Gay Erotic Stories

He was a quiet man, twenty-two in the summer of 1946; his still young face lined with worry and years of the blazing Indian sun. Still, he looked like all of the other men in Bombay (later known as Mumbai), their skin the same toffee color and their hair the same rich, lustrous black. But he was not like all of the other men. He was Achuta, the Untouchable.

His sins in a previous life had to be very grave indeed. He was born impure, too polluted to be included in the human community. His fate was sealed at birth. Every day I watched him as he tended to the Viceroy’s complex. Matru was of the caste that worked the soil. He did the gardening, mowed the expansive lawns, and fed the livestock that we kept on the property. He worked from dawn to dusk for a handful of rupees, a few pennies a day. Most of what he earned went to his wife and child in Bihar. He could never return there, for the Kshatriya (the soldier caste) had abused his wife and beaten his son, finally driving him from his home all for daring to drink from the Brahman’s fountainhead. He was not of the lowest caste, however. According to the Hindu “Laws of Manu” that was reserved for the Bhangis who cleaned the latrines and carried dead animals from the streets.

Matru was an amazingly attractive person, despite the tatters and rags he wrapped himself in. A mop of glossy hair crowned his expressive face, full of sadness. His coal black eyes smoldered under heavy eyebrows. Matru’s left cheek had been severely burned the night of his expulsion from Bihar, his attackers throwing acid in his face as cruel punishment for his audacity. The scarring gave him a permanent frown, like he was perpetually in pain. He probably was, as I think of it now. His broad sloping shoulders were thick with muscle; his biceps large and well developed from severe manual labor from the time he was old enough to toil. His chest, revealed in the thin gauze tunic he wore every day, was an expanse of polished golden-brown skin pulled tightly across his bulky pectorals. His legs were powerful, strapping and slightly bowed in dusty white pantaloons. His calloused feet were invariably shod in traditional buffalo hide sandals. Matru was not a tall man, but his commanding physique gave him an imposing appearance that contrasted with his submissive, deferential attitude. He was in unusually good condition being well fed by the British government here at the complex, unlike his fellow Untouchables outside the gates who would steal chicken bones from our trash to make soup.

I spoke little of the native’s language, typical of the arrogance of our nation at the time. Matru knew enough English that we could exchange pleasantries, and I made a point of greeting him every morning on my way to the executive wing and my duties as under-secretary to the Viceroy. I would waive cheerily, and he would smile back with his sad uneven face. From my office window I would watch as he dug in the earth, edging the manicured borders. His tunic would come off in the hot late-morning sun, gritty sweat glistening on his nut-brown back as rivulets of perspiration soaked the waist of his trousers. I had no way of truly understanding his life, and my life would have been entirely beyond his comprehension. How would he react to the privileges and benefits that I enjoyed, that I took for granted? How would he respond if he knew that I secretly wanted to touch his poignant face, lay my head on his brawny shoulder, and feel my arm around his firm narrow waist?

Every evening Matru would strip down to a diaper-like cloth he wore under his pants, and wash the stink of the day from his skin. I knew his ritual, and often slipped behind the iron fencing that ran against the back of the potting shed, in order to watch him. I loved to see him wash; it was a luxury for him and was probably his only pleasure. He would take buckets of clear tepid water from the cistern and pour them over his head, the soothing liquid trailing down his glistening chest. His large hands would rub across his torso, down his thighs, rinsing the dust and grime from his flesh. He pulled the fabric away from his belly and poured water into his loincloth. I imagined his penis, nestled in a soft bush of inky black hair, anointed by the cooling stream.

From my hiding place behind the fence I could see him, but he couldn’t see me. Or so I thought. One evening as Matru was finishing his ritual, he seemed to focus directly on me. I thought I was imagining this, as he was far too introverted and set in his caste to actually stare into the eyes of the Sahib! He strode across the court and stood before me, dripping wet and almost nude. I could have reached out and touched his beautiful face, his ruined cheek. I could smell the rich, grassy scent of the soil on his skin. He pulled back the shrub I stood behind. “Sahib, how may I help you? You are in need of something?” He said with no sign of the modesty I would have expected from an Achuta. I watched his hand gently stroking his chest as he spoke. “I am here to serve you!”

“No... That is, Yes, I mean...will you come and help me with my window? It has been jamming, and I think I want to close it tonight.” I stammered. It was the only thing I could think of. I wanted to be near Matru just a little longer. I wanted to walk in the cool night air next to him. I couldn’t think past that, but I had vague ideas of other things that we could share.

We returned to my rooms in the annex behind the Ambassador’s residence. It was a private building, and I had my own entrance to the little efficiency I was granted as a member of staff. Matru followed me obediently up the short flight of stairs to my second floor flat. I opened the door and let him in.

“There it is, the bloody thing won’t go down! I think I jammed it now, trying!” I said. He crossed the room and began to draw on the sash. It stuck for a second, then pulled free and slid in place on the sill. Matru pulled the shutters together and turned to face me in the dim light of the electric bulb over the bed.

“I think, Sahib, that the window is not broken. I think the Sahib needs Matru’s help with something else?” His full lips curled into a grin, revealing white teeth under his dark moustache. (He would not call me Richard, far too familiar for an unwashed to call a man by his name.) His hands reached to his thighs, and he began to touch himself. I was swooning at the sight of him. I reached out, and he stepped forward into my arms. We stood there pressed against each other. I was afraid to move; afraid the spell would be broken. Slowly I began to explore his body--the strong powerful shoulders, the arch of his back and the soft roundness of his buttocks. My hands ran over his velvety skin, as he stood perfectly still in my embrace. I reached down his backside, slipping between the rough loincloth and his smooth ass. He was tense, silent, as I tore the cloth from his waist and pushed him backward onto the bed.

I held his pulsating erect cock in my hand. He sighed in my ear and I felt his body relax. I nuzzled his neck, inhaling the rich, earthy scent of the man. I turned him over on his stomach and opened my fly. He didn’t resist me. I pulled my trousers down around my hips and mounted Matru, rubbing my dick against his rock-hard butt. He spread his powerfully built legs wide, and pushed his golden ass into my groin. “Matru, I need you. You are so beautiful! Please, Matru, please!” I murmured in his ear.

I could feel the smooth, thick skin where the acid had disfigured his cheek. I ran my tongue along the deeply scarred flesh, tracing a line from his temple to his chin. He shuddered, and mumbled words that I couldn’t understand... soft, whispered words. I slowly pressed the tip of my raging hard-on against the soft pucker between his ass cheeks. His body bucked upward, driving my cock halfway into his body. He reached up and clung to the ornate teak headboard as I continued to urge my cock into his virgin ass. I lay in his outstretched legs, my hips pressing on his inner thighs as he took the last of my hard manhood into his body. I froze there as he adjusted to the assault, my throbbing cock in the deep warmth of Matru’s bowels. The bare electric bulb flickered over us, illuminating our bodies with garish yellow light and casting a harsh shadow across his face.

Matru was dispassionate; he seemed to be in a world other than the one that I occupied. He seemed almost unaware that my eight-inch erection was jammed into his ass. I was frustrated. I expected him to respond with lust, or resistance, or at least fear. He appeared to be to be unaffected by my sex. My frustration began to turn to anger. I fucked him hard, without concern for his ruined asshole. He winced and shifted under me, I saw pain in his soft brown eyes. He didn’t fight, just let me pound his ass until I swelled inside him, my inflamed cock deep in his gut, and shot a hot volley of cum into his rectum. What I failed to understand is that he felt unworthy of my attentions, and certainly couldn’t conceive of an Untouchable like himself showing any kind of feelings or emotion for his master Sahib. If he were molested in his village and fought the attention of the Brahman, he would be severely beaten, or even killed. And to seek any kind of sexual gratification for himself was unthinkable! I rolled off his shivering brown body and went into the bath to clean the sticky cum off my belly. When I returned, Matru was gone.

And so it went, for several weeks after our first encounter. Afternoons, on my walk back to the annex I would signal Matru with a nod of my head that I needed him. He would go to his bathing trough, clean himself in preparation for our tryst and let himself into my rooms. We said little to each other. I would sit in my armchair as he stripped silently in front of me, his perfect golden skin revealed as he removed his rough linen costume. I thrilled at his broad, sloping shoulders, and his oversize chest. I ached to touch his firm belly, his profuse bush of dark pubic hair, and his thick, richly veined penis.

Matru showed absolutely no sign that he enjoyed my attentions, but also showed no resistance. He would finish stripping and immediately place himself into position on the floor, on his hands and knees, his body offered up to me. I usually allowed him to crawl between my legs, his black moustache brushing my sandy blonde pubic hairs as his warm soft lips enveloped my aching cock. I loved the feeling of being in his voluptuous mouth, and he was expert at taking the entire thing deep into his throat. After getting me aroused to the point that I could resist him no more, I would join him on the thick wool pile of the carpet and enter him from behind. He would groan, shudder, and finally take me deep into his gut.

I must say, as I reflect on the man, he did seem to enjoy getting blown! The only passion I ever drew out of him was during the few times I cajoled him onto the bed and swallowed his cock. It was not long, but unusually thick and I was challenged to get it in my mouth. Only then did he speak (really more like chanted), soft melodic words as he lay on his back, his gorgeous cocoa-colored prick lodged in my jaw. I couldn't know the definition but I knew the meaning of his words. His cum was sweet and rich, and I swallowed it with great delight.

The caste system, devised over two thousand years ago by Hindu priests, is still in effect in most rural communities even today. In 1946 (a year away from Indian independence) it was still the ruling commandments that civilized Indians lived by, even in cultured and urbane cities such as Bombay. Even so, there was a large grassroots movement among the Untouchables to resist the degradation and humiliation they endured every day of their pathetic lives. Untouchables in the forties could not even walk in the shadow of a high caste person, and had to wear bells to warn of their approach. A year earlier the city had granted land to the Untouchables to build their community. The upper-caste Kshatriya wanted the barren, miserable plot for a threshing ground and so attempted to “persuade” the Untouchables to drop their claim. I had no way of knowing that Matru was among the new militia of Achuta that resisted.

I sat in my rooms that hot August night, reading the newest London dispatches. I could see the cloud of dirty grey smoke waft across the distant spires and minarets of the city. At first I thought it a rain cloud until I smelled the acrid, foul odor of burning wood and...flesh. Ranvir Sena, the private armies of the Brahmans, had set fire to the Untouchable village, dozens of innocent children and women were trapped and burning to death in their wretched hovels, their exit blocked by wooden beams and sailcloth. The wail and shriek of the survivors carried across Bombay in the still, humid air.

I thought of Matru. I knew he was part of the Untouchable village. He often asked my permission to take unwanted leftovers and discarded supplies to his friends in the shabby district he called home. I leapt to my feet, not knowing what I could do or how I could help, but knowing I had to find my...find my what? Friend?

As I ran south to the river’s edge, I came to the great swarm of unwashed coming towards me in the opposite direction. Clutching babies and dragging the wounded, they appeared like rats fleeing a sinking ship. I searched their soot-covered and awe-struck faces, seeking Matru. I had to find him. I turned a corner to avoid a blazing cart with a shaggy brown buffalo still hitched to the leads, snorting and rearing, struggling to get loose. His matted coat was smoking with the intense heat. I saw fear in the tormented beast’s eyes, the same fear in the eyes of the Untouchables. I didn’t know even then that Matru was in the middle of the inferno, striking out at his attackers, blindly swinging a broken broom, his eyes and face singed by the incredible heat of the conflagration. I saw him in the market court before me, wretched, broken and bleeding, still hanging fast to his useless pole. Rushing to him, I shouted his name and he collapsed into my arms.

I don’t remember how I got him back to the compound. I recall finding a stretch of linen that I lay his battered body on, and I must have dragged him the full two miles. How odd it must have seemed, the tall blonde European dragging a smelly hulk of rags and pulp through the alleys of the city and through the ornate iron gate of the Viceroy’s residence. Lifting Matru onto my bed, I ran for the washbasin. He was scorched and bleeding, but I could find no broken bones. The white washcloth turned black with the dirt and ash that I rinsed from his tender, reddened skin. He moaned and opened his eyes. I held his calloused hand in mine as I wiped the cinders out of his eyes. He smiled weakly at me as sleep came like a blessing to him.

He dozed fitfully for ten hours. I massaged ointment into his wounds as he slept. He would occasionally wake; my soothing voice and tender ministrations lulling him back into slumber. And so it went into the next morning when he finally regained consciousness. I held him nude in my arms as he woke, my hands stroking his chest and soothing his hot brow with a cool damp cloth. He reached out to me and I held him close as he cried.

“You have saved me, surely as I am here now. I owe you my pitiful life, Richard.” He said in a deep, raspy voice, last night’s smoke and flame having irritated his vocal chords.

“Shhh, my lovely Matru, rest now. I couldn’t leave you there. I can never leave you, ever again. You mean more to me than you will ever understand.” I whispered back. He had called me Richard! I rejoiced, despite the horrible suffering, in the face of the incredible loss of life. I rejoiced for the great miracle that is Matru, lying in my bed, using my Christian name!

Matru ate, and slept again. His wounds were manageable, and I cared for him the rest of the afternoon. That night, he felt well enough to sit with me on the verandah. He wore a pair of my trousers, a soft royal blue silk shirt and the inevitable sandals. He appeared undeniably human...certainly not like an Untouchable, an animal to be kicked and spit upon by his superiors. I felt his anger and rage, and marveled at a culture that could make such a beautiful and extraordinary man into a beast of burden: no better than the smoking ox tied to his flaming cart. He sipped on a fruit juice as I drank from a flute of French champagne. He was forbidden alcohol by the same religion that sentenced him to a life of degradation. I held his hand in mine. His eyes looked into mine in a new and exciting way. I felt a change in our relationship. He knew by my actions last night that I respected him, and valued him enough to risk my own life. He was proven worthy of my love, and he was finally ready to accept it. He stood silently, and pulling on my hand, led me to the teak bed.

We lay next to each other, rejoicing in our union, my milky-white skin contrasting with the rich golden sheen of his body. I stroked his silky chest, covered in soft, shiny black hairs. He reached for mine, and ran his fingers through the golden rings that spread across my pectorals and concentrated in a soft mound between my pectorals. He kept smiling at me, a big silly grin. I couldn’t help but laugh at his marvelous change in attitude. I saw the love and adoration in his eyes. He must have felt it from me, too. I hugged him and he responded enthusiastically. His strong arms enveloped me; his hands explored my back, searching until they came to my soft, willing ass. I felt his fingers slip between my cheeks and brush against my pucker. How aggressive he had suddenly become! I thrilled at the thought of him inside me.

Matru slipped off the side of the bed, and pulled me over to him. I lay with my legs over the edge as he went down on me. His warm mouth was thrilling, his tongue running the length of my penis then slipping over the tender head to take me fully into his throat. He sucked me with passion, sending chills through my body as I felt the pressure building in my balls. His head bobbed vigorously on my cock, until I could hold back no longer. A steady stream of my cum shot into Matru’s mouth, volley after hot volley of sticky jism hit the back of his hungry maw.

He swallowed hard. “Richard, You are inside me now, you are a part of me, and I will always keep you with me!” He gasped, pulling his head off my engorged member. “I am going to make you mine, too!” He pulled me closer to the edge of the bed and drew my legs up onto his shoulders. He pushed his hips against my ass, spreading my legs wide. I was totally in his control, as he teased the head of his mighty dick on my asshole.

“Matru, I have been waiting for this moment. I need you in me, I want you to fuck me... now, please!” I cried out in ecstasy as his cock pressed past the tight ring of muscle, lodging itself in my rectum. His heavy, pendulous balls slapped on my ass as he drove his dick in and out of my outraged asshole. The tables had turned; my submissive servant had become my ardent lover. The glorious thickness of his dick spread me open, expanded my ass until I was entirely filled with his manhood. The feeling of fullness, the feeling of completion was overwhelming. I whimpered into Matru’s ear as he assaulted my ass with his potent staff. “Yes... Oh YES, Matru...Do it! I need you in me; I need to feel you cum inside me. I LOVE YOU, Matru!” Did he hear me? Did he understand what I had just said? Did he realize the truth?

His fucking became more intense, his plump cock ripping at my bum until I thought I would pass out. I held on to the bedding, my knuckles white as I clutched the soft cotton blanket under me. Matru held my ankles and drove his impaler into me with vigor. His face was beatific, an expression of absolute pleasure in his strong, handsome features. I looked up into his face as his cock swelled inside me, his balls tightened and he discharged a torrent of creamy white cum into my ass. It filled me, overflowing my ass and leaking out from around his cock, running between my legs onto the blanket. Matru collapsed on my torso, his head nuzzled in my neck, and we remained linked together on the edge of the bed for several minutes. Eventually his cock softened, and fell out of my aggravated ass. I smelled the fragrant spiciness of his skin, tasted the salty perspiration on his neck as we hugged each other to sleep.

Kensington is a very attractive quarter in London. Rows of elegant granite townhouse circle attractive parks and walkways are lined with ivy-covered iron trellises. Matru returned to England with me in 1947, and I had him educated at Beringhamshire. As the years went on, the sight of an Indian on the quiet streets of Kensington became more and more common. He eventually became one of the top property agents in all of England, responsible for the sale of many country estates and manors to wealthy Arabs and rock-stars. He was always charming and stylish in his Savile Row suits and Repp-stripe cravats. His impeccable English was finer and more elegant than most British subjects. We lived happily and discreetly in my home on Grisham Court until his death in 1998.

Now, I pray for the earth to swallow me so I can be with him again. I long to feel his calloused hand in mine, touch his scarred cheek and press my lonely lips to his. Jimmygor@optonline.net