Anson and Jorge in Singapore Ch. 03

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The transfer to Bangkok was uneventful and took only the morning. We were soon ensconced in a giant suite at the Shangri-la on the Chao Phraya River—in a new space, a remodeled ancient building, the club within the hotel—with its own pool and all-inclusive restaurants and cocktail lounges and a massive spa, all river-side. In four hours we had moved from Puritan Singapore to (arguably) the most exotic and sensuous spot in Asia.

Everyone loves Bangkok. The people are smiling and loving. The sights are exotic. The main roads are rivers or canals. And there are almost no rules about dress and sensuality. It is clearly in the running to be the Vegas of Asia—but with lots of water.

At check in, we had made spa appointments and arranged for several touristy trips on the river and in the Imperial sector.

The concierge, who was probably gay (judging by the way he dressed and by the way he scanned our bodies and our baskets) handed us a map with the purported "safe" sexual attractions in the world famous quarters. He obviously guessed that we were gay (he knew the suite had only one king bed) as he had circled a few in Soi Twilight. "There are many scams—the most frequent being straight guys who promise, but after they're paid, refuse to bottom and may not even take you by mouth." He pointed to two: "These may work for you. They are clean and safe—but if I were you, I'd restrict myself to the go-go bars—and those in Soi Cowboy that, while mostly hetero, have the nicest bodies, male and female, and the least chance that the drink will be spiked. Go enjoy the sights and get yourselves aroused. If you must indulge, condoms are absolutely essential. Then come back here and enjoy each other. I can provide "room service" if you want a third or a fourth. In fact, I'm off duty for the next two nights." He handed me a card brushing long manicured fingers over my arm as he did so, emphasizing the offer

Shortly, we were in the room. It was large and sensuous, draped in gold and red silks, with an enormous canopied bed in an alcove, elevated slightly to permit views. "I've never experienced a welcome like that. I had the feeling we were checking into a non-com, unofficial military R&R facility, designed to please the guys who had been posted to sterile Muslim outposts. Wow, that guy was something else. Do you think we are so obvious that a concierge pegs us as gay after just a couple of minutes? I didn't think we were. But, I think I'm going to like this city."

"I think maybe he guessed since we have a room with only one bed. And I only have to look at you to know you'd be any rich guy's play toy."

"Well, on that note, I think it's time to play, sir."

Jorge started to remove my shirt. "I'm sure glad that we are packing our own entertainment with us." He leaned in and took my nipples between his lips and teeth and squeezed as he cupped my fabric covered equipment. He was hot and his testosterone was inflaming the room. His jeans were exhibiting a nice basket. I knew he had it in him to be a little dangerous. I think I was about to experience it. I think I had opened Pandora's box in Singapore with the earthy bit. "Get naked, Anson. I want you now on that bed." As my pants fell to the floor, he drew me into a hard bear hug, lifted me and threw me on the bed.

So Jorge was putting on his macho barrio dom. I was curious to see what that meant. We were in Bangkok after all. He had me in the center of the silky bed, on my back, staring at his hungry dark look. This was going to be good, I could tell. He started with a deliberate slow posturing, more gym than dance floor, as he dropped his clothes, popping his muscles, and sweating up. He traced his pecs, pinched the nipples, and rippled his fingers over his abs. Then, he stroked his dark cock to maximum size, placed a finger at the tip and transferred a bit of cum to my lips. Then, somewhat crudely, he began a slow buck and grind, pulling on his dick, taking his finger tips to his lips, smiling and sucking them in. He didn't need a pole—or a thong to be stuffed with paper currency. I reached up for him. I was in heat. He was sex on a chopstick. I wanted him, now!

"Oh no, Anson. Not yet. First drink this," as he handed me a tumbler of scotch on the rocks. As I was drinking, he opened the paper sack from his duffel and stretched a double cock ring onto me—one under the balls and a smaller one at the base of the penis. They were tight, very tight and would definitely stall ejaculation. Then he did the same to himself—causing his cock to bulge to incredible stiffness over those nice big ball sacs. "These are gonna make it last, boy. You're going to scream for relief. Now, I want you on your belly—after you bind your eyes with this scarf. I'm your Bangkok butt boy. You are mine. These cheeks are mine. I'm going to take you to a special place. You won't forget this experience, I guarantee it." Then he whacked me a few times.

This was a new Jorge. I finished the scotch, grabbed the scarf, tied it on, and trusting Jorge completely, lay belly down spread-eagled on the king, tensed for the worst—or more likely the best.

He covered me instantly and drew my limbs in with his own, nestling his cock in my cleft, sliding in my sweat and his pre-cum. He nibbled on my earlobe then bit into my shoulder—I'm sure leaving his mark. Then he shuffled down, pulled me up on all fours and batted my thighs apart. Separating my ass muscles, he jabbed his tongue inside. It was hot and moist and I gasped and tried to squirm—but couldn't. He had me completely under his control. His hands were on my hips, his fingers touching my balls. I was his. "No, papi. This is my game. Just accept and enjoy. I'm certainly going to." I looked up and stared at a golden smiling Buddha in the painting over our bed. He was apparently enjoying the proceedings. I guess so was I!

"Do your worst, Jorge. For tonight, I am anything you want me to be."

"At first, I thought I would take you hard, like a rent-bitch in the barrio. But, after yesterday, I have another idea." He replaced his tongue with lubed fingers, and after he had opened me, he slid his enormous lubed cock slowly, but deep into my ass. He bottomed and his heavy hot balls slapped into mine. He froze. "This is going to be very Zen. I'm going to see how long I can edge you with my dick before I pop. And you won't cum unless I let you, understood? Once again, welcome to B-a-n-g-k-o-k." (He stretched those words out broadly, telling me that he was indeed "banging" me with his big macho "cock".)

Over the next few minutes, while he ever so slowly moved inside me, he whispered lurid barrio Spanish (mostly sarcastic understatements) into my ears: mio chicito (my little boy), papi puto (hunky whore), huevos caldos (hot balls), gran polla (big dicked guy), peppered with the internationally known four letter encouragements in American. You get the idea. He was reliving his experiences in the barrio, mouthing words to express his growing arousal and what he was doing to me. Fortunately my time in the Mission District had taught me more of these phrases than I needed in polite Latino circles. He wasn't putting me down; he was whispering erotic endearments, rooted in his rincon, demonstrating that he was so macho that he could take anyone, including the most desirable guy, even one with a bigger cock. He was the man, the dom, the big dick. He was in charge.

Jorge continued stroking my shaft with depth and deliberate slowness as one hand fisted my cock tightly and the other was wrapped around my balls, pulling them toward the mattress. He was raising my temperature and my arousal slowly. He was going to edge forever at this pace. He was going to make me forget my name—or why we were even here. It was all about exquisite pleasure, delivered by a skilled lover. Concentrate on the point of pleasure. Forget the world. Forget about the future.

I think it lasted a half hour, but it seemed like an eternity. Often he would just stop, buried deeply inside, and all I could feel was the blood twitching his dick and his heartbeat pressed into my back. He was dripping with sweat and I was nearly catatonic with aroused pleasure. I was indeed totally his. He needed to release me—or find a straight jacket. I was beyond a normal man's endurance. My cock was bigger and harder than it had ever been. My balls were bursting they were so full. Finally he plunged deep, nipped my neck with his hot lips, and whispered, "I'm going to make you cum now, Anson. I'm ready."

He pulled out, slammed back in and grabbed my pole and began to stroke hard. I instantly exploded as he drew back and scraped my love-nut, then plunged deeply one last time. The rings slowed the release and sent tingling shocks into my belly extending and deepening the orgasm. He wrapped me in his strong arms, and keeping his fat plug in place, pulled me into his lap, bottoming more deeply than he had ever before, and gripped me in a lovers' embrace. I turned and he took my lips as he possessively scooped my balls and urged them to give the rest up.

At that moment, I knew I had found the best fuck buddy I had ever experienced—and maybe a life partner, assuming he didn't finish me off with a heart attack before the trip was over! I wondered whether he had felt the same. I think so.

Later in the week, after days of tourism, and a day at the beach, we did visit the red light district, and for the first time, we walked down the brightly lit nighttime streets hand in hand. Tourists and Thais stared at us with hungry eyes. We were hunks, commando in flimsy tight silk pants that showcased our big Western dicks and over-shirts, worn unbuttoned over skin-tight silk muscle tees. We promised everything, staring often into each other's eyes. We had a few drinks (taking the suggestion of the concierge, we only drank beers and asked that the cold bottles be opened at the table). We saw a few pole dance shows—with beautiful girls and boys--and people-watched the exotic sex-crazed antics of that world. Neither of us was tempted. We had our own experiences to remember, and others to anticipate in our few days more in Bangkok.

In this very sensuous city, I had discovered the raw, maleness of Jorge which he covered so well with his manners and compassion. And I had experienced the practiced Zen of a master lover. He was really two men: a dedicated, compassionate care-giver and a totally macho bull. He was a taker and a receiver. I was getting two for the price of one—both of him were invading my soul, displacing pain, doubt, and emptiness. I liked both. I was convinced. I would be asking him to move into the condo with me upon our return. Now, it was only to find the right time. We were just over half-way through our time in Asia together.

Our sensuous experience in Bangkok was nearing an end. Jorge had definitely come out of his tentative shell. He was not my sub; he was my friend and my lover. It was time for Bali by way of Hong Kong. But that's for another story or two. BD