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SAILING TO MALAYA: DANIEL

Life was changing so quickly for me, I thought. I was standing by the rail of our great sailing vessel as we floated down the African coast to round the Horn and cross the Indian Ocean in the summer of 1904 to reach my family’s plantation home in Malaya—to the home where I had been told I had spent my earlier life but that I could barely remember. I was barely fourteen now, but I had only been three when my father had died on the plantation in Malaya and my mother returned to England and married my step-father. Within four years, she too had died, and I was sent to a residential school. Now my step-father was gone as well, so it was back to Malaya, where the rubber plantation was mine—or would be when I reached twenty-one.

I felt so alone, but also so free. I was starting a whole new life.

We had put in at the Azores for a rest and reprovisioning, where there had been almost a complete change of crew, and where my new friend, Mario, a second mate and quite a strong and capable man of the world, had joined the voyage. And now we were scuttling down the African coast. I was exhilarated, moving toward the adventurous unknown in so many aspects of my life.

I was watching Mario driving the men on the lanyards in setting the sails properly to coax maximum speed out of the vessel. He was not one to just stand and bellow directions and insults. He, like the younger sailors, was stripped to the waist and showing them what he wanted. He was such a romantic figure, strongly built, heavily muscled, not an ounce of fat on him. And not a wasted movement either. His muscles bulged and contracted as he effortlessly performed maneuvers that made the younger sailors look clownishly clumsy, and the tattoos that covered his chest and arms dancing as he worked.

And he had taken an interest in me. I’d even been up in the rigging, with him showing me some of the fundamentals in setting sail, although the ship’s captain, in whose guardianship during the voyage I had been consigned, had declared that I was not to go farther up into the sparring than just the first level of spars. My thought was that Captain Trenton just did not want my muscles so tired that I would complain at the contortions he put me in when he covered me in his cabin in the night. I was not a virgin when I came on board the vessel and I was quite the expert submissive when I disembarked from it.

My initial thoughts during this voyage, after Mario came aboard and took an interest in me, were that I wanted to become a sailor and voyage freely around the world as well. Mario was all smiles and compliments and special attention to me. And I wanted to sail with Mario and be his friend—no, more than his friend. That was my second thought. I wanted to trace that tattooing on his chest with my fingers and lips as he joined his body to mine in what the poetry of sailing before the mast had promised me was paradise.

I got my wish.

Even at fourteen, I was not a virgin to men. The headmaster at the school I lived at in England, Chesterfield, had favored me for the time I was there. He had laid some of the other boys, in the years I had been there, and I knew he was interested in me—and I in him—but he had not come for me and brought me into his bed until he knew I had been orphaned and was going to be withdrawn from the school and sent to Malaya. I would be far, far away before anyone would care enough about my chastity to raise an objection to the headmaster putting his cock inside me.

He was a handsome man, with sensuous hands and a knowledge of how to take his pleasure and to give it to a boy. I went with him willingly and knowingly, and I lay on my back and opened my legs to him and he hovered over me, between my spread legs, buried his face between my cheeks and tongued me there as I writhed under him and groaned. When he rose over me, I felt him big and pressing at my entrance—then inside me, slowly, stretching me, holding me close and whispering to me as I panted and opened to him and wrapped my legs around his back as he fully possessed me and moved inside me, both hurting and pleasuring me. Making me his. In subsequent visits to his bed, he taught me to suck a man’s cock and to take it inside me in various positions, to ride it, and to take its seed.

So, it was not as a novice that I went to Captain Trenton’s bunk in his cabin or that I dreamed of Mario being inside me. Mario opened up a whole new, exotic world to me of possibilities and pleasures to pursue.

Although I knew from his looks at and touching of me that the ship’s captain wanted me to ride him, it was I who initiated the first connection, which came before the night of the gale. Our rounding of the Horn was a rough one, as I was told was typical. We were beset by a gale at night. The ship tossed and groaned and I grew afraid that it would split apart. I was in a single cabin near the crew’s quarters. I needed the comfort and assurances of the ship’s captain. I needed him to hold me tight, to fuse with me, and to lose myself in concentrating of him churning inside me.

We had been no more than a couple of days out from Southampton, along the coast of France, when Captain Trenton had first taken me to his cabin and fucked me. He was both surprised and delighted that I’d already had experience, even at fourteen, with lying under a man. I think he would have fucked me anyway—a ship’s captain is God of the world of his ship while the ship is on the seas—but it made it all the easier for both of us that I had the experience and willingness to lie under him, which I did nearly every third night for the ships transit to Asia.

I was afraid during the night of the gale, and all I wanted was the comfort of the ship’s captain. Or I thought that was all that I wanted. He was good to me. He fucked me, but he had been gentle with me, taking his time in mounting and penetrating me, waiting for me to be able to stretch to him—he wasn’t overly large—and giving me a lot of attention in encouragement and embracing and stroking me with his hands while he was building up to breed me, to release his seed inside me. And then he held me close and whispered nice things to me after he’d taken what he wanted, what he needed, from me. He was a lot nicer to me than the headmaster at Chesterfield had been.

I left my cabin the night of the gale at the Horn of Africa, barefoot and in only my sleeping skivvies because of the heat at this latitude, and I headed for the captain’s cabin on the deck above mine. I was at the ladder, though, when Mario came out of his cabin close by. He was no more dressed than I was, and he looked magnificent—all power and graceful movement and undulating tattoos.

Mario asked me what my problem was, and I told him I was afraid to be alone in the gale. He said he would keep me company through the storm. He said we would need to go back to my cabin, though, as he shared his, and the other sailor had just come back from his watch and needed his sleep.

Once in my cabin, I lay down on my bunk, and in the light of a single lantern, Mario stretched out beside me and embraced me, just as the headmaster at Chesterfield had done after telling me my step-father had died, leaving me with no living relatives in England. And then as the ship’s captain, more gently than the headmaster, did. And Mario murmured comforting words to me and stroked my curly hair. I sighed at this comfort, and he kissed me on the back of my neck, and when I turned my face to him, he kissed me on the lips. I got more comfort and pleasure out of his kisses than I had from those of the headmaster or Captain Trenton. His body was rubbing on mine, moving against me rhythmically, insistently. I sighed for him and opened my legs for him to lie between them.

Perhaps it was because he was younger and more hard-bodied than either the headmaster or the captain that I wanted him so much. He was more fit man than the headmaster, although he was a man far older than I was, and he was far more handsome than the ship’s captain was.

As Captain Trenton did when he lay with me, Mario moved his hands around and down my body—and I felt a thrill at how calloused his hands were. Not the hands of school headmaster or even a ship’s captain, but the hands of a hard manually working man. A man of the world, of the deck, and of the ship’s sails’ sheeting. A man who had told me of places I could go in the world—places he could take me—and did so in oblique language that only now was revealing its intent to me. My fingers went to the tattooing on his chest, and I followed the lines, first with my fingers and then, as I moaned with my trembling lips at the feel of his fingers encasing my peter, with my trembling lips. Now I understand what he had been talking about all along.

For some reason what I was thinking and what Mario was doing with his hands made me begin to move my hips and to audibly sigh. His hand squeezed my betraying peter, and Mario was stroking that—just as the ship’s captain had done, but with oh so much more pleasure conveyed.

Mario turned my face to his with his free hand and we kissed again, and unlike the kissing I had done with the headmaster, his kissing was hard, and he was pushing my mouth open with his tongue and moving that inside my mouth, taking my breath away. He turned me from him, and I now could feel something hard at the small of my back. His peter. It was moist and rubbing up and down at the small of my back. And now he was moaning just as I was. It had never been this way, this intense, this frightening, this pleasurable with either the headmaster at Chesterfield o the ship’s captain.

Mario turned me on my back again, and he was moving his lips down my chest and belly. I arched my back and gave a little cry as he nipped at my nipples, which gave me a whole new, arousing feeling I’d never had before. Nothing in what I had experienced with the headmaster or Captain Trenton had come anywhere close to realizing the waves of pleasure that rolled over me when Mario slowly swallowed my peter in his mouth. With a jerk and a gasp, I immediately flowed for him.

I was mortified and thought he’d be angry, but Mario just laughed and turned me on my belly again, and I felt his fingers pulling my buttocks cheeks apart. And I heard his exclamation of delight, and then felt his moist lips on my hole.

I was trembling and moaning again. I knew where this was leading. It had scared me when the headmaster and ship’s captain were preparing me for mounting. It scared me now. But now I wanted it more than I had wanted it from either of the other two men.

Mario ran his hands down the inside of my right thigh and up the left one, coaxing me to open to him, to spread my legs for him to come down with his knees between them. I opened my legs again and he moved between them. I clutched at his shoulder blades with my fingers and cried out and groaned as he penetrated me and moved up inside me, stretching me, thicker and longer than either the headmaster or the ship’s captain. And I moaned and my hands moved to clutching his constricting and expanding buttocks cheeks as he moved inside me, ever faster, ever deeper, until with a mutual cry, I came and he came as well.

We had lain there, panting and cooling down, only briefly when the door to my cabin flew open and a lantern shed full light on our sin. I hadn’t even noticed, but the gale had abated, and Captain Trenton, who had come to check on me in my cabin, launched himself at the bunk like a fury and dragged Mario toward the door. Soon there were other men of the crew there at the door and in the corridor, my having had the presence of mind to pull the coverlet on the bunk over me. But Mario standing there, naked, in all his tattooed glory, which included a glorious erect, red-bulbed peter, made quite clear to all what had transpired.

Mario was dragged out under the instructions of the first mate. The captain stayed only long enough to ask, “Did he? Did he get his cock—?”

My failure to answer told him all he needed know. “No matter,” Captain Trenton said. “I think you shall sleep in the captain’s cabin for the remainder of the voyage.”

And that’s what I did. I slept in the captain’s cabin, under Captain Trenton, until we reached Malaya. I never saw Mario again, and while the ship sailed across the Indian Ocean, one of the ship’s mates, under the captain’s orders, was by my side throughout the day when I came out on deck.

I cannot say I didn’t appreciate the cocking of the captain during the remainder of the voyage, but I did not forget that there were men, like Mario, who could do it better—or that, despite only being fourteen, I would not continue seeking such men out.

SETTLING IN AT GLORIANA: DANIEL

“Daniel, this is Russell Singleton, your plantation overseer,” the solicitor, Gilbert Murdoch, who had been sent to meet my ship from England and, eventually, to convey me to my family’s plantation said, as we descended from the carriage that had carried us down the long, tree-shadowed drive from the main road to the big house at Gloriana, my family’s—now my—rubber plantation. Murdoch, the twenty-five-year-old son of his family’s firm, was being dedicated to settled me in country holding. It was still unclear what adult would live with me until I had reached my majority and would be able to control my assets on my own. “But perhaps you remember Mr. Singleton or me from your childhood.”

The drive from where just our rubber plantation land had started at the muddy track that passed for a main road seemed like it had gone on forever. Gilbert already seemed right at home here, though. I had remained in Georgetown on the western coast of Malaya, north of our lands, when Gilbert had gone on to the estates in Rantau Panjang to prepare the house for habitation. No one had lived in the main house since my father had died and my mother moved back to England.

I didn’t remember Russell from my childhood, I must say. But I would have liked to be able to say I remembered someone like the man who was now standing before me. Russell was older than Gilbert, perhaps in his early thirties. He was dark, and handsome, and brown as a berry from, no doubt, years of working in the fields in the tropics. He was slim and wiry and so well muscled that the veins in his arms ran just below the surface of the skin, having no meat to shield them.

For some reason the sight of those veins sent an electric current charging through my body. I couldn’t imagine him looking more unclothed if he had been naked, and my eyes kept stealing to the veins as they ran up under the sleeves of his shirt—and I wanted to touch them, to follow them, to see where they went. I was reminded of Mario’s undulating tattoos and how they aroused me—and I had the same response to the ruggedness of Russell. He was wearing a cleaned and pressed khaki shirt and trousers, and he had sandals on his brown feet. The look of his naked toes also gave me a little charge.

I had been impressed with the young, blond looks of Gilbert Murdoch when he met my ship and was settling me into the hotel in Georgetown and had speculated on whether we would ever do more than exchange handshakes—he seemed interested in me beyond that—but seeing the man now who was the overseer of my plantation made me wonder if I could make him my personal overseer as well.

Even in the weeks of the journey from the Horn across the Indian Ocean and then followed by another month in Georgetown, I had not forgotten the night with Mario and the heights of unquenched arousal and fulfillment that he had taken me to. I had been in a perpetual state of arousal since that moment. Lying under the old ship’s captain was nothing like what Mario had aroused in me.

I would not deny it now that I had had a taste of a variety of men. I lusted for men. I wanted to do it with men—men older than me—not with boys my own age. Rugged men. Exotic men. Men of mystery and sensual power. I wanted to be dominated and treated roughly. I had a long time to think about it as I was locked in my cabin while crossing the Indian Ocean, left to pleasuring myself and the somewhat tame attentions of the ship’s captain after what I had gotten from Mario, not able to come anywhere close to the heights Mario had brought me. Mario would have continued to satisfy me, would have quenched the fires burning inside me. I was sure of it. If only we had not been interrupted.

I was charged and in a state. The look of Russell Singleton aroused me. The look of Gilbert aroused me too, but even as I thought that, I knew it was improbable. Gilbert would leave and go back to Georgetown when I was settled. Also, from the looks I saw Russell and Gilbert exchange, I gathered that Gilbert’s wants were like mine and that he would be of no use to me. Russell would be here after Gilbert returned to Georgetown, no matter what arrangements were made for a guardianship. That didn’t stop me from viewing the blond, trim Gilbert Murdoch, though. Perhaps it was his inevitable return to Georgetown that still attracted me. But the attraction to the plantation overseer was even greater.

I slitted my eyes, and the hand I laid in Russell Singleton’s was trembling. His eyes took on a look of surprise, and he gave me a second, more intense look. I wanted him to know that all he need do was ask.

The house at Gloriana was large, but certainly not as large as either of our country houses in England—those of my mother’s and my step-father’s families. But it was exotic. All made of wood, weathered gray now, although as he escorted us around the periphery of the building, Gilbert was saying that he would have it whitewashed straight away. And then he looked at me and smiled, and I knew who would be doing the whitewashing.

When I had reached Georgetown, his father had told me in no uncertain terms that I was being returned to Malaya to become toughened and to earn my patrimony through hard work, personally applied. From the outside, the great house was one story, all columns and a deep veranda on all sides. Gilbert told us that this was needed to keep the house as cool as possible, as were the glass-paned floor-to-ceiling doors to the outside, in all the rooms, instead of the usual windows.

Down the slope of lawn, I could see a small, marshy lagoon with a white-painted summer pavilion at its edge and across the lake a bungalow. Gilbert told me it was the overseer’s bungalow, that this had been my father’s first house on the plantation. I did not remember any of this beyond a gleam of recognition of the great house and a stronger hazy memory of the summer house—of playing in it with a native nanny. But it was to the bungalow across the lake that my eyes and thoughts drifted, and as Gilbert droned on about domestic issues, I let my imagination drift to the veranda of the bungalow and inside, to the heavy teak, mosquito netting-draped bed of Russell, the overseer. In my imaginings he was lying on the bed, naked, and my eyes went to the veining running up his arms and then suddenly his arms were tattooed and he was Russell and Mario rolled into one. And he was beckoning to me and lifting me with strong, veined hands at my waist and lowering me onto his hard, jutting cock. And impaling me and sending waves and waves of ecstasy through my body.

All, of course, in my imagination. There wasn’t anyone on the bungalow’s veranda at all. And I was just fourteen. Surely, Russell Singleton would not be attracted to a fourteen-year-old boy.

“Daniel? Daniel? Are you coming along with me? We are going inside.” It was Gilbert who brought me out of my reverie, and he was giving me such a strange look that I blushed at the thought that he could read my mind. I mumbled something incoherent that even I didn’t understand and turned from the view of the bungalow across the lagoon and toward the shadows of the veranda.

When we were entering the house again, we were met at the door by a tall and well-built Malay gentleman of about Russell’s age, or about five years older. He was wearing a sarong tied at his waist, his filled-out chest uncovered and berry brown, and he had intricate tattooing all over his torso and a sunburst tattooed around his navel. My thoughts, of course, went to Mario once more and I blushed and lowered my eyes. The Malay’s feet were bare, and as it had done when I saw Russell in his sandals, my body reacted to his long, thin toes. He was wearing gold anklet bands, two to each ankle, and there was a gemstone on a leather necklace around his neck, the gem nestling in the cleft of his pectoral muscles.

“Ah, there you are, Junada,” Gilbert said “This, Daniel, is the major domo of Gloriana. Nothing gets done here without Junada’s guidance. He controls and directs all of the Malay workers—those in the rubber tree plantations and in the factory and in the house alike. Your family would not have been able live here without Junada.”

As I turned to look at the Malay, his eyes penetrated me, almost to my center, I thought. He took my hand in his, and, oddly, he folded his thumb under so that it was between our palms and, without anyone being able to see it, he was stroking my palm with his thumb. This sensation went directly to my peter and I began to tremble.

“Ah, I remember you, Master Daniel,” he said. “You have grown to be a beautiful boy.”

Junada knew I was trembling and he knew why. I felt totally open—naked—to him, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that his understanding pierced to the very heart of me—that he knew what I wanted, what I was ripe for. And there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that Junada would make sure I got what I wanted. I knew that if no one else here would fulfill my wants and needs, that Junada would—that he would give me the fulfillment that was eluding me. Whereas I was in a quandary whether Russell Singleton could be aroused by a fourteen-year-old boy, I had no such question that Junada would be—and was.

Memories came back into my mind of overhearing my mother and father arguing about Junada—my mother wanting him dismissed for something to do with houseboys, but my father saying that Junada had too much power in the surrounding countryside and that he would have to be kept on and accommodated. Remembering that the issue had had something to do with houseboys made me shudder—in anticipation. He looked like he would be a cruel lover, and I, embarrassingly, did not find that off putting.

The look he gave me made me to understand that he had desires too—and that they involved me and that he would not make me wait long. For some reason, that comforted and calmed me, and I lost much of the tension that had plagued me since I had lost the ability to continue with Mario on the ship. I was pleased that Junada was tattooed, and I could only hope that he was as hugely built as Mario had been. I wanted my experiences in my new exotic home to be total.

The first weeks at Gloriana didn’t go so smoothly. The house just wasn’t habitable yet to the standards Gilbert Murdoch demanded before he would go back to England. At first I fancied that he was putting his departure off because he was trying to build up to approaching me. Despite what I had seen being expressed in looks between him and Russell Singleton, I believed he wanted to cover me and I wanted him to do so before he returned to Georgetown. But he didn’t approach me in the way I wanted him to, and that was increasingly frustrating. At the same time the overseer, Russell rarely came to the main house. When he did so, I had the feeling he wanted to say something to me, to make some sort of approach, but, like Gilbert, he held off. Only Junada was ever near me, watching me with an assessing eye. I got the impression he wanted me to beg him for it. At some point, I was afraid that I would—and that he would take that as license to be cruel to me.

Gilbert’s departure only increased the sexual tension at Gloriana—at least for me. The possible lovers being reduced to two seemed only to increase the feeling of two lions circling me, looking for me to choose and for the other to back off. Whenever I encountered Russell Singleton, he lowered his eyes and began to stutter. If he had taken my hand anytime in those weeks and walked me through the garden to the pavilion by the small lagoon that was set up as a living area for those times when the breeze coming across the water was more inviting than whatever breeze could be coaxed through the doors of the house, I would have gone with him and let him unburden me of my increasingly agitated unfulfilled state.

Twice I left my bed at night and padded around the lagoon to the overseer’s bungalow and stood there in the shadows of the veranda and watched Russell sleep, cocooned in the mosquito netting of his heavy teak bed. He wasn’t alone in his bed. Each time I went there, there was a boy in his bed—a different one each time. The houseboys were young, like I was, fourteen, small, berry-brown. This dispelled my fear that the overseer would not be aroused by a boy.

They, like Russell, were naked in the bed. It was quite clear that the overseer had fucked them before they’d slept. Once I was still there, observing, when Russell woke, brought one of the houseboys into his embrace, and, indeed, mounted him and fucked him. The setting was just as I had imagined it in my reverie. Everything was as I imagined save that I wasn’t one of the houseboys in his bed. But there was no beckoning Russell. I could not build up the courage to go to him, but no matter how hard I willed it, on no occasion did he beckon to me and take and lift me with strong hands at my waist and lower me on his shaft as he did with the houseboys.

As for Junada, he was always there, in the house, in the background. Where Russell lowered his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to look at me without doing what he knew he had no license to do, Junada was always boring his hot gaze into me, waiting, I supposed, for me to come to his bead and surrender to him.

As it was, it was neither of those men who had me next. That was left to a muscular Malay field worker among the rubber trees. I rode out into the fields one day on a horse, unable to take the sexual tension at the main house any more—and, I admit—randy as I could be. At the edge of a field, by a water canal lined with ferns and tropical trees, I came upon a strong-looking Malay man fucking a boy of my age. The man wasn’t young, but he was strong, muscular, and virile.

I didn’t retreat from the scene. I came off my horse and stood there, watching, one of my hands going to my crotch, unbuttoning myself, releasing my peter, and relieving my tension with my hand. The worker, who appeared to be in his forties but magnificent of hard-worked body, knew I was watching. Still, he took his time with the boy. He seemed, though, to have changed what he was doing. He no longer was working on his own release, just that of the boy. I wondered why this was so, until I saw that he kept looking at me while he moved his hands on the boy, bringing the lad to and beyond an ejaculation. He had withdrawn his cock from the boy and replaced that with a fist, up to the knuckles, fucking the boy with his hand. As he did so, he kept turning his eyes on me.

Then it occurred to me. If I remained there and did not leave, I was giving him permission to mount me. He was reserving his climax, his release of seed, to be performed on me—if I did not leave.

I remained there until he was finished with the boy and the lad had raced off, satisfied, it appeared, glad of having been chosen for sex by the magnificent Malay muscle man.

The man fucked me over a fallen log, with my belly on the log and my legs dangling off one side and my arms and torso off the other. He held me in place with his hands clutching my hips. We both were naked. He mounted and thrust up into me with a thick, brown cock, and when I adjusted to him, he fucked me and fucked me and fucked, snorting and groaning, as I panted and moaned. It was the release I needed. He shot a good load too.

After he had released inside me, he rolled both of us off the log to where we were sitting in the ferns, back to the log.

“My name is Daniel,” I said. “I’m from—”

“I know who you are,” he said in passable English. “I know where you come from. I knew your father. I knew your father as I have just known you. My name is Sannan. I did for your father what I will do for you again if you come back here during the day. This is the field I work in. Those workers out there work for me as much as they did for your father or will do for you. My name means ‘daring, one who is fearless and dauntless.’ I will work for you if you, like your father did, lie under me. If not, I will go elsewhere to work and to take my pleasures.”

He looked into my face then to see what I was going to do. It was a shock to learn that my father had the same urges I did and acted on them. But I gave him no blame for that. Instead of voicing an answer, I reached out and touched him on the chest, circling a bulging breast and nipple with my fingers and slowly sliding my hand down his sternum, across his flat, muscular belly, and into his pubic thatch. Before I had reached his shaft, he had put an arm around me, laid me in the ferns on my back, coaxed my legs open to him, mounted me, and fucked me again.

The third time I rode out to the canal bank in search of relief, I found that Sannan wasn’t waiting for me alone. Two other strapping Malay field workers were there with him, Putera and Haruun. Both of them fucked me without leave and as if by right—certainly with the permission of Sannan, who acted as if he owned me. And I suppose he did if that was required of me to lie under the brown, muscular man with the magnificent shaft. Putera and Haruun were often there when I rode to the canal bank and, more than taking me separately, the three sometimes went round robin in taking me together. I even learned to manage two men’s cocks inside me at the same time.