Gay Erotic Stories

The driver merely nodded his head vigorously and smiled a silly smile.

The door was opened by a slim, young Thai man, who was bare-chested and wearing a cotton sarong around his waist that reached down nearly to bare feet. Lars never ceased to be amazed that Thai servants of the wealthy and titled continued to dress in this traditional style, which was highly provocative, at least to a Westerner like him. As the hotel car driver was doing, the servant was showing a silly grin. Lars had been in Bangkok long enough—nearly two weeks—to know that this was a sign of slight nervousness in a Thai.

If it was any consolation, he thought, he felt as out of place here as they were thinking him to be.

“I am Khun Krieger,” Lars said. “I was given this address to meet Mom Rajawongse Amnad Pramoj for consultations. Is this the residence of Mom Rajawongse Krit Thanawat?” It was a mouthful, but Lars had no idea how to address these Thai royals. He only knew that they were touchy that way until they told you otherwise. He was on a first-name basis—and more—with Amnad, the architect he was working with in Bangkok to construct sets for a royal command performance of Verdi’s Rigoletto. But he didn’t know how he should address him in public. Amnad had explained that a Mom Rajawongse was “just the son of a son of a king,” which had still sounded impressive until Amnad had smiled and said that his grandfather, King Chulalongkhon, had sired more than a hundred children. “MRs have fallen on Thailand like raindrops in a monsoon,” Amnad had said.

But so far Lars had found the few MRs Amnad had introduced him to to be filthy rich and to be treated like gods by the general populous.

“Khunchai Amnad and Khunchai Krit are within,” the servant said in a soft voice, as he lowered his eyes and gave Lars a wai, which was a hand palm-to-palm greeting of respect, accompanied by a bowing of the head. Ah, “khun” is good enough for me, but an MR gets to be called “khunchai,” Lars thought. How much of this would he have to learn—and use—for the short time he would be in Thailand.

Also, the lower the bow, Lars had gathered, the greater the respect. The servant was bowing a bit from the waist, so Lars assumed he was being given a great deal of respect—even if he was only a “khun.” The sidelong glance he got from the young man indicated hints of interests of another sort—like maybe the respect was more for Lars’ physique, rugged good looks, and blond curls than for his possible station in life.

Lars knew he looked good and squared away, although he was somewhat uncomfortable in the traditional long-sleeved creamy silk Siamese-style shirt he was wearing over black tux trousers. Amnad had invited him here to consult over an early dinner with Krit Thanawat on a sound shell and backdrops for a concert for the royal family and their summer court in their seaside palace at Hua Hin, the royal enclave on the Bight of Bangkok, to the southwest of the capital.

Lars had quietly been wrangling for an introduction to Krit, and he’d thus been willing to have this formal Thai wear whipped up on short notice. He normally was a shorts and T-shirt sort of man who worked hands-on in primitive conditions—and his muscular physique reflected that—but he was here on a favor owned to someone he couldn’t say no to. Connecting with Krit was key to accomplishing that favor.

Once inside the compound, Lars felt he had been transported back to modern-day Europe. They entered a covered passageway with a square of lawn on the right, a burbling fountain in the middle, and flower beds in a riot of colors around the periphery. The house, obviously large, ran around from the left of the loggia to two stories of modern stucco and large expanses of tinted glass facing him. Beyond the grassed area to the right was a large parking pad now accommodating two Mercedes sedans and a BMW sports car. Both Mercedes were yellow, which Lars had already learned was a car color reserved for royalty in Thailand, so he assumed that both MRs he was here to visit were present.

The automobiles were facing into a three-car garage with another story on top of it. Tucked behind the garage was a circular swimming pool surrounded by a stone patio. And the compound was unearthly quiet, save for the soft gurgling of the fountain. He felt like he had been transported a thousand miles from the noisy, dirty, and bustling Thai capital, but, in fact, he was in the middle of the city’s sprawl out toward the east.

As they drew nearer a set of carved wooden doors at the end of the passageway, the quiet floated away on the wings of a lovely, lilting soprano voice, singing in, to Lars’ great surprise, what sounded like Polish.

The music, underscored by an intricate piano accompaniment, grew louder as they entered the house. The servant led Lars down a passageway to the left, opened a door in a blank wall to the left, and he found himself in a sound booth facing a wall of glass. Beyond the glass, in a large music room set up as a TV studio and concert room combination, he could see a young, extremely handsome Thai man sitting and playing at an ebony black grand piano, with its lid lifted. The young man was dressed casually in Western style, in black trousers; a billowing white cotton shirt, open half way down his chest; and sandals on bare feet. The piano he was playing sat on a semicircular stage raised a couple of steps above the ground floor, which supported three tiered semicircular rows of substantial, matched dining room chairs curving around the stage. Standing in the curve of the piano was a beautiful young Thai woman, dressed in a creamy-white sarong. She was the one who was supplying the lilting soprano music in the incongruous language.

Recording was in progress—both audio and via TV cameras. Two Thai men in T-shirts, showing the face of some composer or other in black ink who Lars nearly recognized, and short sarongs around their waists, were operating the cameras beyond the glass wall in the music room. Two sound technicians were sitting inside the sound booth at a console set against and facing the glass wall. They were similarly dressed and were giving their full concentration to the performance in the music room.

Amnad Pramoj, a tall, lithe, berry-brown Thai in this late thirties and elegantly dressed in traditional Siamese-style formal wear as Lars was, was standing behind the sound technicians and watching the performance.

Lars entered the room to stand at Amnad’s side as the door gently closed behind him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Amnad whispered without turning, but obviously being aware that Lars was at his side.

“Yes, they are,” Lars answered.

Amnad turned his head toward Lars, raised his eyebrows, and gave Lars a little smile. “I was referring to the music. Chopin’s 16 Polnische Lieder.”

Ah, that’s the composer depicted on the T-shirts, Lars thought. He’d been around Heinrich enough that he should have recognized that right off the bat.

“I was referring to that as well as the couple themselves.” And to all of the other people in the two rooms, Lars thought, including Amnad himself. These people had surrounded themselves with beautiful people.

“Yes, they are a handsome couple,” Amnad said. “The toast of the city. Perfection itself. It was a celebrated marriage. Both MRs. The style magazines can’t get enough of them. Story after story about their fairytale marriage. They broadcast a weekly television show from here, you know—Krit playing and Somsri singing. It makes young woman sigh all over the city.”

“Formidable,” Lars whispered. It was his assignment to do something about that.

“What was that?”

“She’s singing in Polish, isn’t she?” Lars said, purposely not answering the question asked. “The harmonies are wonderful—even an unrefined engineer such as me can tell that. But a Thai singing in Polish? That seems incongruous. Or isn’t it Polish?”

“Yes, it’s Polish. Chopin was Polish, although the French have tried to grab him. And I’d hardly say you were unrefined,” Amnad said, reaching out and touching the sleeve of Lar’s silk jacket-shirt in a gesture meant not to be seen by anyone else in the dimly lit sound booth. He didn’t pull his hand back, but left it there, rubbing the rich silk fabric between his fingers.“They are producing a video to send to the palace. The project I’m trying to interest you in at the Hua Hin palace is a Chopin concert. This is to give the palace staff an indication of what the program will be.”

“Chopin wrote songs? I thought he was strictly piano.”

“Yes, he wrote this collection of sixteen songs, and one other. But you seem to know something of Chopin. So, you needn’t try to tell me that you aren’t a man of refinement. He wrote this ensemble from works by Polish poets set to Polish folk tunes—although one of the songs is Lithuanian.”

“And the concert is all Chopin? And Krit will be playing in the concert? Will be there beforehand as we construct the set?”

“Yes, He’ll be playing in the concert, and he will be there in Hua Hin with us a few days before the court arrives for the concert so that we can coordinate the performance sound. Krit is president of the Bangkok Chopin Society, and the royal family is entertaining the Polish ambassador in Hua Hin. He was asked to whip something of Chopin’s up for them. In addition to accompanying Somsri, Krit will be playing Chopin etudes.”

Of course then, Lars thought. If he and Krit would be in Hua Hin for a few days together, then he most certainly would help with this project.

“And you? You’ll be there? And you are a better pianist even than Krit. I have now heard both of you play. Will you be playing as well?”

Amnad turned his face to Lars and smiled in recognition of the compliment. “Yes, I will play Chopin sonatas—the C minor, opus 4, and the B minor, opus 58.”

“I would like to hear you play those.”

“This evening, perhaps, after the dinner with Krit and Somsri?” Amnad was trembling. The hand that had been toying with the silk of Lars’ shirt was now gripping Lar’s arm above the elbow.

“Yes, I would like that.”

Amnad moved the hand to the small of Lars’ back and started to say something else, but the recording session had ended, and Krit was standing from the piano and motioning Amnad and Lars to join them.

The introductions were pleasant, with Lars waiing and bowing low and Somsri gathering his palmed hands in hers and, with a lilting laugh and a winning smile, telling him that there was no need for such formality. That both of them had largely been raised in European boarding schools, where no one paid a bit of attention to anyone’s comparative pedigree.

Yeah, I’ll just bet no one in those schools treated you like a princess, Princess, Lars thought.

Beautiful people themselves, both Krit and Somsri warmed immediately to the handsome, muscular German who had made the effort to wear traditional Siamese formal wear.

The dinner, served in a large dining room, at one end of a table that would accommodate twenty and swarming with beautiful and attentive Thai servants, was convivial.

Somsri couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the German and was enjoying teasing and flirting with him. Krit also was thoroughly enjoying himself up to the point when they were talking about possible mutual acquaintances in Europe and Lars mentioned that he had become involved in the engineering aspects of stage design through his good friend, Heinrich Heller, conductor of the Cologne Symphony.

As soon as he said that, Amnad said, still looking at Lars, “Why that was the conductor who mentored Krit as a concert pianist, isn’t that right . . . ?” He had turned to Krit and hadn’t finished the sentence, because an expression something between distaste and fear had floated across Krit’s face.

“Krit, are you all right?” Amnad asked.

“Yes, yes,” Krit said, changing his expression back to something congenially handsome—but perhaps a bit forced. “I think perhaps that this shrimp has gone bad.”

He was suddenly inundated by an army of concerned servants, who whisked his plate away and told him another plate of food would be coming out immediately. He waved them away, though, and reached for the wine decanter. From then on to the end of the meal, he was only half in the conversation, although as charming when he was engaged as ever. He reached for the wine decanter appreciably more than he had been doing earlier in the meal.

With that one little glitch, dinner was declared a success by all. Lars agreed to accompany Amnad to Hua Hin to help construct the sound shell and backdrops for the royal concert, and Somsri saw Amnad and Lars to the side of one of the Mercedes sedans in the autocourt, holding Lars’ hand and smiling at him coyly perhaps a tad longer than was necessary.

It was dusk in the music room of Amnad’s Thai-style house on the banks of the San Saep Klong—klong being the Thai word for canal—behind what was now the Siam Paragon shopping mall but what had once been one of the central-city royal palace grounds, the Sra Pathum Palace. Amnad’s house, a series of teak rooms set on a continuous platform supported by teak tree trunks, was all that was left of the original palace, which had been where his father, a prince, had lived in near poverty before selling off most of the forty-three acres between the house compound and Ploenchit Road for what was then the Siam Intercontinental Hotel grounds, a financial transaction that had made him—and, eventually, Amnad—very wealthy.

Amnad was seated at a Petrof grand piano, now dressed in a silk sarong wrapped at his waist and bare-chested, and finishing up the Sonata in B minor, opus 58. Listening to him with an amused expression on his face and a nearly empty brandy snifter was Lars, sitting cross-legged and naked on a nearby raised platform covered with a silk coverlet and a smattering of Jim Thompson silk pillows.

They had already fucked once.

“That was very nice,” Lars said when Amnad’s hands came off the keys. “And you know what would be very nice after that?”

Without answering the question, Amnad rose from the piano and walked over to the platform. Lars reached out and undid the knot of the sarong at Amnad’s waist, watching it fall in folds around the lithe Thai architect’s feet; encircled Amnad’s waist with his muscular arms; and pulled the trembling body to him, opening his lips and closing them over the bulb of Amnad’s erect cock.

They fucked once more, sitting on the platform, facing each other, Amnad’s legs straddling Lars’ hips, his torso arched back, and Lars’ arms encasing his waist, slowly pulling Amnad’s passage forward and back on his cock.

Amnad moaned softly at the thickness and length of the young, virile German, as the cock slowly moved in and out, to great depth.

How could he say he wasn’t refined, Amnad, thought. Amnad had never met a Westerner before who could perform the Yin and Yang male Kama Sutra position like this or would have the patience to fuck him slowly to full fulfillment—repeatedly. And he’d met no man whatsoever who was as perfectly formed and horse hung as Lars was.

It was well shy of midnight when Lars left Amnad’s compound, and he was in the mood for more, so much more. And something quite different. All of this refinement had left him keyed up.

He let Amnad send him back to his hotel in the Mercedes, begging off spending the night, saying that he needed his sleep and couldn’t have slept with Amnad in the bed with him—that Amnad was too enticing. As it was, they had fucked twice, the second time in the Butterfly position, with Amnad suspended above him like a crab and doing all of the work—Amnad vocally appreciative that Lars knew it was the Butterfly position.

The chauffeur didn’t go directly back to the hotel. He stopped in the lane between the palace compound walls and the loading docks of the shopping mall and climbed into the backseat and sat on Lars’ cock, as he had already done twice since meeting Lars’ arriving plane after a long, and tension-filled flight. But even his wasn’t enough to calm Lars’ nerves tonight.

After he returned to the hotel, Lars went to his room and changed into a tight short-sleeved cotton shirt, open almost to the navel, and jeans and caught a taxi to Soi Cowboy, where he entered a bar and picked out a lovely and curvy young Thai, who said that, yes, “she’d” love to go to the Thai boxing stadium with him near Lumphini Park. Cockatoo was what was known as a Ladyboy bar, the “girls” being what the Thai called katoeys, better known in English as transvestites.

Lars knew exactly what kind of bar he’d gone to and what kind of hostess he’d picked up. The katoeys of Thailand were the more exquisitely beautiful of any who could be found in the world. He still was jittery and tense from a day of behaving. He wanted to let loose.

They first went to Lumphini Stadium, where he watched, licking his lips and slitting his eyes, as two young Thai boxers in skimpy shorts beat each other to a pulp in a no-holds-bar kick boxing match. The katoey sat beside him, snuggled up to him and rubbed Lars’ cock through the tight material of the jeans. As the katoey got the measure of Lars, the German whispered in his ear what was going to happen after the boxing match, which made the transvestite moan.

In the nearby Boss Place hotel, where “anything goes for as short a time as you want,” Lars rough-fucked the katoey hard and fast after pushing “her” onto the bed on her back, pulling her skirt up around her waist, ripping her panties away, and thrusting strongly and deeply inside her.

With visions of the vicious blood sport he had just indulged in watching coursing through his brain, Lars had his hands around her throat and was coordinating squeezes with thrusts of the cock, while the katoey gasped for breath, eyes bugged out, but, when able, squealed for more of the long, thick cock.

* * * *

The king’s Hua Hin summer palace was a surprise to Lars Krieger. The engineer in him was fascinated, as he followed Amnad Pramoj from one parallel building complex to another, followed by small, but strong, male servants lugging their suitcases. Walking through the palace was like peeling an onion of history.

The first bank of buildings from the auto park was a string of painted teak pavilions, with shining orange, red, yellow, and green roof tiles set like snakes’ scales, on a long platform raised off the ground one story by pillars. Behind this, connected by a covered corridor, was a early nineteenth-century style rambling two-story wooden building that was austere in appearance, a marked contrast to the ceremonial buildings in front of it. It appeared to have been built quickly and cheaply to accommodate the maximum number of rooms for the cost. When seeing this, Lars thought back on being told about the large number of children Amnad’s grandfather had fathered by multiple wives. Beyond this, though, against the shore of a shallow cove off the Bight of Bangkok, perched a modern steel and glass building Lars was to find housed an entertainment complex, including the small concert hall he was to be helping Amnad to prepare for the Chopin performances.

Walking to the curved floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the concert hall that overlooked a cove, with crystal-clear water over gleaming white-sand, Lars saw that the complex didn’t stop at the water’s edge. The luggage bearers passed him by, though a door out onto a deck, and then down a pier out into the water bearing platform pads on pillars along its sides.

“Those are the guest huts,” Amnad said, as he sidled up to Lars. “I’m sorry to say that we are in separate rooms. Propriety and all that. But we can find time for each other.”

“Good,” Lars answered, purposely being unclear on what was good. He wanted Amnad to think that it was good that they would have opportunities to fuck, but what he actually thought was good was that they were in separate huts. He was here to do more than construct a sound shell around the stage for the Chopin concert. Having his own room would help him complete the assignment Heinrich Heller had entrusted to him.

Lars and Amnad were the first to arrive. The concert wasn’t for ten more days. Krit and Somsri Thanawat wouldn’t arrive to start practicing for nearly a week, and stage construction was to be finished by then. The king’s family and guests wouldn’t filter in until the day of the concert. Other than the servants, those preparing for the concert would have the complex all to themselves.

Lars’ bit would be the first to be completed—the sound shell. Amnad would ensure it was effective by practicing his sonatas both in front of the raw shell when it was completed and then after he had transformed it into a dreamy backdrop reminiscent of Chopin’s time—something that would evoke Chopin’s world to the Thai royal family. It didn’t have to be faithful to Chopin’s environment. This was Amnad’s specialty in his stage work—creating “realistic” fantasy backdrops for operas.

This was a specialty that Lars was here to create as well—to create a fantasy to serve the purpose for which he was sent—to bring dissonance to harmony without those involved being aware of what was happening in the greater scheme of things.

When Amnad was satisfied with the balance of art and acoustics, Krit and Somsri arrived. For the five days before that, Amnad and Lars went to their separate huts on the platforms over the shallow waters of the cove only for one to steal into the hut of the other in the middle of the night to fuck in the various refined positions of the male Kama Sutra, an activity that kept Amnad enthralled with Lars, but one that didn’t completely satisfy Lars. Male servants had quickly made themselves available to the hulking, muscular Farang, Western foreigner, and Lars had no lack of small, berry-brown men available to fuck roughly in his own bed or in various other locations around the palace compound after leaving Amnad.

Amnad had said that, if Lars had pressing business, he could return to Bangkok once assurances were reached that the sound shell was complete—but that he was welcome to stay on for the concert. He probably wouldn’t be introduced to the king, though, of course. The Thai architect was delighted when Lars said he was happy to stay on.

Amnad no doubt thought the reason Lars was staying was because of him—he had no illusions that it was the music that held Lars. But Lars knew that he would stay because of his mission—because of Krit Thanawat and what he wanted from Krit.

So, as Amnad worked in the concert hall with the curved glass wall overlooking the shallow cove and the line of sleeping huts along a raised pier jutting out into the water, Lars remained nearby in case further work was needed on the basic sound shell, which it wasn’t. He had done an expert job from the beginning. Growing bored with sitting in the concert hall and feeling the siren call of the nearly transparent water of the cove and the shifting pristine-white sands underneath, Lars moved to the deck beyond the glass wall during the days, changing into swimming trunks, taking in the rays, and occasionally stealing away to fuck one of the willing berry-brown, small-bodied male servants there permanently to serve whoever was in residence and satisfy whatever needs they had.

It was here, sunning himself on a bright-colored mat set in a section of the decking, that he was to become aware that Krit and Somsri Thanawat had arrived. He learned it first in the sounds of piano music coming from the concert hall that were of a different strain and touch from Amnad’s slender, sensual fingers. Krit was practicing the Chopin etudes. And not long after that, the awareness came as well, as Lars noticed that Somsri, in a red bathing suit, was swimming in the cove beyond the edge of the sun deck he was lying on.

Sensing that she was watching him as she swam, Lars struck several poses that could both be construed as natural and would show off his musculature to the best advantage. He did not discount the possible importance of this diminutive Thai beauty, with the enchanting soprano voice, to the mission that he had to perform.

Lars stayed long enough to be sure that Somsri was swimming to see and be seen—with them being the only ones out in the sun on the cove. Then he stood and stretched, and, not looking at her—giving the impression he wasn’t even aware she was there at all—he reached down and rearranged his package inside his swimming trunks, conveying the impression he was so well-endowed he had to have it “just so,” which wasn’t far off the truth. Having done that, he languidly walked around the curve of the glass wall on the external deck and then over to the pier and down that to his hut on a separate platform.

Having rounded the corner of that, he waited for a half minute and then peeked around to the corner to see if Somsri was still in the water. He smiled to himself when he saw that she wasn’t. She’d pulled herself up onto the deck curving around the back of the concert hall and was drying herself off. She had been swimming just for him.

Lars wasn’t sure how he’d use the knowledge that Somsri was taken with him—or whether he needed to use that information—and he didn’t usually do women, but he was happy that the option was there. And Somsri Thanawat certainly was a sexy little thing. If he had to do her, he’d have to be careful not to break her.

Dinner that evening was in a cavernous, high-ceilinged hall on the ground floor of the palace’s middle wing. It only appeared to be the ground floor, though. Like all of the other buildings in the complex, in fact most buildings in coastal Thailand, the first floor was raised and rested on a platform. This was because coastal Thailand was at or below sea level and just the tide coming in could flood a building sitting anywhere near the shore. In the case of the drab wooden rectangle that was the middle wing, though, the open area under the first floor was skirted with wood latticing to make it appear to be an interior space, and this was where the small boats the royal family used for excursions on the water were kept.

With only four people at the end of a table that easily would seat fifty, eating under wavering candlelight in a drafty hall, the dinner conversation seemed to echo. This didn’t bother Somsri, Amnad, and Lars, though, who discussed this and that and not much of anything significant in a convivial mood in which both Somsri and Amnad hung on every word Lars uttered. Although polite, Krit remained a bit aloof, entering the conversation only when it dabbled with classical music or travel in Europe. Even then, he remained a little distant and avoided looking at Lars or querying Lars about anything. Somsri and Amnad were both looking at Lars and vying for his attention enough that neither seemed to be aware that Krit was maintaining a barrier between himself and the German engineer.

But Lars noticed.

“Krit,” Somsri turned to her husband and said after the remains of the mangos and sticky rice desert had been swept away by the padding legion of barefooted male servants with rustling Thai silk sarongs knotted around their waists, “I should like to practice the lieder this evening if you will accompany me.”

“I have practiced the etudes enough today that I fear my knuckles are swollen, but—”

“Perhaps Amnad could accompany Somsri then,” Lars interjected. He had been looking for just such an opening to be alone with Krit. Although Krit had studiously been trying to avoid looking at Lars for days, he had not been thus guarded before Lars had mentioned knowing the Cologne Symphony conductor, Heinrich Heller, and Lars, ever watchful, knew that Krit still gave him interested looks when he thought he wasn’t being seen to do so.

And Lars well knew there was foundation for Krit to be interested in him. That, in fact, Krit had trouble maintaining control around certain kinds of men—men very much like Lars was. That’s why Lars was here.

“Yes, that would be fine with—” Somsri started.

“No, that’s OK, I’ll—” Krit broke in.

“That actually would work well,” Amnad said. “I haven’t practiced today, and playing the lieder for Somsri would warm me up for running through the sonatas.”

“Well, that settles it then,” Lars said jovially. “Krit and I can stay on here for a bit to have our brandy. Right, Krit?”

Krit’s expression reflected that it was anything but all right, but he acquiesced with a shrug. Still, he watched his wife and architect friend leave like they were going to close a prison door on him in their wake.

When they were gone and Lars had poured brandy in snifters for both he and Krit, he gave Krit an intense gaze as he handed him a snifter and said, “You can hear Amnad doing scales to warm to the piano, Krit. They are safely away in the concert hall. You can look at me now.”

Krit sheepishly turned his handsome face to Lars, his long eyelashes fluttering.

“Heinrich wants you to return to him, Krit. I have felt that you knew why I was here from the moment I said that Heinrich was my friend—that I worked with him.”

Krit didn’t respond.

“So, you know why I’m here. Why it was someone like me who Heinrich sent to bring you back.”

“Yes, I know that’s why you’re here,” Krit now said in a small voice. “And I know why he sent someone like you. But, as you can see, I can’t go back now. I’m a married man, with a calling here in Thailand. You know I can’t—”

“I’m going to come over there and kiss you now—and embrace you,” Lars said in a low voice.

“Yes,” Krit answered in not much more than a whisper.

“And we’re going to find someplace very private.”

“Yes,” Krit murmured softly.

“And I’m going to fuck you.”

“Yes.”

They fucked in one of the small, outrigger-style boats stored underneath the building. Krit lay on his back in the hull of the boat, his arms and legs slung over the gunwales on either side, his neck propped at the bow where the tongue of the boat jutted out. Lars knelt in the hull between Krit’s spread thighs, held Krit’s slim hips in his hands, and pulled Krit’s channel on and off his hard, thick cock, while Krit moaned that they couldn’t be doing this—that Krit didn’t want this. But as Lars pulled back from the killing thrust as Krit, hard himself, was about to burst, Krit cried out of his need to be finished and grabbed for Lars’ buttocks, pulling the cock deep inside himself again.

Heinrich had told Lars that Krit liked to be fucked roughly, and Lars found that to be true.

Lars started pumping while they still could hear Somsri’s lilting soprano on the floating breeze. Such was his stamina and virility, though, that he didn’t finish, with Krit moaning and sighing in exhaustion to the deep, brutal thrusts, until Amnad had started into the second of the sonatas.

Laying there, panting, collapsed onto the top of Krit, Lars murmured. “After this concert. You can return to Germany with me. Heinrich wants you, needs you, back in his bed.”

“I can’t.” Krit was near to sobbing. He was struggling to get out from under Lars and out of the boat, and Lars was laughing and half-heartedly countering Krit’s efforts—but only half-heartedly. Both men knew that Krit only was able to rise from the boat because Lars had permitted him to do so. “I’m married now. I have created a whole new life around my music. Heinrich is a musician. He should be able to appreciate that even if you can’t. I can’t go back.”

“Are you that sure of the harmony you have struck here with your wife and your music?” Lars asked when Krit had gotten out of the boat and started to escape from the dimly lit storage space under the building. Krit stopped and turned. Lars had risen from the boat and was displayed in all his muscular beauty, his huge cock and low-hanging balls now swinging low between his meaty thighs. “Do you really believe you can run away from what a man has to offer you.”

With a half sob, Krit turned and fled.

“You’ll want me again,” Lars called after him. “We both know you will.”

Lars was still arranging his cotton pants and pullover cotton shirt on his arm when he reached the open doorway from underneath the building. One of the young male servants was standing there, his eyes going big at the vision of the sexy god emerging, naked, from under the building.

Lars laughed, reached over and unknotted the sarong around the servant’s waist, scooped the young man up in his arms, and carried him back to the boat for another round of—even rougher than he had dealt Krit this time—personal pleasure.

* * * *

It was late morning, and Lars, in his tight swimming trunks, was sunning himself on the deck outside the curved window of the concert hall. Amnad was in the hall, practicing the sonatas on the grand piano. Somsri was sitting in a chair near the piano, head down and facing away from the glass wall out onto the cove, making notes in a score. At the sound of a closing door in one of the huts on the platform jutting out into the cover, Lars turned his eyes in that direction to see Krit emerge in a gap on the pier between huts. He was only wearing shorts and flip-flops. By the time he reached the next gap in the huts, he was naked, with the shorts draped over his arm. His body was lithe but well muscled. He was an extremely handsome young man. His cock was in erection. When he reached the next gap between the huts, he turned, stood at the edge of the pier, and looked intently in Lars’ direction.

Lars rose from the orange padding on the deck and slowly stripped his swimming trunks down and off. Krit was still watching him intently. After what was only a few seconds but one in which both men were holding their breath, Krit executed a sleek dive into the shallow waters of the cove, did a circle to where Lars was standing on the deck outside the concert hall, and started swimming in swift strokes out toward the sea.

Lars dove into the water. He was a stronger swimmer than Krit—or at least Krit permitted him to be so on that day. The water was still shallow and clear enough to see that all that was below was white sand and schools of small, neon-colored fish. Lars stood on the sand, water only up to below his pecs, and crouched, while holding the smaller Krit in front of him, the two men facing each other. Krit sat on Lars’ thighs, encircling Lars’ waist with his legs and Lars’ neck with his arms. Lars encircled the smaller Thai’s waist with a beefy arm, and moved his other hand between their bellies and worked Krit’s cock while Krit and raised and lowered his channel on Lars’ cock.

They held there, up to their chests in the water, cooling their panting down, after each had ejaculated.

“Enough?” Lars murmured.

“No, again, if you can,” Krit whispered, his face buried in the hollow of Lars’ shoulders.

They swam around the edge of rocks at one end of the cove, where they found a sheltered stretch of sand. Lars stood at the edge of the surf, foam rolling beyond his planted feet and then back into the ocean, as Krit was joined with him at their pelvises, his torso arched back toward the sands of the beach, his knuckles barely touching the sand, while Lars grabbed his buttocks and pulled him on and off the cock to a second ejaculation.

Afterward, Lars lay on top of Krit, between his thighs, and they kissed repeatedly.

“You will pack and return to Germany with me after the concert,” Lars whispered.

“I cannot. My life is here now—with Somsri and with my music.”

Lars entered him again and fucked him for a third time—more roughly this time, with Krit writhing under him, crying out—but crying out for the fuck rather than in opposition to the rough fucking.

“You can’t get enough of it. You know what you want. You will have to return with me.”

“No. I do want you—again and again. You can have me anytime you want. I will seek you out as long as you are in Thailand. But I won’t go back.”

“I think you will,” Lars said, the exasperation showing in his voice. “I think I can make you.”

He rose off of Krit then and ran into the water, dove into a wave, and started swimming back into the cove with strong strokes. When Krit managed to swim back, Lars was nowhere to be seen. The sounds of Chopin’s Sonata in B minor, opus 58, were still wafting out over the water from the concert hall.

* * * *

The sun was low to the west, sending the shadows of the huts on the pier far into the cove in front of the concert hall window. Lars was stretched out on the orange mat on the deck outside the curve of the concert hall window, having awakened shortly before from a nap and contemplating going back to his room. The sounds of Chopin’s Sonata in C minor, opus 4, were wafting out of the hall behind him. Lars could now identify each piece that Krit and Amnad played and Somsri sang, and the mystery of them were really beginning to wear thin on him. One way or the other, his mission should be finished soon. He was glad of that.

Krit was nowhere in evidence. Lars hadn’t seen him since he had swum back from the encounter in the cove and on the sand. Really a tough nut to crack, he was thinking. It was time for Plan B, no matter how extreme, he thought.

And, speaking of Plan B, Somsri was coming down the pier from her room, wearing her red bathing suit. She came almost to where the pier ended at the door into the hall off of the concert hall. She’d had her eyes on Lars the entire way.

He rose, and stretched again, to give her a good look, and then started moving toward her along the deck, around the curve of the concert hall window. He kept her captive with his eyes, knowing how delicate the situation was here, not wanting her to bolt.

She didn’t bolt. When he reached her, he stood close behind her, wrapping his arms around her torso. He could feel her shudder and fold back into his belly. He felt himself going hard, which he considered a good thing and cultivated to the extent he could, thinking of Krit’s body folded into his rather than Somsri’s. He wanted her to feel the hardness of him. She was trembling.

This was the strategic moment. He moved his hands up her sides and under the material of the top of her suit at the side, palming her breasts, and squeezing gently. He kissed her hair at the side of her head and moved his lips down to where he took the ridge of the top of her ear between his teeth. She was still trembling, but she didn’t pull away. He pressed his tongue into her ear cavity, and he felt her going limp in his embrace.

She turned her face to his, and they went into an open-lips kiss. He knew he’d won now.

“Go into the water,” he whispered.

“What? Why?” she whispered. She jerked and gave a little exclamation, as he moved a hand down and underneath the material of her bathing suit where her thigh met her trunk, searching for and finding her clit in her folds with his fingers.

“Because I’m going to fuck you. You want me to fuck you,” he murmured.

“No, we can’t,” she whispered, but her heavy breathing and having moved her hand to cover the one he had moving underneath the material of her bathing suit belied her objection.

“Go into the water and under the pier, or I will fuck you right here,” he growled.

She whimpered something unintelligible, but when he released her, she stepped off the pier and went straight down into the water with little splash. He dove in beyond where she landed, turned, and swam back to the pier. She was already under the pier, backing up against a pillar on the second bank of pillars in, when he got there. She was panting and looking all wanting and confused and scared at the same time.

Lars swam to her and pressed her back against the pier. He reached around her and unbuttoned the straps of the bathing suit were they were attached at the base of her spine and pulled the top down to her waist. He had her waist encircled with one arm and his other hand pushed down the front of her bathing suit, with his thumb working her clit and his fingers invading her cunt. His lips and teeth were working her exposed breasts. Panting and mewing and moaning, Somsri’s arms encircled Lars’ neck and her thighs were hooked on his hips. Water lapped against the pier in small waves that had their bodies naturally undulating against each other with no purposeful movement of either one.

Her bathing suit was pushed down to mid thigh, as was his. The bulb of his cock presented at her cunt and pressed in, only the bulb inside her entrance. She had already exploded in an orgasm and was clutching his shoulder blades with her fingers, her fingernails digging into his flesh. She was making little growling noises deep in her throat. He gave her two inches of the cock, which caused her to tense and cry out, “Oh, my god!”

“What’s the matter? Am I hurting you?” he whispered into the hair on the side of her head.

“Please. Please, you must go slow. I’ve . . . I’ve never . . .”

“You are a virgin?” he asked in surprise.

“Yes, yes. I’m so sorry but . . .”

Lars roared with laughter. “Yes, yes, of course you’re still a virgin. It’s all part of the harmony of the musical fantasy you and your husband make. But you do want me to fuck you, don’t you?”

“Yes, oh yes.”

“I will go slowly then. But I will have you fully.”

And have her fully, he did. And, slowly but surely, she had all of him inside her, bringing on explosion after explosion until he too had ejaculated. After he was done, they held there, him still inside her, letting the gentle action of the lapping of the waves on the pillar move their bodies against each other and his cock inside her, until he had reengorged and fucked her again, pumping her hard and with abandon this time.

As they were cooling off from that, they heard the patter of feet above them on the pier. Krit returning to the hut—the room he shared with Somsri.

Embarrassed and returning to reality now, Somsri pushed Lars gently away from her.

“I must go now. We shouldn’t have. It isn’t right. Krit.”

“But I will have you again, won’t I?”

“Any time we can manage it,” she whispered in a strangled voice, giving him a look of consternation laced with want.

He held her at arms’ length as she readjusted her swim suit and then let her swim away to make whatever entrance and excuses she could in the hut above Lars’ head where Krit now waited.

When Krit went to the piano the next afternoon—the day before the royal court was to arrive for the Chopin concert that evening—to practice his etudes, he found an unsigned note on the piano that Somsri needed to see him in their hut. Amnad was off in the front-section traditional Thai-style wing, helping the servants decorate the ceremonial pavilions for the arrival for the king. Krit didn’t know where Lars was. He hadn’t seen the German engineer since the hour after dinner the previous evening when it had been Krit who suggested that Somsri practice her lieder again with Amnad playing and, when they were gone, had begged Lars to fuck him again, which was accomplished again in the outrigger-style boat in the storage area under the middle wing of the palace.

Heinrich had been right. Once he had taken Lars’ cock inside him, Krit was insatiable.

Once again Lars had told Krit that he would come back to Germany with him to resume his service in Heinrich Heller’s bed, and once again Krit had answered that he valued his music and his new life, no matter how much a lie it was, too much to give into that. And once more Lars said, “We’ll see about that.”

As Lars had planned in his introduction of dissonance into the harmony Krit insisted to pretend to live, when Krit arrived at his hut on the platform over the waters of the cove, he found a naked Lars on his back on the bed, holding Somsri’s waist between his hands, as she straddled his hips and rode his cock.

Somsri hadn’t seen Krit arrive and then quickly depart, and it didn’t suit Lars’ plans at that point for her to know Krit had seen them. As they continued to fuck, their movement naturally fell into the rhythm of Krit’s playing of Chopin’s etudes across the water of the cove, which sounded more hushed, more mournful, than he’d ever played them before.

That evening, after dinner, when Somsri arrived at the side of the grand piano and before Amnad arrived, it was her turn to find a note urging her to return to her room.

There she found Krit on all fours on the bed and Lars crouched over his hips and fucking him like a dog and growling commands for Krit to bark if he wanted Lars to stroke, which Krit did. He barked like a dog and begged Lars to resume fucking him.

This Lars wanted Somsri to see. He wanted her to see Krit in total subjugation and humiliation, begging for the fuck from a man. And he made sure to turn Krit’s face toward the door when Somsri gasped and let out a little cry and turned and fled down the pier. Lars didn’t stop, though. He continued to fuck Krit to the sound of Amnad playing Chopin’s sonatas—Somsri singing the lieder no longer being on the menu for the evening.

When Lars was done, he pushed Krit over on his side, and growled. “There, so much for the harmony of your little musical world. You didn’t flinch when Somsri saw us. You want the cock more than you want your music—more than you want the perfectly harmonious world of your piano playing and Somsri’s singing. Now are you ready to return to Germany with me?”

“I’ve told you I can’t come with you, that my world is here now, with my music and Somsri.” Krit was panting, but he also was pawing at Lars, trying to bring the big German down on top of him again, raising his legs and squeezing Lars’ waist with them. “Somsri knows. She knows I lie under men. She wants this world as much as I do. We have created something special. It’s more important than sex.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lars said with a leer. “Even now you want my cock back inside you. Even now my cock is more important to you than your music or your perfect world with Somsri. Tell me you don’t want the cock again.”

“I want the cock again. Fuck me, fuck me again, please,” Krit whined.

Lars rolled over on top of him and gave him his wish.

Afterward, back to the program, hammering at the program. “Are you ready to come back to Germany with me?”

“No, I can’t. My world is here now.”

“Shit.” Lars rolled off the bed and went back to his own room.

* * * *

The morning after the concert, Amnad’s chauffeured Mercedes pulled up into the forecourt of the Hua Hin palace. Lars handed Amnad into the backseat and Amnad slid over as the chauffeur put their luggage in the trunk. They were going back to resume the work on the staging for the Rigoletto performances at the Bangkok Opera before Lars returned to Germany.

Other than viewing them from afar during a triumphant Chopin concert the previous evening, Lars hadn’t been close to or talked to either Krit or Somsri since the last sexual encounter in their hut. He’d given the previous night to Amnad, who was dancing on the clouds from the success of the concert, and whom Lars rewarded by fucking him in four different positions of the male Kama Sutra, something that Amnad, totally unaware of the sexual tension drama that had been storming around him, indeed considered a reward. As far as Amnad was concerned, Lars had been there solely for him.

As Lars was about to fold himself into the backseat of the Mercedes beside Amnad, he hesitated, seeing Somsri rushing at him from across the expanse of grass in front of the palace’s Thai-style wing. He walked away from the car and met her several paces onto the grass. He grabbed her waist and held her at arms’ length as she approached to prevent her from flying into his arms and becoming a spectacle for speculation by Amnad, who was bending down and peering at them from inside the Mercedes.

Somsri had been crying, and she was in a state of dishabille—which, Lars had to admit, was quite sexy for anyone moved by a beautiful woman in distress.

“Lars, I don’t care, I—”

“Shush,” Lars muttered. “Keep your voice down, or I’ll have to go back to the car instantly.”

“Lars, I don’t care,” she repeated in sotto voce, with a sob, “I don’t care what you and Krit do. I don’t care what Krit does. I want to be with you. Don’t leave me.”

“I’m only going back to Bangkok,” he answered, his mind cranking at high speed, seeing a glimmer of hope for his mission. If dissonance didn’t work on Krit’s clutching at harmony, how centered would he be in this musical fantasy of Somsri and him if Somsri wasn’t there? If, for instance, she was in Germany until Krit gave in and appeared there too?

“Just to Bangkok,” he repeated. “I will be there for a couple of weeks, working on Rigoletto. We needn’t stop seeing each other, if you want.”

After placating her, Lars entered the Mercedes far happier and more confident that he’d been last night. He waved to Somsri, now smiling and her eyes gleaming through teardrops, and looked past her and across to the steps up to the Thai-style pavilions, where Krit now stood.

As the car pulled out of the forecourt, Lars looked back and his confidence took a little hit. Krit had come down the steps and encircled Somsri in his arms from behind, and she’d leaned her head back into his shoulder—looking entirely too content for Lars’ liking.

When the Mercedes had pulled out into the road, Lars leaned over toward Amnad, encircled him with an arm and turned Amnad’s face to his for a kiss-while his other hand found Amnad’s basket. The chauffeur eyed them through the rear-view mirror. Lars was well aware of both men, choosing the refined approach with Amnad and something far rougher with the chauffeur. Both seemed to enjoy what they got, though. It was just this versatility in a smashing package that had prompted Heinrich Heller to send Lars to Thailand in the first place.

Coming out of the kiss, Lars said to Amnad, “I’ve been thinking of your offer to move to your house while we work on Rigoletto. I think it would be better for me to keep my hotel room. Our encounters then could be so much more arousing and sensual—illicitly delicious.”

Putty in his hands, Amnad innocently moaned his agreement. The chauffeur smiled and returned his attention to the road. No, he thought, that’s not a man who wants to be pinned down too much by one man. Truly a man of dissonance rather than harmony.