by Young
The clicking cameras stirred our extroverted exhibitionism to unbridled perspicuity. The closer our proximity, the greater our attraction. Even though our hardness palpitated rapaciously and streams of oozing precum dribbled onto the floor, we maintained a deferential decorum. It was an effort to withhold the prurience we felt for one another. While the Arabian had a field day capturing us, the Italian shuttered away unswervingly in the foreground at the exotic female. Zentonia’s diaphanous gown camouflaged our unabated nudity as she pranced around rhythmically to the sound of the accompanying Indian musicians.
I was glad when Mario signalled the end of our session. When my chaperone handed me my clothes, he gave me a knowing grin and remarked, “The both of you gave a great show.”
“It’s nothing but a pontifical performance,” I joked.
“I think there is more than what meets the eye,” my Valet replied. I grinned but did not answer, and before he could resume, the photographers announced that we were to proceed to the adjoining palace. I took the opportunity to accompany my teacher while Zac joined Andy, Albert and a couple of the models to our next destination.
Alain queried, “What’s going on? Are you falling head over heels for the model?”
I chirped, “What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean exactly that. Are you falling in love with Philip?”
We walked in silence for a while before I questioned, “Sir, the Maharishi mentioned a new kind of meditation technique during our golf club dinner. Will you be practicing this technique with us anytime soon?”
“He is an enlightened sage. I am planning to incorporate some of his techniques into my Zentology practices. My research will benefit greatly from his expertise.” He added, “I have requested Prince P’s permission to spend time with the guru when your new teacher arrives. You and Albert will be in capable hands.
“But, in the meantime,” he continued, “come to my chamber this evening. We’ll practice a new approach. You can be my guinea pig, and we’ll continue our discussion.”
Jehangir Mahal
We had arrived at our next destination, the Jehangir Mahal, built in the 17th century A.D. when the then-ruler of the region, Raja Bir Singh Ju Deo, built the structure to commemorate the Mughal Emperor Jahangir during his visit to the city. Artistically arranged turquoise tiles framed the grand gateway. Abutting Timurid style domes, hanging balconies, porches, and a great number of ornately decorated chambers surrounded a spacious courtyard, where a large rectangular fountain took center stage. During the heydays of the Mughal Empire, this expansive courtyard was built to accommodate the entry of war elephants.
True to form, the Italian count had hired a couple of performing elephants for our photo-shoot. Now, Andy, Zac and Arian served as the naked accessories to the two elegantly dressed female models. While we enjoyed the bejewelled models and performing elephants, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was none other than the sinewy male I had partnered with a few moments ago. He signalled for me to follow.
Without stirring anyone’s attention (or so we thought) we snuck out of the courtyard to an inconspicuous section. Phillip pulled me to him roughly. He cupped my mouth, besieging me not to make a sound, uttering, “Trust me, I won’t harm you.” He tied my hands above my head with a kerchief. I was excited yet unsure what to make of this unanticipated action. Throughout our Sacred Sex in Sacred Places liaison, he had been a respectful gentleman, yet I was aroused by his ruttish behaviour now.
Before I had time to assess his actions, he had yanked my pants down, exposing my pulsating excitement. He pushed me against a pillar and planted a desirous kiss in my mouth as our palpitations gyrated against each other. He tied my hands to the decorative column. I had always played by the rules, obeying the directives of my BBs, teachers and mentors; now, I found myself tantalized by this forbidden fruit, this unbridled exaltation that was consuming both my physical and mental sobriety. This unlicensed licentiousness had provoked a rebelliousness I didn’t know I possessed.
Our heated passion kindled a fiery lust I found difficult to resist. Kneeling in front of me, this devilish vagrant plunged onto my throbbing vivaciousness, savouring the heat he had inspired. His roguish masculinity synthesized every fibre of my being as I wiggled my feed into his receiving orifice. This illegitimate intercourse had heightened my sensory vicariousness. I felt like a voyeur keeping secret vigilance over a verboten phenomenon I had no control of.
The oral ecstasy, combined with my bondage, surged my pelvis towards my willing receiver. He gagged on my impalation, gorging my hardness into the furthest reaches of his oesophagus. His sturdy palm gripped my buttocks while the other fondled my hardened jewels. Our eyes met in lecherous pruriency as I plunged into his salivary opening with abandonment. The very sight of my jamming protrusion and his bouncing prominence sent me over the edge. He lapped and gobbled at my rhapsodic delivery, as if thirst had vanquished his sanity.
Craving to revive my fading profundity, he continued kindling my limping stiffness. To my bewilderment, his smouldering oral expertise swiftly readied me for the second round of our impetuous lovemaking.
I reciprocated with gusto, tying his wrists to the column, savouring every inch of his drumming engorgement. I smoked, blew and inhaled his manliness deep into my yearning throat while twisting and pinching his protruding nipples, urging him to climactic ecstasy. But when he was on the verge of release, I withdrew my oral stimulation. Again and again, he begged for my orifice as his hardness bounced with burning anticipation. Only then did I oblige.
The sight of his vulnerability aroused me immensely. I wanted to torment his sex, to see it throb helplessly before pleasuring him again. Watching this satyr surrender had enlivened my ruthlessness. I was enjoying the role of the Master. When he could no longer hold off his exuberance and shot streams of gushing masculinity onto my face, I was ready to caress his warm saltiness back into his hankering mouth. Thus we sealed our secret liaison with our effervescent deposits in a lingering kiss. We melted effortlessly into an unspoken infatuation that would soon prove devastating to our emotional wellbeing.
Rai Parveen Mahal
By the time we rejoined our entourage, the models and photographers were already proceeding to the third location. The elephants had departed. In their place, the hired hands were loading the photographic equipment into vehicles bound for the final locale. Since this palace was within walking distance, the majority of us went on foot to the lush gardens, built in honor of the beautiful Rai Parveen. Legend has it that this charismatic poetess and musician, more commonly known as the Nightingale of Orchha, was also the paramour of Raja Idrajit Singh of Orchha. During the reign of Emperor Akbar, she was summoned to his court, but although the emperor was smitten by her beauty and talents, he was equally impressed by her love for the Raja. Being an honorable ruler, Akbar returned her to Orchha without destroying her dignity or her kingdom. Rai Parveen Mahal was now a befitting memorial to this great lady.
A group of Indian classical dancers were already waiting for our entourage. This time around, Albert and I modeled, partly clothed, alongside the flamboyantly adorned females.
Both Mario and Aziz installed their loincloth-clad lads into seductive poses. When the cameras clicked over the sounds of the musicians and dancers, Albert whispered audaciously, “I saw what you and Philip did at Jehangir Mahal.”
I pretended not to have heard him and continued posing.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I saw the two of you making out,” he continued.
I kept quiet and concentrated on my task.
“I’m going to tell on the both of you,” he threatened irritatingly.
The boy was obviously provoking me. I did not answer. With every pronouncement, he became angrier, fuming with signs of visible displeasure at my unresponsiveness. Although the accompanying dancers had no idea what Albert was carrying on about, his conduct had roused an air of discontentment and was affecting their performance. Ho
ping his egocentric monologue would dissipate sooner rather than later, they gave the juvenile unappealing glances but continued dancing.
By now, the count had detected the disquietude and bid the group to take a break. Without warning, Albert hurdled a slew of verbal abuses at me. Our entourage was shocked, especially Andy.
He quickly escorted the teenager to a quiet corner to see what had come over him. Albert sobbed uncontrollably. Judging by his demeanor, he was obviously giving his Valet an invidious account of Philp’s and my comportment at Jehangir Mahal. I then understood that the juvenile was not jealous of my tryst with Phillip but was instead secretly hoping his declaration would fracture Andy’s relationship with me.
By the time we recommenced the photography, Albert had apologized and asked my forgiveness. I looked at Andy for assurance, not knowing what to make of this sudden transformation. He smiled and winked, indicating that all was resolved.
Although I accepted my friend’s apology, this incident had created an unspoken apprehension between us, and likewise between Albert and Andy.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Imperial Jurisdictions
“Negotiations are not policies, but techniques you use to your advantage.”
Count Mario Conti
2012
Continuation of my message to Andy
Andy, I hope you don’t mind me asking a personal question. I will understand if you choose not to answer, since it is none of my business. I’m curious to find out your current dating and relationship status. ☺
Are you single, dating, or happily re-partnered after Albert’s passing?
Yours truly,
Young
1968
Mr. Romesh Thapar
Mr. Romesh Thapar, the then director of India International Centre, was a connected man, even when he was a journalist with The Times of India during the early days of his career. With his family’s wealth, he started Cross Roads, an English language magazine offering views rather than news, and combining high-brow intellectualism with communist ideology. His magazine was banned by the Madras State government for supposedly publishing critical and defamatory views of India’s Congress party, which had just begun ruling India after spearheading the country’s independence movement. True to form, he petitioned the Supreme Court to overturn the ban. This led to the First Amendment of the Constitution of India, in which Parliament placed restrictions on the freedom of speech and expression of Hindus, making it a crime to incite public disorder.
Thapar was also associated with Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA), a society of left-wing theatre-artists. Its goal - to bring cultural awakening among the people of India. But, in reality, it was the cultural wing of India’s communist party. Romesh’s involvement was in script writing and story formulation for films inspired by communist ideology.
During the time of our acquaintance, the Indian and his wife had become part of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s inner circle. This connection brought the man significant clout in society and government. Numerous patronages were showered on him, including directorship of the India International Centre, the National Books Development Board, the India Tourism Development Corporation (ITDC), and last but not least, a vice- chairpersonship of the National Bal Bhavan, an institution which aims to enhance the creative potential of children by providing them with activities, opportunities and a common platform to interact, experiment, create and perform according to their age, aptitude and ability. All these sinecures were government conferrals by successive congressional party organisations.
Therefore, it came as no surprise when Esquire Snow introduced our wealthy and accomplished photographer Count Mario Conti and our equally wealthy Arabians to Mr. Thapar and his wife. Snow’s political agenda was to be in the good graces of all parties involved. Through this edifying liaison, the Indian politician hoped to expand India’s cultural artistry to a wider audience, especially the Bollywood film industry, until then unknown to the western world. He also hoped to generate investments from oil-rich Arab nations to grow India’s economy, thereby strengthening his position within Indira Gandhi’s favour.
The Imperial New Delhi
I was surprised to see Sheik Fahrib with Prince P and Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani at the Art Deco style Tea Lounge within Delhi’s finest historical hotel – The Imperial New Delhi. This monumental oasis of calm and comfort sums up the understated elegance of its creator, the architect Lutyens’ grand vision for India’s Capital City’s original master plan.
The Imperial welcomed our three Rolls Royces down its driveway, flanked by twenty-four royal king palms. We were then greeted by several immaculately dressed turbaned doormen. I experienced déjà vu of time spent with my mother at the Old Colonial-style Singapore Raffles, and of the Edwardian opulence of the Hong Kong Peninsular. Awash in white, this Grande Dame had successfully preserved her historical aura, presenting residents with an air of imperial British India. The mélange of high ceilings, stunning crystal chandeliers, sparkling marble floors, and large mahogany tables, along with impressive collections of original 18th and 19th century art, adorned the corridors of her priceless heritage. This Legendary Lady had indeed played host to some celebrated moments between the British and Indian aristocracy.
My halcyon Malayan childhood came flooding to the forefront as remembrance of my mother and female relatives brought tears to my eyes. I missed them terribly. They had been an important part of my pre-pubescent years.
As if by divine sagacity, Andy, who sat next to me, reached his hand inconspicuously to hold mine. I stared out the car window without uttering a word. None of the passengers but my big brother felt my melancholy. His gentle fingers caressed my palm, soothing away the inquietude that had suddenly befallen my person. This guardian of mine seemed to know every part of me; my thoughts and needs were his alone to decrypt. As if by magic, my melancholia dissipated as quickly as it came. We had not exchanged glances, or even a single syllable, yet love had miraculously encircled us, merging us into a Oneness of Being, a knowingness that required no explanation – only subliminal acceptance. Ours to share was this love, which truly dared not speak its name.
The Tea Lounge
Sitting with the three Arabs at the Imperial tea lounge was a pretty young female, Narnia, and her attractive big sister, Coraline. I knew instinctively that they were both E.R.O.S. recruits. They had an irrefutable air of beauty, poise and social grace that all E.R.O.S. members possess. I immediately took a liking to Narnia, who was two months older than me. She had been allocated to the prince’s household, the Quwah, shortly after my departure. Like me, she was curious to explore the vast array of priceless objects displayed along the walls and corridors of this museum hotel. Since the Imperial’s inauguration by Lord Willingdon in 1936, it had been a repository of art and a home to many famous British artists, the likes of Thomas and William Daniells, William Simpson, William Hodges, John Zollony, James Ferguson, J.B. Fraser, Emily Eden, and Charles D’Oyly, among others too numerous to name.
We E.R.O.S. recruits and our respective chaperones, together with Professor Dubois and the art historian Jabril, excused ourselves to inspect the extensive collections, while the rest of our entourage discussed various business and social propositions over tea and alcoholic beverages.
Jabril began to give us a historical run-down of this resplendent establishment. “Are you aware that the hotel’s Lion insignia was conferred by Lady Willingdon?” he proclaimed to Alain, then to the rest of us.
Dubois shook his head. He countered, “Did you know The Imperial was the first amongst the legendary ‘Four Maidens of the East,’ - The Strand in Rangoon, Raffles in Singapore, and The Lalit Great Eastern & Oriental in Calcutta?”
Before either men could commence a deliberation over who knew more of the hotel’s history, Coraline injected, “India was writing the last chapters of its saga of independence when The Imperial opened its doors in the 1930s.”
She paused before proce
eding, “Pandit Nehru, Mahatama Gandhi, Muhammad Ali Jinnah and Lord Mountbatten met under congenial conditions to discuss the partition of India and the creation of Pakistan on the very ground we stand on. Adding to that, the Nehru family also had a permanent suite within the walls of this ‘Maiden of the East.’” She let out a discreet chuckle that I think only I caught.
Both men stared at the female, not knowing how to respond. Before either one of them could opine, she continued, “If only walls could speak. Here indeed is a repository of fascinating anecdotal material for authors of romantic and detective fiction. It was here, at this very site, that one could clink glasses for the Royals to their war efforts, urge Gandhi to quit the India movement, or dance to the strains of Blue Danube, belly dance like a belle from Beirut or be serenaded by an orchestra from London.”
The group of us stared at the big sister, wondering how in the world she knew so much about The Imperial. My teacher and Jabril pressed for affirmation. Instead, she vociferated, “Notably, The Imperial has the largest collection on display of land war gallantry awards in India and among its neighbouring countries such as Afghanistan, Burma, Bhutan and China. It also holds a sizeable record of orders and decorations bestowed by the British Royalties to the Emperor of India as an honour to the local Maharajas, Sultans and ruling Princes from the various Indian states.”