Nicholas Ongko’s phone rang. It wasn't the alarm. It was his mom.
He groaned, eyes still closed, and answered.
“Morning, Ma.”
“Nicky! Are you awake? Your flight to Jakarta is noon today. You need to leave by 8:30 at the latest. Did you book the car service?”
Nick sat up in the Koreatown apartment his parents owned, rubbing his face. Sunlight sliced through the blinds. “Yeah, Ma. The car's coming soon.”
She ran through the usual checklist—passport, gifts for his grandparents, wearing layers for the plane. Nick gave the automatic “Yes, Ma” answers while staring at his packed suitcases.
When his mother finally hung up, Nick dropped the phone and sighed. “Fuck my life.”
It sounded ungrateful for the twenty-two years old Chinese-Indonesian boy. USC Business graduate. Six-foot-one, athletic, clean-cut, with smooth golden skin, sharp features, and the kind of body shaped by years of tennis and gym work. The perfect son on paper for a wealthy Chinese Indonesian family.
But this wasn't the plan. After graduating three months ago, he was supposed to get a job here in LA, preferably Hollywood-related. But the H1B visa proved too hard to get. His father could not be negotiated with: fly to Jakarta for a week, then Beijing for six months of intensive Mandarin, before eventually, taking over the family business.
In reality, things were more complicated than his parents thought. No one outside Nick's circle of LA friends knew the truth: he was gay, quietly and carefully so. Never out. Never flamboyant. Never a real relationship. Just a few discreet encounters he kept locked away.
But the months after graduation had been quieter than expected. Friends left LA one by one. Group chats went silent. Church basketball Saturdays turned into career talk and serious relationships. Nick filled the emptiness with extra gym sessions, job applications, and volunteering, but the loneliness still crept in.
For the first time, he wondered if he should try something real. Not just careful, secret hookups when the urge got too strong, but actual dating.
One bored Thursday he downloaded Tinder. Profile carefully curated: good photos, vague bio—“USC Business ’24 | Indonesian | Looking for something meaningful.” Safe.
A few days later he matched with Anders—29, white, boyish and cute, originally from Ohio and worked in film marketing. Easy conversation, no immediate pressure for nudes or hookups. When Anders suggested drinks in DTLA, Nick said yes.
The date went well on paper. Stylish bar, good cocktails, flowing talk. Anders was charming and attentive. Nick laughed at his jokes, answered questions about USC and his family, and tried to let himself feel something.
But there was no spark. No butterflies. Just the same polite performance he gave everyone—charming, well-mannered, straight-acting. Halfway through his second drink, Nick already knew he probably wouldn’t see Anders again.
Still, when Anders offered a ride home afterward, Nick hesitated only a second before saying yes.
The parking garage was dimly lit and nearly empty. Nick climbed into the Tesla, but instead of putting the car in drive, Anders leaned back without a word, unzipped his jeans, and pulled out his hard cock—thick with a pink head, flushed, already leaking.
“Been thinking about this since we sat down,” he said, voice low and rough. “All I could picture was that pretty mouth of yours wrapped around me instead of talking about fucking movies.”
Nick froze, heart hammering against his ribs. He’d never done anything like this — not in a car, not on a first date. Part of him wanted to bolt. The lonely, aching part stayed rooted in the seat.
Anders stroked himself once, slowly, eyes dark with want. “Come on, Nick. Don’t make me beg. Be a good boy and help me end the night right.”
Nick leaned over the center console, the gear shift digging into his side. The scent of Anders’ cologne and warm skin filled his nose as he wrapped his lips around the swollen head and sank down.
Anders let out a deep, satisfied groan, his hand resting lightly on the back of Nick’s head. “Fuuuck… that’s it. Just like that. God, your mouth feels even better than I imagined. So warm… so fucking eager.”
Nick sucked nervously at first, then with growing hunger. Spit dripped down the shaft as he took more of him.
Anders’ voice dropped lower, breath getting heavier. “Yeah… good boy. Take a little more. That’s it. Look at you — you’re sucking cock like you were made for it. Deeper, baby. Let me feel the back of your throat.”
Nick moaned around him, the filthy praise sending shameful heat straight to his own aching cock. Anders’ fingers tightened gently in his hair, guiding him but not forcing.
“Shit, you’re dripping all over me… making such a pretty mess. You like this, don’t you? Sucking a guy off in a parking garage after one date. My sweet, secret little slut.”
Nick’s face burned with embarrassment and arousal. He sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks, working his tongue along the underside.
Anders’ hips started twitching up, fucking shallowly into Nick’s mouth. His voice grew ragged. “Fuck, I’m getting close… I’m really close. You gonna let me paint that handsome face? Huh? You want me to cum all over you?”
He pulled Nick off just enough to look at him — lips swollen, eyes watery, strings of spit connecting them. Anders stroked his slick cock fast, breathing hard.
“Tell me,” he growled softly. “Tell me you want it on your face like a good boy.”
Nick’s voice came out hoarse and broken. “…Yes.”
Anders groaned loudly, stroking himself furiously. “Good fucking boy— open your mouth. Tongue out.”
The first thick rope of cum landed across Nick’s cheek. The second hit his lips and tongue. Anders kept moaning filthy praise through it all:
“That’s it… take every drop… look so fucking pretty covered in my load… "
When he finally finished, Anders leaned back, breathing hard, a lazy, satisfied smirk on his face. He gently wiped a streak of cum from Nick’s cheek with his thumb and pushed it between Nick’s lips.
Nick sat back, dazed, lips swollen, the taste of Anders' cum still strong as he wiped his face with a tissue. His own cock strained painfully in his jeans. Anders tucked himself away, started the car again, and drove him home like nothing had happened.
Nick rode the elevator up still tasting him, staring at his reflection. He had crossed a line.
And he already knew he would cross it again.
Two nights after their first date, Nick caved and texted Anders again.
Nick: Hey, you free tonight? Drinks again?
Anders replied almost instantly.
Anders: I can come pick you up…
Nick: Sure. Text me when you’re downstairs.
Anders showed up twenty minutes later, looking effortlessly cute in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. The moment Nick let him inside the apartment, the energy shifted.
They made small talk for about three minutes — standing awkwardly in the living room — before Anders gave him a slow, knowing smile.
“Mind if I use your bathroom real quick?”
Nick’s stomach flipped. He knew it was an excuse. He nodded anyway.
“Sure. Down the hall on the left.”
The second the bathroom door clicked shut, Nick’s heart started hammering. He had maybe thirty seconds.
He moved fast.
He stripped everything off — shirt, jeans, underwear — until he was completely naked in his own living room. His cock was already half-hard from nerves and anticipation. He stood there, smooth golden skin glowing under the soft lights, athletic body on full display, silver cross necklace still around his neck like a quiet contradiction.
When Anders stepped out of the bathroom, he froze.
His eyes widened as they dragged slowly up and down Nick’s naked body.
“Jesus, Nick…” he breathed, a stunned grin spreading across his face.
Nick felt exposed, vulnerable, and stupidly turned on all at once.
“I… wanted to surprise you,” he said quietly, voice a little shaky.
Anders crossed the room in three strides and pulled him into a deep, hungry kiss. His hands immediately grabbed Nick’s ass, squeezing and spreading the firm cheeks.
“Fuck, this tight Asian ass,” Anders groaned into his mouth. “So round and perky. Perfect bubble butt on this pretty boy.”
They didn’t make it to the bedroom.
Anders pushed him down onto the couch, stripped fast, and rolled on a condom while Nick whispered “condom” between desperate kisses. Then he climbed on top, spread Nick’s legs wide, and pushed inside him in one smooth, deep thrust.
Nick gasped loudly, back arching. “Ahh— fuck… I love white cocks... They're so big…”
“Fuuuuck,” Anders moaned, eyes half-lidded. “This sweet Asian pussy is so goddamn tight. Gripping my cock like it doesn’t want to let go. Such a perfect little hole on this pretty Asian boy.”
He started fucking Nick with long, steady strokes.
Nick moaned, legs wrapping tighter around Anders’ waist. “It feels so deep… your thick cock is stretching me so much…”
“Yeah?” Anders smirked, looking down between them. “Look how your tight Asian hole swallows every inch of this white dick. So smooth and pink inside. This pussy was made for white cock, wasn’t it?”
Nick whimpered, nodding quickly. “Yes… I love your white dick inside me… it’s so big and hard…”
Anders picked up the pace, voice growing filthier. “God, I love fucking tight Asian boys like you. This golden skin, this fat ass bouncing for me… fuck, you’re unreal.” He grabbed Nick’s ass harder, spreading him wider with every thrust. “Tell me how much you love this white cock wrecking your little Asian pussy.”
Nick’s voice came out broken and breathy. “I love it… fuck, your white dick feels so good… stretching my Asian hole open… I’m so full…”
“That’s right,” Anders growled, pounding deeper. “My perfect little Asian slut. So polite on the outside, but spreading your legs for white cock at night. You’re creaming all over me already, baby. Feel how wet that pussy is?”
Nick moaned louder, nails digging into Anders’ back. “Yes— ahh! I can feel it… your cock is making me so wet… don’t stop…”
Anders leaned down, biting at Nick’s neck as he fucked him harder. “Good boy. Such a needy bottom. This hole was built to take my white dick. Gonna ruin it for anyone else. You want that, don’t you? Want me to own this pretty Asian pussy?”
Nick was trembling, overwhelmed. His own cock throbbed untouched against his stomach. “Yes… please… own my Asian pussy with your white cock… fuck me harder, Anders…”
The relentless dirty talk and deep thrusts pushed Nick over the edge. He came hard — untouched — shooting thick ropes across his own abs and chest with a broken, whimpering cry.
Anders' thrusts turned short and brutal. With a deep groan of Nick’s name, Anders buried himself to the hilt and came hard, filling the condom deep inside him.
They stayed locked together afterward, sweaty and panting, Anders still buried inside. He kissed Nick’s neck lazily, then smirked.
“Shit,” Anders laughed softly, kissing Nick’s collarbone. “I really did just come over for drinks, I swear.”
That night broke the dam.
Over the next three months Nick slept with twenty-five guys. He stayed selective and mostly straight-acting. He still went to church most Sundays. But the loneliness and hunger won more often than not.
From then on, it became almost compulsive. He averaged two new guys per week, sometimes three. Over the next three months, Nick slept with twenty-five different guys — a number that still made his stomach twist whenever he let himself count it, because it was way more than the guys he hooked up with over the previous four years.
There was the 32-year-old film producer in WeHo. He booked a sleek Airbnb with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the hills. Nick barely remembered his name — something with a K. They’d matched on Grindr at 11 p.m. By midnight the producer had Nick bent over the kitchen island, pants around his ankles, getting fucked hard while the city lights sparkled outside. Every thrust knocked the silver cross against Nick’s chest. He came with his face pressed against cold marble, whispering “fuck me harder” like someone else was controlling his mouth.
There was Dao, the Hmong guy who did deliveries for the pho place down the street. He was a quiet guy with broken English, but the sex was so good Nick saw him four separate times. Dao was gentle but intense. He liked to take his time, edging Nick for over an hour, making him beg in a soft voice before finally fucking him slow and deep. The last time, Dao rode him bare for a few dangerous minutes — just the tip, he promised — before pulling out and finishing on Nick’s abs. Nick almost came untouched just from the risk.
There were the two older guys — best friends in their late 30s, both tall, hairy-chested, and thick-built. One reckless Saturday they double-teamed him in a cheap studio apartment. They were experienced, dominant, and knew exactly what they wanted. One fed his thick cock into Nick’s mouth while the other pushed into him from behind, stretching him open. They switched halfway through, using him like a toy — rough, steady, and relentless. Nick had never felt so completely used and so intensely wanted at the same time. He came twice — once while getting fucked deep, once while they both stroked themselves over his face and chest, covering him. He left with bruised knees, a sore throat, and a hazy memory of moaning like a whore the entire time.
There was the USC grad student who fucked him in an empty classroom during summer session. The risk was insane — door unlocked, people walking in the hallway outside. The student had Nick sprawled across the professor’s desk, legs spread wide, getting pounded while trying desperately not to make noise. Every time someone walked past, the student would thrust deeper just to watch Nick struggle. That one left Nick terrified for days… and secretly craving more.
The guilt crushed him every time he came home sore and leaking, whispering “this is the last time” in the shower. But the high of being wanted—of being used—grew stronger.
Beijing might be good for me, Nick thought as he dragged himself to the bathroom, stripped off his boxers, and stepped into the shower. A chance to reset and be the man everyone expects me to be.
The hot water felt good. He stood under the spray longer than necessary. When he finally stepped out, he wiped the fog off the mirror and studied himself.
Handsome. Toned. Clean-cut. He turned slightly, checking his reflection. At least he still looked like the golden son his parents bragged about.
His phone rang again. A text from Hamad – Car Service.
“Good morning, Mr. Nick. I’m downstairs with the black Camry, ready whenever you are.”
Time to be a good boy? Nick thought to himself. Then again, we're not in Asia yet.
TO BE CONTINUED
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