Slippery Slope

I lay there on the hotel room bed, my arm thrown across my eyes to hold the demons at bay, lying on my back, legs spread and bent. I hurt; it had hurt. It was my first time. I knew it would hurt. It would hurt the next time too, but probably not so much the time after that. I knew I’d get past that too, though. I’d known what I wanted. I was ambitious too. I concentrated on regularizing my breathing, to calm down.

To get on with it. To get past it.

He’d made it clear. I wasn’t going to get out of a cubicle on the accounting office floor unless I let him fuck me. So, I let him fuck me. I leaned in that direction anyway. I just hadn’t done it before. He was OK for the first time. I mean he was my boss; I would have let him anyway, but he was fit and good-looking and not too old not to be able to keep it up. All things considered; he was fine.

I moved my arm from my face and reached down, checking myself out. I was spread open and it was wet. Was that lube or his cum? Was it supposed to stay open forever after a butt fuck? Would it go back to the way it was before? I tested it with my finger and looked at it. Not blood. I hadn’t bled. Cum. Jared Bradford’s cum. He hadn’t even asked about needing a condom.

He was over at the floor-to-ceiling window, slouched against the window frame, looking down into the busy Hong Kong harbor, some twenty stories down, smoking a cigarette. He was a sexy man, even in his forties—a handsome devil, trim, well-muscled and well-groomed. I had no idea how he was in the equipment area. I’d seen naked men before. I was athletic. I’d been in a lot of locker rooms. He had too, I could tell from how fit he was. We’d played tennis before. I was better, a collegiate champion, but he was good. I just hadn’t seen that many men in erection. I didn’t know if I’d taken a really big one or not.

It sure felt that way. I hadn’t known how it will feel like to be filled, spread, stretched. It had felt like nothing else, the pain consuming, but something else, behind that. I’d been told the pain would subside in time and repetition and, pain or no pain, it would become a need. I was told if I really was a submissive, it would become something of so much pleasure and satisfaction that I’d have to have it. I sure as hell hoped it would get better. From what I’d learned about this firm, there were going to be more cocks in me if I wanted to go up.

He was in erection again now. Would he want to do again today? The hand not holding the cigarette was grasping his cock and slow stroking it. He had been looking down into the harbor, watching the busy boat traffic, but he heard me stir in the bed and looked around.

“We’ll have you moved up to my office from the accountant’s pen on Monday morning, Craig. OK?”

“Sure, fine,” I answered, surprised at how low and thin my voice was. It was what I had been angling for. It was why, when he suggested we go for a drink after the meeting we’d been in and the bar had turned out to be in the lobby of this hotel—where Jared had already booked a room—I had not raised any objection. I’d just gone where he said to go and let him do what he wanted to do.

I was getting what I wanted. So was Jared, one of several vice presidents in the accounting firm I’d been sent to on temporary assignment from the firm’s Chicago branch. I’d known from the first day we met that he would want to bed me. That was his reputation, and I’d gotten those looks even in the Chicago office. With his looks and position I assumed he could get what he wanted. I hadn’t defended against him getting me. I knew as soon as I found the bar was in a hotel where this would lead if that was his intent.

That was a lie, of course, I knew as soon as he suggested going for a drink. No, I knew a week before when he first mentioned that he was looking around for a new assistant and wanted to hire internally and asked me if I was wedded to my position in the Chicago office. He’d given me “that look” then. He knew I was ambitious.

I’d been so sure that I’d found a sex shop, bought a dildo, and had been preparing myself for what surely was to come. It’s probably a good thing I had done that.

He seemed so sure that he could have me. But he didn’t know everything about me.

“Are you OK?” he asked. “You are OK with this, aren’t you? You didn’t seem . . . all there, with it.”

I was fighting the pain, I thought, and finality of it. An hour ago I was a virgin to men. Now I’m not. “Yes, sure,” I answered. “Just a little nervous, in Hong Kong and all that.” Not even I knew what Hong Kong had to did with it. But he didn’t pursue that.

“But it hurt, didn’t it?” he asked. “It’s not because I’m really big, is it, because, unfortunately, I’m not. That was your first time, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, my first time,” I answered in a small voice.

“I’ll admit that I thought so. That’s why I didn’t bother with a condom. After today, we’ll use condoms. You’ve gotten across a threshold now, so I guess you’ll be doing it with other guys and a condom would be advisable.”

After today. I shuddered. Well, of course, there would be many “after today’s.” I had known I would do this for men—that I’d use my looks to get ahead in the business. And I knew Jared Bradford enough by now that he wouldn’t do anything for me or anyone else without getting something for it.

“You wouldn’t mind me going with other guys?”

“Not as long as you give me priority. It was nice, though. That you let me be first. You were a sweet lay. You’ll be great the more we do it.”

The more we do it. I shuddered.

“And I’ll be more careful about it next time. The first couple of times will hurt, but with each time, there will be more pleasure and less pain.”

The next time. When would the next time be? Oh, of course.

He was stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray on a bureau next to the window, and striding back to the bed, holding his erection in one hand.

He really was a handsome, fit man for his forties. I wanted to get ahead in the office. I’d give him whatever he wanted.

“You’ll be good to me, won’t you? Now knowing how new it is for me.”

“Oh, yes, Craig. I’ll be very good to you. And you’ll be good to me too. You’ve got a great body. Raise your tail. Show me your hole.”

Of course. That was what was important. His pleasure. I did find his bold talk arousing, though.

My legs were still spread and bent, my feet flat on the mattress, from the first time. He climbed onto the bed and came down on his knees between my thighs. Taking my thighs, one after the other, in hand, he kissed the inner surface of each before hooking my ankles on his shoulders.

“Going to do you good, baby.”

Putting the bulb of his cock into position, pressing into my hole, he moved his hands underneath me, grasping, separating, and lifting my buttocks.

I panted and groaned and moaned as he entered me slowly again. It hurt. Oh, god it hurt. But not as badly as the first time, and now I could get the hint of the pleasure it could be, of the arousal of fusing with a man—a good-looking, fit, powerful man like the English Hong Kong firm VP Jared Bradford—of how it could help me career wise.

I arched my back, gripped his biceps, and rocked my pelvis against his, murmuring, “Yes, yes, fuck me good,” as, reaching depth inside me, he began to slowly plow me, loose skin sliding on steel shaft of unsheathed cock, being careful for as long as he could, until he lost control and fucked with more insistence and vigor, fucking me fast and deep. Writhing under him, taking it hard, deep, fast, insistently—to an explosion.

His pleasure. It was all about his pleasure. At some point it didn’t matter about mine. It was about him getting off good.

I cried out through the pain, “Oh, shit, yes. You’re so big. Screw the hell out of me.”

To the extent that his size and technique permitted, he did. There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with his stamina or the multishooting of his cum at climax.

It wasn’t anything like what I wanted to happen—to be screwed to the bed a second time that day—but I knew it was what he wanted to hear. And I knew it was what was going to get me out of cubicle in a room with thirty other accountants and into a desk in his outer office. So, I gritted my teeth and took the pain. I really was lucky that he was so good-looking and fit—and that he wasn’t monstrously hung or unmanageably vigorous and demanding. I knew I’d be doing this even if he was much older and fat and ugly—and brutal.

Less hurt than the first time, though. This was going to be OK.

But hold that not especially demanding.

“How long will it take you to get permanently transferred from Chicago?” he asked as he lay beside me, embracing me, after he had finished—after he had, first, torn my male cherry out of me and then, again, marked his territory on me.

Moments later, he was turning, moving over on top of me. “You are amazing. Even though it’s the first time, you can take it again and again.”

What he was saying was that he was going to put it in me a third time.

I felt him brushing against my thigh as his knees came down between my legs, in erection again, already. His hand was under me, palming the small of my back, lifting my hips. A third time? I moaned. Have mercy, you bastard. This is my first time.

“Next time a condom, but not now. Not needed now,” he whispered. “All natural now. You are beautiful. So yielding and flexible.”

Yes, a third time. His hands were coaxing my thighs open, and I responded with a groan. He was on top of me, in position. I arched my back and gave a little cry as he entered me again—unsheathed, uncut, hard as a rock, the looseness of skin covering steely shaft rubbing against my passage walls going in. Flesh on flesh—loose skin on steel shaft. Unsheathed. Natural.

“FUCK! Oh, shit. Oh, Fuck. You’re so big. So fuckin’ big.”

My hands went almost involuntarily to his bulbous orbs, already setting into a rhythm of contracting and expanding with the thrusting need of his cock. They first touched him in the hollow under the hips and beside the cheeks, feeling the effect of the flesh moving there in connection to what he was doing to me inside—stretching, rubbing, thrusting. Then onto the meaty cheeks themselves, palming and squeezing them, exhilarating at how the contractions of the orbs matched the thrusts inside me. I may have intended to try to push him away, but my hands grasped the buttocks and held him to me, my hips starting to fall into the give and take rhythm of the fuck. A bit less pain; a bit more pleasure. No, significant more pleasure at feeling our bodies come alive and merge.

I reached a hand further up, capturing his bobbing balls, lacing my fingers through them and rolling them. My index finger pressed against the root of his plowing shaft. He emitted a long, low moan. He was certainly getting his pleasure out of this.

Much of this was mental, I knew. Physically I might still be in pain. Mentally, I was dancing on the clouds. I was going to learn to do this as many times a day that I needed to to get ahead—and with whatever powerful man who wanted to put it in me.

I was being fucked for the third time in my life. All by one man, but I assumed there would be others, would have to be others, on the way up the ladder.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I murmured. This was going to be OK. This life was going to be all right.

“Good, good, good,” he whispered as he fucked, as if he’d heard my thoughts, but I knew it was because he was getting the pleasure out of me he wanted. I knew that, for him, it was all about him.

He was a naked man, a fit, hard-bodied naked man lying between my legs, his cock moving inside me. A naked man was between my legs. I held my legs open, vulnerable, and yielding, for a man to lie between them and pin me to the bed with his cock. The first time. I was naked too. But I knew I had to become accustomed to this—a naked man between my legs, thrusting, thrusting, thrusting. I arched my back and wrapped my legs around his waist.

Yes, yes, fuck me, boss man. Make me your assistant—assisting you in the fuck.

“Here it comes. Here it comes again! Oh, Shit. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

* * * *

“You’re American, I think, but he’s not.”

“He?” I asked. I was sitting at the bar of the American Club in Hong Kong where I played tennis and taught it when I could get the clients.

“The man you play tennis with a lot here,” the bartender said. I conversed with Trung occasionally when he wasn’t busy jockeying drinks. He was a conundrum—but a sexy conundrum in my book. His features were Asian but he was a black man. Most like that here in Hong Kong were Indian, but he wasn’t that either. And he was muscular and solid, with tattoos. He seemed too rough and tumble to be working at the posh American Club, but he seemed to do well in mixing drinks and he bantered well with the patrons. He had a harmless, not-too-far arrogance and bravado that went over well. He was about my age, twenty-four. We’d talked but not to any depth before. I had wondered if his was gay, and, if so, a top. Whenever I was wondering that, I was interested in sexually—for myself. He was intriguing and he always had a smile for me. I sometimes wondered what else he might have for me. He seemed dangerous and I’d been very vanilla. One thing was obvious—he’d be in control. I was a complete submissive, so that was attracting.

One reason I liked talking with Trung was that he somehow had divined that I was gay and he didn’t care nor did he pussyfoot around the topic. I found that refreshing and he wasn’t anywhere up my chain of command, so I didn’t feel threatened by his banter.

“The way he touches you and acts like he owns you. Is he your sugar daddy? Is he bedding you?” He asked.

“Jared Bradford? He’s my boss. At a big accounting firm with a branch here in Hong Kong. He’s English.” It was the early 1990s. The English still ruled here, If only just.

“But you’re American. You’re the one who belongs to the club. And, yes, I noticed that you didn’t answer my question.”

“I teach some tennis here part time—I have a regular accounting job—and they like to have me around. I’m not a member here, but they let me play here. And Bradford’s English, but they like to have him play here too.”

“I think they let you play here because you are eye candy for the paying members. You’re American? Where from, and why here?”

“The firm here has a branch in Chicago. That’s where I’m from. I’m here on sort of an internship—at least that’s what brought me here. I might stay here. I have a position here now.”

“Working for that man? Is your position under that man?” Trung asked. “He beds you and gives you a job in exchange for that?”

“Something like that,” I answered. I wasn’t wild about beating around the bush, and I dearly would have liked to know what Trung’s sexual status was. He looked like trouble, and I was getting a little bored with Jared. He was a fit forty, but he was over forty. It was all missionary position each time, not too much variety, and Jared was the only man I’d had so far. It had been three months. I was a bit curious about what else was on offer.

“But what about you? You’re really a puzzle. Where are you from and how did you wind up behind a bar at this club?”

“Are we getting chummy now?” Trung asked.

“Maybe,” I answered. “You seem interested in me, and I wonder in what way.”

“I’m basic and sordid,” he said. “My mother’s Vietnamese. My father was some black soldier in Vietnam for I don’t know how long or where he went. I got here on a freighter. I was a sailor on the freighter. You need to watch out for sailors.” He was looking pointedly at me. “They’ll fuck you up real good and leave you useless for anyone who isn’t a sailor. If you’re someone who wants to be controlled and used hard, you’re no good for anyone else after you’d been had by a sailor.” He was looking at me like he wanted me to challenge the assessment that this defined me—a guy who wanted to be controlled and used hard—but I couldn’t gainsay him on that so I didn’t bother trying to.

“Is that what you’d do to me, Trung?” I asked, trying to use a playful tone, but maybe, just maybe, trying to test him out too.

“Absolutely I would,” he said.

“You’d top me?”

“Yes, I absolutely would,” he said, putting to rest the “Is he/is he not?” issue. He continued. “The company went out of business while my freighter was docked here in Hong Kong. I liked to drink and was fascinated by cocktails, so I learned how to do it. I do it here now. And telling me that man is your boss isn’t answering my question of whether he beds you. Does he fuck you or do you fuck him? He’s a pretty face for his age, but I don’t know if he’s a man’s man or not. He’s old cock. A young, brilliant-looking guy like you needs young cock. I don’t think you top, but I can’t really tell. You look like you could go either way.”

“He fucks me,” I said. This wasn’t saying I was versatile. This was maybe asking Trung if he really was a top.

“He gives you a good job and you let him fuck you in return?”

“Yes, basically.” Wasn’t that the way of any firm where a controlling office was gay?

“As often as he wants? You’re at his beck and call?”

“Yes.”

“He pays for your flat?”

“My salary pays for my flat.”

“But he got you your salary?”

“Yes, basically. But I have a job in Chicago I can go back to. I’m not desperate. I have options.” This was going in circles, but he obviously was trying to drive some point home. It’s not like I hadn’t already started considering all of the points. Was Trung going to be one of those options? We’ve never gotten down to dancing around the issue like this before.

“And you’re satisfied? You are fine with old cock?”

“Yes, basically. Years of experience are appreciated.”

“Well, I’m not sure about that. You two look like you’re just floating along. He looks more satisfied than you do. He’s getting what he wants, but I’m not all that sure you are. I think you could do better. I think you need young cock. I think you need to be taken with vigor, dominated and conquered.”

“That no one else being good enough for you after you’d been had by a sailor thing?” I asked, giving him an amused smile.

“Absolutely.”

“And once a sailor you almost have the sailor capability in you?”

“Yes, absolutely.” The amused smile had been transferred to Trung.

“You have a big accounting firm job to offer me?” I asked. Was he pitching me or not?

“I have what matters. I’ve seen your boss in the locker room. He’s OK, but he’s no Congolese.”

“Congolese?”

“Yeah. Congolese are said to have the biggest, fattest cocks. I think my dad must have come from Congolese stock.”

“Oh, you think so?” I asked, amused at the approach he was now taking—let me fuck you because of the size of my cock. Happily, he seemed to be beyond the “let me fuck you” phase. I thought now it had been established that he would fuck me if the opportunity arose. I was OK with that. He aroused me.

“I’ve been in locker rooms a lot; I haven’t seen a shaft to rival mine,” Trung boasted. “And your boss looks a little too gentlemanly and proper. I don’t think he knows how to master a guy with your looks and body. I’m a sailor. We’re rough. When you’ve been fucked by a sailor, you’ve been fucked.”

“Yes, you’ve said that already. I think you may be trying too hard.”

“You need to see me hard. My cock is young. I’m twenty-three. I can go for hours. How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“And how old is this boss man of yours?”

“Forty-four.” I’d seen it on company papers. He’d only acknowledged forty to me.

“Shit. Old cock. You ever been to the China market streets in Wan Chai? That’s the real Hong Kong. That’s where life is really vibrant here.”

And what’s this sudden shift from the topic about, I wondered.

“I live in Wan Chai,” he continued.

Ah, it wasn’t a shift at all.

“I get off in twenty minutes. I’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. But one thing if you go with me.”

“What?” I said, having no intention of going anywhere with him on the basis of our first sexual banter.

“If you go with me, I won’t give you a fuckin’ thing. I’ll take everything you have and use it all. I’ll leave you gasping for air and emptyhanded. But I’ll leave you with a big, satisfied grin on your face. It’s the sailor way.”

He couldn’t have known, but after months of Jared Bradford, wondering if there was more to be had, and negotiating for position at the accounting firm, Trung saying that was why I went with him.

“Are you propositioning me, Trung?” I asked, putting a feigned look of shock on my face.

“Yes,” he answered. “That’s what we’ve been doing here the last fifteen minutes—me making you. And you’re salivating to go with me. I’m the sailor of your dreams. You need to be controlled and used.”

How did he know what I dreamed about?

Trung fucked me like I’d never been fucked before, in a tiny, one-room walkup above a fish shop. The bed pretty much was a cushioned quilt taking up almost the entire floor of the room. I was totally fucked by a hard-bodied naked man between my naked, spread legs, pinning me to the quilt with a cock to die for. He was everything he had promised. He had a black shaft to make the Congolese proud. He stuffed me and spread me and stretched me and fucked me for an hour. And I fucked him back, bending at the knees enough to lift my pelvis to him and sway with the thrusts of his hard, thick shaft.

And he was rough enough to do sailors proud too. He was strong and muscular and solid and he manipulated me at will. He gave me no respect and I melted to him. It was all about him taking, and I became his slave.

“I told you so,” he gloated after the first time, as I lay, spent and purring under him, in his embrace, him still inside me.

He did missionary the second time too but in a way Jared never did. He did it Kama sutra style, he said, the two of us facing each other, sitting on his legs cross-legged, and me sitting on his thighs, my legs wrapped around his butt, and him embracing me close, his huge dick inside me and him pulling me on and off the cock and rocking me back and forth, making sure he punished every surface of my passage. He then pushed my shoulder blades to the quilt and continued pulling me on and off his shaft, increasing in intensity, speed, and depth, until he twisted me around and fucked me from the rear, pistoning me hard, brutally as I writhed under his control and screamed out my ruination.

Running his arms under my pits then, he pulled my back up into his chest and continued fucking me. He was rough and demanding and fully possessing and full of cum, releasing again and again as I cried out to the heavens, my cries lost in the hubbub of the street noise just beyond his flimsy walls.

When he released me to collapse in a heap in front of him, he wasn’t finished with me. I was still panting and working to gather my breath, when he grabbed at me for a third go at me. I crawled toward the door, but he picked me up and slammed me down on the quilt. He slapped me across the face and strapped me on the buttocks with a leather belt, tied my wrists together, put me on all fours, and fucked me again.

“You wiped me out,” I whimpered when he was done.

“And it was what you wanted, what you needed,” he answered. “Sailor style.”

Trung had been right. Jared didn’t have a particularly big cock. And Jared could barely claim to fuck.

Trung fucked. Trung had a pride of the Congo cock. Trung didn’t give me a moment’s respect. He fucked rough. Trung wiped me out.

We went downstairs and ate supper at a street noodle stand outside of the fish shop with Trung gripping my wrist the whole time as if I might try to bolt and run. I was his captive and he was my master. And then we went back upstairs and he wiped me out again, pushing me down on my belly as we entered his room, tying my wrists behind my back, mounting me, and riding my ass hard. He made me feel like I was his slave and he was going to use me all up.

He did use me all up.

After he could come no more, he still didn’t free me. He turned me on my back, slapped my legs open, and hovered over me, working my passage with a thick dildo and stroking me off until, exhausted and whimpering, I had come again for him.

I somehow made it home that night, but I called in sick—being too-well-fucked—at work the next day, not, of course, using that exact excuse. I had hurt after Jared had taken me that first time, but I HURT after Trung ravished me. The former was discomforting; the latter was momentous.

I had now been bedded by two men. There was quite a contrast between them. One man gave me a job. The other man brutalized me and used me up completely. He gave me nothing but satisfaction. So, why was it the second man who appeared in my dreams to cover me?

I now knew how it felt to be owned—to have been made a slave to a master. Jared owned my ambition. Trung owned my body. Trung told me he didn’t want me to forget him. I never would. I will always remember him standing naked over my prostate and trembling body, muscular, black, solid, tattooed, hung, showing a determined sneery smile, and holding a dildo at the ready, demanding that I open my legs to him, and challenging me to try to escape him—and then fucking me again.

I opened my legs to him again and again, and when I grew too weary to open them, he opened them himself.

* * * *

“Come in and close and lock the door,” Jared Bradford said.

So, it was going to be one of those afternoons. I did so.

“I need you to help me with something,” he said a bit coyly, and he turned his chair to the side behind the desk of his office so that I could see that he had his fly open and his cock out and being fisted by his hand. It was a game Jared like to play to assert his control over me. No longer needing direction in this scenario, I moved to him, went down on my knees in front of him, took the cock in my mouth, and gave him head.

He came on my face. He’d taken a handkerchief out of his pocket—an expensive linen one—and handed it to me. “Here, clean yourself up. I’m afraid I got some in your hair. You can keep the handkerchief.”

I had a collection of them now. Wiping myself off I stood and moved back toward the door.

“Wait, I didn’t call you in for that. I wanted to let you know that the deputy chief position in the accounting department is opening up and, although you are young for that—”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“I’m not the only one in making a decision, but I do have my say. The one who gets the job would need to be a team player, looking out for the firm, doing what he can to pull in new, important clients.”

“Who do I have to let ball me?” I asked. “And how do you know he would want to do me?”

“His name is Clayton Dodson. He’s Australian, quite wealthy, and is looking for a new accounting firm. He saw you the other day here in the office when we were pitching him. He asked me about you and I told him how cooperative you were.”

“So, he wants to fuck me if he comes with our firm.”

“Yes, he wants to fuck you. We have an information packet for him. It’s here on my desk. We’d like you to deliver it in person. The address is on the packet. Give him whatever he wants. I don’t expect you back for the rest of today.”

You can’t get any clearer than that.

The address I went to was just another one of the glass skyscrapers that was less than fifteen years old but that, in Hong Kong, would be determined as an old building nearing needing to be replaced with a taller glass skyscraper. Dodson’s business took up the top three stories of the building and the top floor, with terracing, seemed to be pretty much just one office and living space—Dodson’s—plus a pool terrace.

He was in the swimming pool on the terrace on the narrow side of the building. The pool was against the outer edge of the building, running nearly the entire length of the building’s side. When I was ushered out onto the terrace, there were two figures in the pool, at the far end, at the corner of the building. A young Asian man, probably Chinese, as we were in Hong Kong, was bent over the lip of the pool on his belly, his arms extended over his head and his legs dangling in the pool. A larger, robust, florid man was hovering over the Asian’s back, fucking him.

When the larger man realized that someone had come out onto the terrace, he pulled out of the Asian and swam over to the pool beside where I was standing, packet in hand, on the terrace. He came to the lip of the pool, folded his arms on the edge, lowered his chin to a forearm, and gave me a searching look.

“Yes, you are the cute one I asked for.”

“I’m Craig Littlepage,” I said, adding the firm name I represented. “I was given this package to give you.”

“And to give me whatever I wanted too, right?”

“Yes, to give you whatever you wanted.”

“Yes, yes, put it on that table over there and then come back and strip down. Let me see what we’ve got to work with.”

I turned to the table and left the package there. The top of the table was littered with condom packets, both unopened and slit open and the contents removed. They were XL Magnums.

The mantra “Give him whatever he wants” recycled through my brain as I returned to the side of the pool, stripped down, and posed for the man.

“Yes, very nice. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four, sir.”

“Experienced? Men fuck you?”

“Yes, sir.” It was just the two so far, but I couldn’t get any better fucked than Trung did.

“Big-cocked men? You open up OK and quickly?”

“Yes, sir.” Couldn’t get any bigger than Congolese cock.

“Turn around, bend over, pull your cheeks open, and show me your hole. Good, you’ll open up nicely.”

Truong had taken care of that.

“Good,” he repeated. “Let’s do it in the sauna.”

He rose from the water. He was a walrus of a man—big, heavy, and hirsute, robust and ruddy, strawberry blond hair turning to gray, more blond in the pubes than on the head. He had to be at least fifty. His balls were the size of lemons and hung heavy from his body. I didn’t see the cock at first. It was stubby even in an erection that must have been raised for the small Asian still bent over the lip of the pool on the far side, but interrupted by my presence. It was stubby, but it was extraordinarily thick. It looked, as he lumbered out of the pool, to be all mushroom cap. The XL Magnum had to be for girth, not length.

When he was out of the pool, standing and toweling himself off, I saw more length to the shaft, if not much, and noted that he was sheathed and the bulb of the condom was filled. So, he’d had sex with the Asian in the pool. I hadn’t interrupted that when I’d arrived. I wondered how soon he could have sex again. He was well past fifty. What was left of his libido, I wondered.

Was my timing off in visiting him? Jared had known I was coming straight here. Of course Jared probably wouldn’t have known that the Aussie was having a nooner in the pool already.

The answer was, yes, my timing was off, and, no, he didn’t have a quick reaction time. And his comment about me opening quickly or not obviously was related to how long he could stay hard even when he could get hard.

The fuck in the sauna was not a resounding success. He changed condoms before we went there. He was proficient enough in preparing a partner. He sat me on an upper tier of benching around the sauna wall and hovered in front of me, using his hands and mouth to work me up and bring me into heat.

I was murmuring, “Yes, yes, fuck me. Stick it in. Screw me,” not only because I knew he’d like hearing that but also because I was more than ready for the cock, wondering how it would be like that thick but without much length. I also wanted to heighten his arousal enough for him to get on with it and get over with it.

But he wasn’t getting hard enough for good penetration. I got my hands into the act, grasping him and working his cock while his hands worked mine and the rest of my body. I was more than ready, rocking against his body and moaning my need.

He got into position, between my thighs, kneeling on the next lower tier, my ankles on his shoulders. He was hard enough to lodge inside my hole, and I panted hard and groaned as he moved deeper, stretching me to the limit with his extraordinary girth. He did manage three or four thrusts and he did come to some extent—in the condom. But that was it.

He was polite enough to bring me off, embracing me closely, the heel of a hand pressed under my balls, and his fingers inside me, stroking my prostate until I came. I worked at giving him whatever satisfaction and feeling of mastery as I could, rocking on his hand, whimpering, murmuring, “Yes, yes, you’re driving me wild. You’re killing me. Make me come,” and then coming for him. But I wasn’t anywhere close to being satisfied, which was neither here nor there considering what the assignment was. But it was clear it was all too fast and too short of heaven for him as well. And the cock play had been miserable. He had been emasculated and there wasn’t a damn thing I could say to make him believe otherwise. He’d been given his yielding young male of choice and he hadn’t delivered.

He was polite but distant after that. I was prepared to stay the night, and if I had, I probably could have worked him up to satisfaction, but I could tell he was embarrassed, despite his bravado, that he hadn’t delivered and that he couldn’t get me out of there fast enough.

It was still light out when I got down to the street. I could have gone back to the office and Jared would still be there. I didn’t want to report the unsatisfactory results of the visit just then, though. It, of course, would be my fault. There had to be somewhere else I could go. I was sexually keyed up. Dodson had prepared me well. He just hadn’t delivered.

It wasn’t Jared who I needed now, and I’d only been with one other man before the disaster with the old Aussie. I could have gone to a gay bar and hooked up, but there was no guarantee that would result in satisfaction either. I didn’t have experience in doing hookups on the street or in bars. I was in heat. I needed a reliable fucking.

I went to the American Club, but Trung wasn’t on duty there. I went from there to Wan Chai to the Chinese market area there, which was as vibrant and alive at night as it was during the day. I went to his small room above the fish shop. He was wearing just a red silken robe with the golden dragon on it. His welcome was a knowing, sneery smile.

“You’ve come for young Congolese cock,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” I answered.

“You’re flushed. You’ve just been with a man. The old cock man, Jared?”

“Yes, I’ve been with a man. Yes, old cock. No, not Jared. Someone the firm wants as a client. He couldn’t deliver.”

“I deliver.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

“I give nothing. I just take.”

“I understand.”

“I own you,” he growled.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“You own me. Just fuck me. Screw me now.”

“Get naked, lie on your back, open your legs for me, and lift your tail. Give yourself completely to me. I’m going to destroy your hole this time.”

When I had done so, he stood over me, between my spread and bent legs, a black god, devouring me with his eyes, working his erection up with his hand. I moaned deeply for him, grasping and pulling on my own erection.

We were interrupted at that point and it could have ruined everything, but it didn’t. Another young man—Chinese, young, cute, and willowy—appeared at the room’s door. He looked confused and dismayed when he saw us in that position.

Trung saw him and growled, “Come back in a couple of hours,” and the young man disappeared.

So, I had interrupted an assignation already planned. Come back in two hours, he’d said. This was just an assembly line fuck then. I should have been indignant. But I was stifled that. I was in sexual need and he was a sailor.

“Fuck me. Screw me,” I whimpered.

Trung returned to standing over me and pulling on his meat. When fully hard, he stripped off his robe and stood there, magnificent, muscular, tattooed, black, dangerous, in full, heavy, thick, long Congolese erection. I lay, trembling, on my back, legs open wide, knees turned out, arms open wide, in throbbing erection, completely open and vulnerable to him.

“Show me your hole.”

I did.

“Put your thumbs in it. Open it wide.” I did. “Oh, my, my, my.”

“Do me, fuck me, screw me, take me, use me,” I whimpered. “Be a sailor.”

With a growl, he pounced, covering me, shoving his young, massive Congolese cock up into my passage as I yowled from the savage invasion, spreading and stretching, possessing, and grasping and beating off my cock. I arched my back, crying out as I shot my loads in high arcs onto his chest—once, twice, three times.

He fucked the shit out of me. He slayed me. Taking no prisoners, giving no quarter, he did battle on my vulnerable body with his young Congolese cock, tearing my cries of pain, passion, and ecstasy out of me as he satisfied his animal lust on my body—again and again and again.

And, in doing so, he satisfied my need for young, virile, vigorous cock as well.

I was hobbling down the stairs from Trung’s room when my cellphone went off. It was Jared.

“Where are you? Dodson wants you to come back.”

“I went. I tried. He couldn’t . . . it just didn’t work out,” I said. I couldn’t say that the man couldn’t keep it up. He was an Aussie. This would be important to him. He couldn’t lose face this way in the Hong Kong business world. But of course that’s why he wanted me to come back. “Listen, it’s OK. I’ll go on over,” I answered and clicked off. I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle this after having been wiped out by Trung. I didn’t know if I would be able to put in the effort to get the man up enough to carry through with a fuck.

It turns out I didn’t have to. The man had powerful enhancement pills. All I had to do was keep assuring him that he was The Man.

The bedroom opened up on the pool where we’d first met.

“Strip and bend over that bed,” he said as he went into the bathroom and closed the door. I did so, at the side of the bed where I could look out at the pool no matter where this went.

He was naked and sheathed when he came out of the bathroom. He also was erect enough for action. I wouldn’t say he was average in length, but he was long enough to keep contact and do some serious plowing. He made up for any deficiency there, though, by being extraordinarily thick—one of those beer can cocks. I would suffer.

I did suffer. He knelt behind me, grasped my wrists with his hands to hold me captive, and expertly ate me out, turning my knees to jelly, making me writhe under him, and causing me to call out, “Fuck me! Screw me! Stick it in and fuck the shit out of me.” I would have said something like this to buck up his pride anyway, but pretense wasn’t necessary.

He rose, palmed my belly, and cupped my chin, pulling my head back into his beefy chest. He made me suffer getting saddled. And then he fucked me. He screwed me. He fucked the shit out of me. The thickness of him is what did it—that and the pill keeping him hard for an hour.

Afterward, he let me collapse in place on the bed and I remained, bent over the bed and watching him, as he strutted out to the pool and swam laps. He was an Aussie. This was for his pride. He was vindicated.

When he came back, he said, “You’re staying the night.”

Before we went off to sleep, he went on his back on the bed, and I rode his still-erect cock in a Cowboy. I was exhausted toward the end, but he wasn’t. He grasped my waist and slammed me up and down on his shaft until we’d both come. This was for his pride. He was making a point.

He made the point in the morning again, coming out of the bathroom, obviously after another downing of pills, erect and ready to go.

He put me on my back at the foot of the bed, grasped my ankles, wishboned my legs, and made me suffer the assaulting stretch of that beer can cock again. When he was in, I took over the duty of holding my legs raised and spread, and he worked my cock and body while he fucked me in shallow jabs of his shaft. Our learned with him that length isn’t everything. I arched my back, writhed, groaned, and grunted, and cried out my suffering, and none of that was feigned. He laughed, clearly satisfied with the damage he could inflict.

The only allusion to his previous failure was then to ask me, “What are you going to tell them at your firm about me?”

“That you’re a high-performing stud,” I answered, which, of course, was what he wanted to hear and that satisfied him.

“Tell Bradford I’ll go with your firm,” he said when he came out of the bathroom, showered and dressing, in the morning. I lay flat out on the bed, legs spread, still panting and moaning low. “But I want them to assign you to my account and I want weekly sessions with you to go over the books.”

I guessed I could mark that up as a successful assignment. He was strutting like the cock of the walk when he left the bedroom. I now had my first major client account. And I never, never mentioned to anyone ever again that he hadn’t initially been unable to perform.

* * * *

“Lift your arms above your head.” I did so, and Singh rose up over me from his cross-legged position between my spread legs as I lay on my back on the divan on the terrace. He hovered over me, fifties, large bodied, pot belly, muscular but drooping pecs, fair-sized erection with lemon-sized, low-hanging balls, salt-and-pepper hirsute, with beard and head hair now undone and cascading. He had tied off my wrists to the top corners of the bed. We were both naked. I was already lightly panting.

Jared Bradford had told me that one of the company’s directors, Haashim Singh, an Indian Sikh, fabulously wealthy, wanted instruction in tennis. After seeing me and conversing with Bradford, he wanted contact with me for other reasons as well.

“Singh is a master of tantric sex arts,” Jared said, giving me a pointed look. “That might have interesting applications for us.”

I almost laughed. Bradford hadn’t done anything with me but the missionary position, and a standard one at that. Learning variety of any sort then would be an improvement of our sex life, so I’d just nodded my head and agreed to teaching the man tennis in exchange for what he could teach Jared through me.

The Sikh company director lived on the upper levels, high on the side of Victoria Peak, in a house perched on the side of the mountain, with a stunning view of Hong Kong below and across the water to the Kowloon mainland. The house had its own tennis court.

I was here for the weekend. I hadn’t been here for more than an hour and we were about to have sex. I was tied up and ready to go.

Singh settled back down between my spread legs, going into a cross-legged sitting position. He lightly grasped my knees and spread my legs even further apart, bending them and setting my feet down, flat, on the surface of the divan. His gaze lowered to focus on my genitals, which was very disconcerting to me, to be so vulnerably positioned, with the man who is about to fuck me just sitting there, placidly, cross-legged, his hands gripping my knees and spreading my legs open, and just looking at my cock, balls, and hole. The pose lasted for a few minutes and I tensed and panted a little harder and my cock lurched and started to engorge. Singh already was in massive erection.

“Relax,” He directed. “Let all of the tension flow out of you.”

When I had managed to do so—or, at least made an effort to show him I had—Singh murmured, “Slowly, gracefully, in peace.” He slowly leaned over and down and softly blew on my genitals. I quivered.

The tantric master lifted his head. “Relax. Be at peace.” My cock was bobbing and engorging, though.

Ignoring that, twice more Singh leaned over and blew on my genitals. I moaned and my hips involuntarily began a slight rocking motion. I groaned and jerked when on the fourth dip, Singh took, first one of my balls, and then the other, in his mouth and gently rolled them around in his cheek. When he came off the second ball, he murmured, “Slow, gentle. Learn not to make quick movements in reaction. A smooth, burbling stream.”

I sighed and fought my natural reaction when the next lowering of the head had Singh’s mouth opened over my quivering erection and the tantric master’s tongue tip lapped at my urethra slit. My body shuddered and shimmered, all thoughts of relaxing abandoned, and the rocking of my hips became more pronounced. Singh’s hands on my knees began to gently, slowly sway my bent legs back and forth, using my flexibility to take the knees to the mat on either side at the greatest extension, emphasizing the sensation of total vulnerability, openness, and surrender. With an unexpected sigh, I came in Singh’s throat.

“Sorry,” I muttered, totally anguished.

“No, don’t be,” Singh said. “That was as determined and it was good—a natural flow. That is what you must strive for each and every time. No anger, no heat. Just a natural, flowing release of your essence. You did well. You are a lovely young man. You have a beautiful body. Your essence is delicious. We will have a wonderful weekend.”

I shuddered. But I also shimmered. He was nothing to look at, but he was a sex technique master. I looked up at the bound wrist of my right hand, thinking that we were done here for now. But I was wrong.

Singh rose up on his knees between my legs. He gently took hold of my ankles and moved my feet to be lie flat against his chest. He moved the underside of his cock, which was in erection, to my puckering hole and gently rose and fell on his knees, causing his cock to rub over my anus, focusing on my panting and moaning, until I was open enough for the cock to slide in.

“Yes, yes,” I murmured, rocking my pelvis. “Fuck me. Screw me.”

“Think of it in calmer, more natural, gentle ways. Think of it as meld, merging, becoming one. Don’t think in terms of fuck and screw. Think gliding, merging, becoming one, receiving my essence, becoming bathed in it.”

OK, I thought. Meld me, merge with me, become one with me. In other words, put it in and fuck me.

He slowly penetrated, gently stretching and opening my passage, which was well open, since Trung had been giving me attention. Singh fucked me in long, slow, gentle glides until he stopped moving and his seed started flowing. I could feel him inside me—deep inside me, his cock not being a big as Trung’s or as thick as Dodson’s, but a divine combination of both—flowing. He was trained to prolonged flow. It seemed to go on forever as I held steady, not daring to breath, wanting him to just flow and flow and flow.

He gently gripped my knees and returned the bent legs to the full side extension, knees pressed to the mat on either side, returning to the position of full vulnerability of the groin. He held for a few minutes, but both he and I felt him going turgid again inside my passage. I arched my back, panting and moaning as a slide, in and out, in and out, recommenced and Singh gently fucked me again—rest and then repeat again. I lay there shimmering and moaning.

He took me to the tennis court after that and we played a match. He didn’t really need tennis lessons. It was fully clear now why I was here. But we did play. He was good, but I was better even though he had exhausted me with his tantric sex session on the terrace overlooking Hong Kong harbor. We played only in langots, the Indian form of loincloths, and although his body was heavy and old, he moved with grace. He had put his hair up under a turban and captured his flowing beard in a net, strung from ear to ear, to keep it out of the way while we played. He complimented me on my tennis play and of the beauty and flexibility of my young body. He did not ask me if I’d enjoyed the tantric fuck before we’d come to the tennis court. He didn’t have too. The reaction of my body had told him I had. Each time when his flow started, I trembled and came as well.

He fucked me again, there in the grass beside the court, after we’d played a match, which I barely won.

“This is the basic tantric position, called the Yab-Yum,” Singh said, as, pulling off his langot, he went down into a cross-legged sit on the grass, gently taking my wrist in one of his hands and releasing my langot with the other, as he pulled me down into his lap, facing him. As I came down, he was putting his erection into position at my entrance, and, just like that, I was beginning to descend on his hard pole.

“Gently. Open fully to it. Make it fit perfectly,” he murmured. He placed the palm of one hand on my tailbone and slowly, gently, but relentlessly, he pulled my passage onto and ever-more-deeply possessed by his thick, throbbing shaft.

I shuddered, murmuring, “Yes, yes, yes.” No pain. Complete pleasure.

Once deeply possessing me and embracing me close, the two of us facing each other, Singh spent the next twenty minutes gently manipulating my body around, forward and back, side to side, up and down, moving my passage to fuck itself on the cock, the shaft kissing and caressing every square inch of my passage as it sank down, down, down, pulsating and throbbing into my core. He was humming; I was purring. He held me motionless and panting and moaning, gently but firmly, as his flow started and continued. Again this initiated my own flowing release.

When we both were spent, he gently pushed on my chest and I reclined my torso, my shoulder blades and the back of my head resting on the grass. He used his hands to massage my torso, spending considerable time on my pecs and nipples as I felt him coming to life again. When he was in possessing erection inside me again, he pulled my torso up to his chest, embraced me close with one arm, while the hand of his other hand palmed my tailbone and controlled the pull and release of the movement of his cock inside my passage. With a sigh, we flowed together.

We ate dinner at the downslope edge of the terrace, watching the lights of the city coming on below us in the gathering twilight. We were bare-chested in silk dhotis tied around our waists. He quizzed me on my past, concentrating more on my tennis, my dancing, and my collegiate work with gymnastics. I had an MBA in accounting and I worked in a firm he was a director of, but his interest was obvious focused on my looks, shape, flexibility, and my history with men.

“You are only the fourth,” I said.

“In size?” he asked.

“On balance, above average,” I said, seeing no reason not to be honest, and actually a bit surprised that he had measured up in that department.

“And in technique?”

“Unsurpassed,” I admitted, which obviously pleased him.

“You worked well with me as an older, not-quite-so-fit man.”

“You are quite fit enough where it counts,” I said. “And I like older men.”

That pleased him as well. “All of your men have been older?”

“All but one,” I answered.

“But he is best, I am sure. There is nothing like young cock. Be honest with me.”

“Yes, he is best. He is a sailor.”

“Ah, yes. Forceful and demanding. With me it is a flowing, burbling brook. With him, I think it must be a raging storm at sea.”

“Yes. The cock is young, yes. The sex is vigorous. Older men have experience and technique, though. Your technique is the best. Do you have any idea how often you have come—that I have come?”

“When we have the experience we strive for, there will be only one, long, prolonged coming—with the two of us joined in receiving it. Coming should not be an event; it should be a rolling experience in waves. That is what I strive with you.”

“Successfully,” I acknowledged. Wow, I thought. That was some goal. “You could make me come without me touching myself or you bringing me off with your hand.”

There was significance to that, as we’d finished with the meal, and he was leaning into me, handing and stroking my cock.

“If you had a life of serving older men . . . ?”

“I’m fine with older men,” I answered

“I have you hard again.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I had not intended to overwork you today, but . . .”

“Take me to the divan and fuck me again,” I whispered. “Take me, use me.”

I was sitting on Singh’s crossed legs, facing him, on the divan. Singh’s cock was buried in my passage, and upon Singh’s command, I raised my legs straight up in front of the man. Singh picked up a gold cord, bound my raised ankles together, and moved them over his head so that they were bound together behind the tantric master’s neck.

Singh, quite flexible for his age himself, rose up to his knees, bringing my penetrated pelvis with him. Grasping my hips in his hands, Singh slowly, gently raised and lowered my hips, which moved the man’s cock in my passage. When I was moaning and panting, Singh stood on the surface of the divan, stretching my body out further, streaming it down the man’s body, and putting my weight on my shoulder blades. Singh continued slowly raising and lowering my inverted body on the buried cock until the Singh’s flow started. Singh was an expert in the art of the tantric. He had trained himself to gently flow and flow and flow. I moaned as he flooded my core with cum.

My body shimmering and trembling, I groaned, and I too flowed.

Late that night, in the darkness, on Singh’s bed, I moved my hips up and down, in the Kama Sutra position of the Crab, Singh on his back, holding my waist between his hands, while, facing the ceiling and stretched over his body, I supported my body hovering over his with my hands and feet on either side of his body. His cock was buried deep up inside me. He came with a sigh and gently moved me off him and to the side.

“You can go all day and night,” he murmured, in approval. “You have a beautiful, flexible body, and your endurance is top notch.”

“Given the right man, I can go long. I can go long with you.” I did go all day and all night with Trung. I’m a damn fine accountant too, I was thinking. But this man didn’t want me for my accounting abilities.

“Can you do it for the right reward?”

“I have so far,” I said, being honest. I had gotten here on my back, with my legs spread open for men. There had only been four of them so far, but I’d used three of them to get ahead. The third used me at will, but I used that to be able to take the rest.

“I wish to make a proposition to you. How much does Jared Bradford pay you to be his assistant and to take his cock whenever he pleases?”

I named the figure, and Singh laughed. “I own a brothel and escort business down in the city. I will pay you twice that plus tips to be in my rent-boy stable. Give me your beautiful, flexible, enduring body and I will make you rich.”

Twice that? Apparently, accounting wasn’t the most lucrative path to riches.

Morning was dawning. I was lying, naked, on my back on Singh’s bed, my knees pulled up tightly into my chest. Singh, hovering over me, placed a pillow under the small of my back to lift and roll my pelvis up, exposing my now-gaping, puckering hole.

Kneeling behind me and putting his hands on my thighs to press them closer into my chest, Singh blew on my genitals, causing me to moan and my cock to start to harden. My moaning deepened and I panted as Singh tongued my cock, balls, and anus until my hips twitched and tightened. I was about to jerk and release, when Singh said. “No, relax. Just let it flow.”

I relaxed, Singh slid his mouth down my cock, the flow came, and Singh accepted the flow in his throat.

Singh rose and knelt in closer between my spread and quivering thighs. He took my ankles in his hands and extended my legs, raising them to pull my weight more onto my upper back, raising my pelvis. He held my legs closer together, restraining them with golden cords around the thighs and ankles. The effect was to restrict the opening of my anus, and thus making the entry and progress up into the passage of Singh’s erection tighter than in earlier couplings.

Singh didn’t quickly force entry but penetration took time and effort and I suffered. The thick, long erection inched in as my channel slowly, begrudgingly opened up to accept him. It took time.

Merely inches in and my groans filling the room, Singh leaned over and whispered. “We have all the time in the world. We will take as long as required.”

I moaned and groaned and sighed as the man took deep possession of me. When he was fully saddled, Singh released the bonds on my legs and ankles. He manipulated my legs, holding them straight out from my body to open the passage more, pulling them in to restrict the passage, and rowing them until first my and then his flow started, bringing sighing peace to us both.

I lay stretched out against him; my buttocks nestled into his groin. “Yes,” I murmured.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I will give you my body for the salary you have offered.”

Four men. I had come to this on the strength of going under just four men. Now I was going to have as many men as I could handle. My office was going to be a bed.

* * * *

Even though he’d seen my photo and had signed up for me, Jared Bradford expressed surprise when we met up before going into the Kowloon restaurant dinner of his gentleman’s club before going to exclusive wrestling matches at a male brothel—not the one I worked in—that his club was sponsoring. It was a gala evening. Club members were permitted to bring dates, as long as they were male. Jared had turned to the escort service I worked for for his date and had picked me out of the Internet dating pages.

“You’re looking good, Craig,” he said. “Very good. You wear a tuxedo well. I wondered where Haashim Singh had hidden you away after swiping you from under my eyes. I thought he was keeping you for himself in that mansion up on Victoria Peak.”

“No, he didn’t keep me for himself,” I said. “I’m surprised you engaged my services.” I was expensive now. I once was at his beck and call sexually for the mere cost of a job that someone else paid for.

“Shall we go in?” he asked.

He was a gentleman during the dinner, introducing me to others as his former assistant at the accounting firm, making no reference to where I had gone from there, and, certainly, even though his club was centered on older men fucking younger men, he didn’t reveal that he had initiated me in sex and, for a while, had owned my tail. I’m sure some of the men present assumed Jared was fucking me, although I think they’d be surprised to know he was paying big bucks for me to attend this dinner and the wrestling matches with him.

The wrestling matches, conducted in the lower level of a parking garage of a skyscraper in Kowloon still being constructed, were interesting. There were three matches, the well-built young men of different nationalities—Chinese, Korean, Filipino, Australian, and Russian—wrestling in langots and less in the ring. The loser of each match was fucked on the matting, in the ring, by the winner. As the match progressed, Jared became more touchy feely with me, as did those pairing off around us.

When suggestions were made that some of us more on to a gay strip club afterward, Jared looked at me and I gauged his look correctly to mean he wanted to take me back to his apartment.

He fucked me on his bed, where he’d done so so many times before—for free. This time he was paying a high price for it.

As always, he covered me in the missionary position, me on my back at the foot of the mattress, holding my legs raised and spread and him, after kneeling between my thighs, tonguing my anus and sucking my balls and cock, rising over me, penetrating as I panted hard and clutched his buttocks, and fucking me in long, deep slides.

He did me well. He’d always done me well. But there was no variety, no fire, with Jared. He’d always done me in a missionary. At the beginning it had been taxing and exciting. Now, it was just sex with Jared again.

I lay there on my back, head turned to his wall of glass overlooking Hong Kong harbor from the heavens. I felt him deep inside, moving, in and out, in and out. I moved with him, rocking my hips in the cadence of his thrusts, panting and moaning, whispering “Yes, yes, like that. Deeper. Fuck me, screw me,” while moving my hands from clutching his buttocks to his shoulder blades, to his biceps, and then under to stroking my cock, searching for the rhythm and for the time that would bring us off together—the Nirvana of gay male sex.

With an “Oh, shit, here it comes!” I tensed and jerked and shot my load, with him joining me quickly thereafter, filling the bulb of his condom with cum. Jared always had been one to have a big load. He jerked and tensed and grunted his release three times before going quiet and rolling off to the side.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, as I reached down, possessed his cock, and stroked him. He was paying a lot. He deserved good service.

“Maybe we could meet more often,” he whispered. “You could come here when you had time.”

That was a change. Before, I came to him whenever he beckoned.

“Whenever you wanted to arrange it through the escort service,” I said. I could tell that wasn’t what he meant, what he wanted. He didn’t want to pay for it.

“Haashim Singh wouldn’t like me working off the books,” I said.

He contemplated this, but I could tell that this definitely wasn’t what he had in mind. He had initiated me. He had started me on this road. He thought he deserved free service.

That wasn’t going to happen. But I’d take his mind off of it. He had paid out the nose for this date. I licked down his chest, into his pubic bush, opened my mouth over his cock, and slid down the pole.

“Oh, fuck,” he murmured, lying back, arching his back, taking my head between his hands, and luxuriating in the attention I was giving him. All part of the high-end escort service treatment.

Later, as I took a taxi across the city to Wan Chai, I reflected on not being honest with him or with Haashim Singh. I did give it away to someone.

I climbed the stairs to Trung’s room. I knew he was there. I had checked already.

When I entered, he was sitting, cross-legged on the quilt in the middle of his room.

“Come in, strip, lie on your back, show me your hole,” he growled.

Shivering and shimmery, I stripped, lay on my back before him, spread and bent my legs, and raised my pelvis for him, my hole still gaping from Jared’s missionary fuck.