted his head this way and that, doing circles to loosen up his neck muscles.

He roved over his body with his hands, taking stock of the damage.

Still aware of me watching him, he dared to pull up his cock and rub his testicles, both of which were red and swollen like two Irwin mangoes.

I stuffed the collar and cuffs into the deep pocket of my cargo shorts, then scooted myself closer to him and drew him up against me. I put my hand on his shoulder and reached for his balls. “No!” he cried out before he could stop himself. “Shush, Prasang, it’s okay.”

I drew his hefty, flaccid cock aside and cupped his balls in my hand, rubbing them in a tender circular motion. “Stay still, now,” I said as he began to squirm, “It’ll help with the swelling.”

Silent tears rolled down his face as I massaged him. It hurt no matter how lightly I did it. His balls felt hard in their loose sack. After coming three times that day, there probably wasn’t a single sperm cell left in them.

“Prasang,” I said as I rubbed, “I have to leave a little earlier than planned. I know I said it would be four weeks, but I changed my flight and I’ll be leaving this Thursday.”

Prasang opened his wet eyes. He looked at me, incredulous as I continued rubbing between his legs.

“There’s something back in the States I need to take care of. So for the rest of this trip, you’re no longer at my command. I’m freeing you.”

Prasang grimaced as I rubbed and caressed his balls. As he took in what I was saying, what immediately washed over his face was relief, even a glimmer of joy. I couldn’t blame him for that, I knew it hadn’t been easy being my “companion.”

But this was followed by a look of apprehension and then panic.

Surely this had to be another mind game. A test of his loyalty.

“No, master!” He cried, turning to me. He seized me by the shoulders and actually shook me. His eyes darted about as he began to hyperventilate. “I-I want you. I wanted you the minute I saw you. You made my cock so hard. Harder than…”

I put my hand to his lips and shushed him. “It’s okay, Prasang,” I whispered, “It’s okay, beautiful, you don’t have to say that anymore. You’re free.”

He squeezed my shoulders hard as his face fell. Tears of pain were now becoming tears of grief. “Why, master, why?” He nearly shouted these words. “What did I do?” He shook me even harder. It was easy to underestimate how strong he actually was.

In his desperation he started kissing my face. He kissed me hard on the lips then bent down and started kissing my hands. I felt his tears falling on them.

He got on all fours and kissed my shorts just above where my cock was. He reached for my zipper and began to pull it down. “I love you, master, really! I want to be your boyfriend, I really do! Whatever I did, I’m sorry, master. I’m sorry I was a bad boy. Please, punish me master!”

“Prasang, stop!” I boomed a little too loudly. Martin and Gary, once again lounging in their chairs, looked over at us.

He did as I said. He let go of my zipper and sat back on his haunches, more frustrated than anything.

I understood where this was coming from and I wasn’t surprised. I had abused him physically and mentally all this time. He was so much under my control that this must have seemed like the ultimate betrayal. After all I had put him through, I was just going to leave?