Obsessed in Thailand – ebook

Excerpt

How’s the neck, pal?” asked Tom, ducking his head into the cubicle my employers laughingly described as an office while he waited to whisk Jeri off for a quick lunch.

“On the mend,” I lied, knowing that after using Anong for almost a month the neck problem was all but not wanting Tom to know I was enjoying the attention too much to stop.

I might as well not have bothered.

“Addictive, isn’t it?” he asked knowingly and I immediately felt embarrassed at his easy reading of me. “The moment my neck was up to me swinging a wood again I was out of there,” he told me.

Adding then:

“For the good of my bank balance and my marriage,” he said.

“I hear you all too clearly,” I said as if I was up-to-speed with the perils of continued attendance and, not believing me entirely, he smiled.

“Sure you do,” he laughed. “Just remember, pal; you might be single but that doesn’t mean you’ve nothing to lose.”

Before I could ask him what he meant he gave me a “Let’s have a few beers together soon,” and was gone.

When I left the office that evening I was still mulling over his words:

“You might be single but that doesn’t mean you’ve nothing to lose.”

Words that were still swirling around in my thoughts as I entered Thailand Bliss for my second and last appointment of the week with Anong.

During which something happened that changed the nature of my massages with her and, eventually, would give me a little more insight into Tom’s cryptic last words before he left my “cubicle”.

Insight that would come far too late to be of any use to me.

I remember the exact moment vividly.

On this particular visit I remember, thoughts curiously uxorious as well as indolent, hearing her ask me to roll over onto my back.

Used to responding to her direction, I responded instantly.

Only to realise I had been so into the massage my towel had slipped and I was sporting an erection of the most urgent kind.

An erection arrowing towards the plastered ceiling for all to see.

And you know who I mean by all.

The second I realised how I was displaying myself I felt my face flush red and began to apologize as I covered myself with the towel, but Anong only smiled and said, “No problem Mr Matt,” she said.

Then, lip curling in a way that was part suggestive and part mocking – as well as maddeningly sexy – she said the words that would change everything:

“You like for Anong to take care of cock too?”

Her words hit me like a piledriver to the gut and I could find no words with which to reply – though, if anything, my already urgent to the point of painful erection intensified.

Indeed, as she shrugged off my silence and simply went about her business, I stayed hard as iron for the rest of the massage.

Which was when, and without asking, she moved the towel aside, put oil on my cock and gave me a nice, long, slow handjob.

The sensation was incredible.

Like nothing I had experienced before.

It made me feel…

It still embarrasses me to confess it, despite everything that had happened since, but I felt…

Submissive!

Her hands, which felt so strong and commanding when working my muscles, were soft and gentle on my the cock I couldn’t help but thrust upwards into the embracing and slender fingers curled around it. The warm oil felt amazing and with her using her free hand to gently jiggle my balls between her likewise oiled fingers, it wasn’t long until I shot my load all over myself with a force I could not recall achieving since my late-teens.

And so it was that I gave her an extra tip and a new routine was born.

At the end of each working week I would present myself to Anong for my massage and yearn for it to be over that I might once again feel her soft but controlling fingers manipulate by cock and my balls.

And yes, you may take it as read that Tom’s cryptic warning that day in my office-cum-cubicle grew fainter with each passing ejaculation at Anong’s skilled and commanding hands.

So it was that I became growingly addicted to my Friday handjob from Anong that made even her highly skilled manipulations of my tired and aching body pale into a far lesser significance.

Which was when, emboldened by my obvious need for her attentions, that she took things up a notch.

“Mr Matt,” she began. “You ever have prostate-massage?”

She had just begun to feather my foreskin with her oiled fingers and, as you can imagine, my attention levels were focused elsewhere somewhat.

“A…? A prostate…?”

“Massage. That right. It just only forty-dollar more. It fantastic and Anong know you will love it.”

The money not being an issue at this point, and grateful for the pleasure she had already given me, I went along with it.

Thus was I reeled in and, eventually, made a dependent.

Mainly because it was, as she had promised, fantastic!

While she was easing my foreskin up and down as part of what was now my ritual hand job, she carefully slid one well-oiled finger up my ass and sought out my prostate before gently teasing it.

It was euphoric and sensational!

Within seconds, I started moaning, almost imploringly, though for what I couldn’t tell you. It just felt so incredible. Then, once she was certain I was into it and readily accepting her finger in my ass, she added a second. Then a third.

With her left hand working my cock and the fingers of her right hand embedded in my ass, it seemed like only seconds until I shot the most incredible load – even bigger than the first time she took me in hand. In five years I would be fifty and I couldn’t ever recall coming in such a way.

You like, Baby-Boy Matt?” she asked unnecessarily, her first-time use of the ‘Baby-Boy’ serving only to inflame me despite having just shot-my-bolt as if I were a teen again.

The somewhat diminishing form of address, I would discover going ahead, something she intended to continue from then on.

Whatever.

The experience had been amazing to say the least, I thought as I nodded my agreement to her and realised yet another new routine had been kick-started between us while not realising its importance going ahead.

From then on, every time I saw Anong she would ask:

“Prostate too Baby-Boy Matt?”

My answer I’ll leave to you to work out as I wondered whether to stop her calling me “Baby-Boy” or just go with the flow.

But there was another wrinkle to having Anong look after me in such a way as I lay passively beneath her; though in fairness she never tried to manipulate my need for her in terms of either money or influence.

Not that I had any of the latter and as for the former I was paying her for her services..

Anong’s fairness or not, however, it was obvious that I was growing used to having a woman take the initiative with me and each time I saw her I found myself wallowing in sensations of weakness I found utterly delectable.

It was a warning sign, I see now when it is far too late; though it would not be for a month or two later that I would realise just how pervasive my need had become.

The above rearing its head after Anong told me she had to return to Thailand for a while for family reasons.

Not to overinflate my feelings, but I was devastated.

Not divorce from Glenda devastated, you understand – that was more about love and family and outright guilt on my part.

No, this was loss but not on the same scale.

A loss that was purely sexual; so much had I come to depend upon Anong to make good on the absence of a woman in my day-to-day for the first time in twenty-three years.

“Baby-Boy Matt not to worry,” she told me when she saw my face fall at her news. “Anong already speak to new masseuse who take care of you. Her name Davika and she young but very good. Just what Baby-Boy Matt need, Anong promise.”

I had indeed gone with the flow, and her calling me “Baby-Boy” had become normalised between us now – though I knew I’d be mortified to have anyone else hear me addressed in such a way. Its frequent usage explaining why I responded without missing a beat. Mollified at least a little to know that Anong had thought enough of me to make sure I would be taken care of in her absence.

“And will Davika give me the, hmm, you know, same kind of treatment you do?” I asked somewhat sheepishly.

“Oh, yes,” she half-giggled. “Davika look after you even better than Anong. She take care of you very good just the way you really need, Not to worry, Baby-Boy Matt.”

As pleased as I was to hear this, I thought there was something a little off in her response, as if there were more she wanted to say but was holding back.

Only now, looking back, do I wish I had acted on my misgivings, but I had no time to dwell on the oddness of her response before my rock-hard cock was again between her oiled fingers and I gave in to the feeling of bending to her will once again – even if I assured myself the control, being a paying customer, was all mine.

Like many men before me, I was, of course, delusional.