The Indian Doctor

By Habu

In the relentlessly demanding vein of habu’s deep dive into the darkness of sounding in his shocking and absorbing Dark Angel Sounding, The Indian Doctor follows the spiral of a narcissistic, sexually ambivalent fading male model into the abyss of sexual control and debauchery in decadent Bangkok. By the time the protagonist catches on to where he’s being taken, he is too far down the slippery slope of painful desire to control his own wants or to escape his sexual predator. Or is he?

Warnings: contains intense and graphic gay male BDSM, submission and fetish.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BarbarianSpy
• Release date: Mar 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781921879869

Habu

Habu is one of the pen names of a former supersonic spy jet pilot, intelligence agent, male model, movie actor, and diplomat. A wild youth in South East Asia was spent enjoying whatever sexual opportunities came his way, and much of his gay male writing is about recalling incidents from those days and inventing ones he’d perhaps have liked to experience. He now leads a very quiet and ordinary life.Check out our blog and get free stories. Feedback and reviews are always appreciated.

Book preview

Chapter One: Lured from the Sauna

I now understand that my subconscious was miles ahead of my surface brain on knowing what I wanted. Male models apparently are as justly characterized as thick brained as female models are reputed to be. I suppose I was more narcissistic in my youth and early adulthood, though, assuming that love came from the mirror and that sensuality was merely a fake technique applied to TV commercials.

I suppose that I had been desired for my looks and hit upon by men into my twenties, but I had been too taken with myself to notice. There had been gropes in public urinals, to be sure, and as they increased in frequency, they did increasingly set themselves in my subconscious as something to wonder about and to think upon. But I clearly separated them from real life—which to me were  straight, white teeth, a firm body, and a good job, wife, and family to propel me into the comfortable life.

So, when my spiral started for real, down into the world of realized desire, and all of that subconscious thinking about it was being drawn to the surface, there was no blame to cast—other than on my own self-indulgent fighting of any thoughts of what really aroused me in any significant way.

I’d seen the Indian doctor (if he really was a doctor—but, of course, as I later found out, he was) work the young men on the gym floor and in the shower room. There was no reason my surface brain wouldn’t know he was a sexual predator—or what his chosen prey was. In the end, I’m really glad it happened, though. Well, glad on one level. Finding man-on-man sex was freeing for me.

The Indian was a magician really—and I was the world’s worst dummy. The first encounter happened without me having a clue about what had happened even when it was over. I was a few years older than those the Indian doctor was targeting at the gym—and he was a good twenty years older than I was. He touched me in the sauna—just lightly on the thigh that first time—and my cock burbled out juice without warning and certainly without my really realizing we were having any form of sex. He had a mesmerizing voice, and I got horny without the usual arousal mechanisms—no warning really. He was doing this monologue about being circumcised or not in those doctor words of his, as if we were having an academic discussion or a medical consultation—which I thought came from some possible anomaly he had seen in my anatomy that I should have checked out with my own doctor. I have no idea how he knew suggesting a possible flaw in my body was the most direct route to my attention.

That’s how you get the attention of a narcissist. Ask him about a pimple you see on his nose. He’ll drop everything and run for the mirror.

He had his long, thin fingers on my cock head, seemingly examining around the base of the glans to advise me on whether it had been a good cutting job or not—something I hadn’t even thought of ever, truth be known—without me  realizing what he really was doing. I was being a real dope.

After that, which was one of my earliest visits to that gym, I observed him seduce young men on the gym floor, bringing them into the sauna, and as discretely as possible, lapping them in a dark corner of the mist-filled chamber. He would fuck them—and then move on to the next conquest. For me, though, he seemed to have other, more elaborate, plans. But that thought eluded me until years later. Why did he fuck and discard others in the sauna but lure me into his web for extensive training and debauching?

Anyway, that first time I was so surprised at his fingering of my sensitive cock bulb that I shot right off. I was greatly embarrassed, thinking I had probably misjudged his intent and now he’d think I was queer. I left the sauna in a highly confused state, with him clucking behind me, It’s quite all right. Very normal. Don’t feel embarrassed. For his part, he probably just thought I was performing a hard-to-get mating dance. I hadn’t clocked him when he got hold of my cock. I’d just sat there and stared dumbly. I was the sort who tried to see things coming and who strategized my possible responses; this had come out of the blue. Regardless, his reassurances helped put me off my guard.

I stewed about the encounter for a week, all of the repressed feelings of sexuality and how I fit into that surfacing and plaguing my thoughts: what had really happened; how I really should have responded. Strangely, I thought more about the doctor in the sauna being an Indian than I did of him being male. My model background and the resultant worship of my own body and, in comparison, the forms of other men had robbed me of the usual stigma