Anson in Hong Kong Ch. 04

Anson and Jorge in Asia, Ch. 04

Hong Kong

This is the fourth in a series of five fictional stories (all published on Literotica and beginning with "Anson" in the titles). There is a little recap at the beginning since these were not originally written as chapters in a series. If you are familiar with the background, feel free to skip the first paragraphs. All characters engaged in sexual activities are over 18. In an earlier chapter, the protagonists were tested clean and determined to go exclusive. No AI was used in the creation of this story. © 2023, all rights reserved. Brunosden

Anson and Jorge flew from Bangkok to Hong Kong, about a four hour trip. Then it took more than two hours to complete the immigration and customs procedures (significantly changed and tightened after the Chinese takeover when Hong Kong had been a free international city) and then the sleek modern train into the Pan Pacific Plaza. In the past, when Anson had visited, the international airport was "downtown". Now it was on an island, partially man-made and 35 miles away. The old airport had been rebuilt as an entirely new city (without any character at all). Traffic had made the train a near-necessity. Then, it was a taxi to the Grand Hyatt on the harbor. Their Asian tour was now about half over—Tokyo, Kyoto, Singapore, Bangkok.

They checked in to the wonderful club floors at the top and received a suite with views over the harbor onto the Kowloon skyline on the other side. The rooms were small and very modern. Everything was modular and built in. But the club rooms enjoyed use of the top floor "club"—for a full buffet breakfast, mid-day snacks, a happy hour with lavish hors d'oeuvres, a library, and several "quiet" rooms. The views were arguably the best in the city. Anson had booked massages and the guys had time to use the work-out facilities, located in a sports club in a different building, separated by the large pool and a set of four tennis courts.

It had now been twenty plus years since the Chinese had taken back Hong Kong from the British—at the end of a very long lease. In the early years, most wealthy and connected residents had fled—to Vancouver, Toronto, Singapore, the Gold Coast of Australia, and even some to California. They had been replaced by Mainland plutocrats—so the mansions and penthouses remained, just with different occupants. However, English had virtually disappeared from use by taxis, restaurants, and shops. And the atmosphere is definitely more sedate than it had been in the past. Only the Chinese affinity for good food and gambling had caused the retention of the casinos and tracks—and many first class eateries.

Anson had been to Hong Kong many times on business, but not recently.

Anson and Jorge had been together now for about five weeks. Anson had decided to travel after his wife's death—and years of forced celibacy. Throughout his marriage, he had denied any outlet to his bi and gay feelings, but a few weeks with Jorge had definitely convinced him that he was indeed solidly and irrevocably gay. He had decided he wanted a companion—a male "fuck-buddy"—for this extended trip—as his condo was being remodeled. He had "interviewed" potential candidates and picked Jorge. Anson was now convinced that he had made exactly the right choice. He and Jorge were great companions, definitely compatible (or more) in bed, and becoming best friends (or more).

Anson was a lawyer—a partner litigator in a major San Francisco firm from which he was on a "grief" sabbatical. He was athletic, in shape, and looked much younger than his actual age. The month of travel had softened him a bit, but there was no question that he remained a desired "grey fox." He was about 6-2; had an athlete's build (tennis and gym); dark curly hair with just a touch of grey on the sides. Anson was gloriously endowed. Some of the guys he had interviewed (second interviews all involved sexual "compatibility") were shocked at the size of his "endowment" when he took them to bed. But, Jorge had taken him without difficulty (and taken to him) almost immediately.

Jorge was younger, a veteran Army medic who had gone on to become a Nurse Practitioner/Physicians' Assistant. He was on a three month leave of absence—in an attempt to compensate for the years of superhuman effort in the COVID wing of a major San Francisco hospital—in the respiratory facilities. Jorge had maintained his sanity during the pandemic with regular gym sessions, no matter how tired he became. Before the army, he had lived in the barrio where he still had an extended family. He was street smart and had exhibited all the macho required of a young man in that position. He was muscular, a gym-rat, with dusky good looks and a compassionate personality (apparently developed in the Army Medic Corps and at the hospital). He had won Anson's approval as well as his lust and now his esteem and maybe more. At the time, since Anson was a confirmed top, the impressive size of Jorge's uncut penis didn't seem to matter so much as Jorge's active and sensuous receptivity to Anson's hunger and his magnificent body. (Anson did, however, realize that it was certainly a plus to be regularly taking such a hung hunk.) But that would change.

Their relationship had started with about a week of stateside companionship, including hours of hot sex. Then there were the first four weeks of Asian travel, filled with tourism, tennis, workouts, good food—and sex, multiple times each day. Anson felt like a teenager. He was a new man. Anson and Jorge were now very comfortable with each other. Conversation flowed easily. And their casual physicality permeated the relationship. Anson had taken Jorge in many ways, now enriched by the Asian experience, and since their time in Bangkok, with an occasional earthy sensuousness that was completely contrary to Anson's previous antiseptic aloofness to sex.

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[From this point in the story, we move to Anson's voice in the first person.]

After a few weeks of non-stop sex, I had asked Jorge to top me. He was reluctant, but I guess he understood that even with him as a top, this was my show. I had never before bottomed—not even in college when I had played around a bit. I asked not so much as an experiment, but as an attempt to "level the playing field" given our divergent backgrounds and economic status. (I later learned that Jorge was not poor. People in his position were paid upwards of $200K per year in San Francisco. But he was supporting a mother and shared his income with many friends. I also learned that his agreement to the trip was more complicated. More, later....) But, I wanted a friend, not a sub. That was something I had decided in the course of interviewing candidates for this trip.

Over the last week or so, Jorge had gained confidence and begun to take the initiative. So we were always alert to a chance to fall (or drop or be dropped) into bed—or on the sofa, or in the shower. It seemed that we were both trying to make up for younger "deprived" lives and workaholic natures. Once I had even joked, "If it's Tuesday, this must be a king-sized bed—and I don't think we're in Belgium—and certainly not Kansas, Toto." (Of course, mixing several different metaphors—but you get the idea.) It seemed that we were on a trip of personal sexual discovery that just happened to be set in Asia—rather than the other way around.

I had planned a slow casual week in Hong Kong—not aware of what changes had occurred with the Party's crackdown on free-wheeling Hong Kong after the transition. We would take in the races at the "still very English" club in Happy Valley (the Brits now replaced mostly by the ever-gambling Chinese residents of the city); spend a day on the water from the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club (which was affiliated with my club in San Francisco); take a day or two at the beach; and, buy clothes—although now mostly made overnight in nearby Viet Nam—thanks to the internet. Custom clothing was now available all over East Asia, but the Hong Kong tailors had learned from the British—and were still partial to British woolens and British styles. They were perfect for the weather of San Francisco—and I was already hoping that upon the return, Jorge would be with me socially from time to time. He had already shown me how good he looked, even when dressed. Finally a night of gambling on the nearby island of Macao was a must. I'm not a big gambler. But I do enjoy the excitement and life of a casino full of chance-takers. I realized as I write these words that Hong Kong is indeed a very different place from the one I once knew, but now I had a partner and a chance to show him around.

We didn't wait for the luggage. (Hong Kong is exciting, but not known for its efficiency even in luxury hotels.) We had brought workout clothes in a carry on. So we took the elevator down the 40 or so floors and walked around the courts to the sports club. It was a low building, separate from the hotel tower with full windows at the edge of the harbor. The upper balcony level was filled with machines facing the harbor over the floor level weight room and a separate space for directed aerobics. We changed and immediately climbed to the balcony and the machines.

This was not a social club—but one where serious weight lifting was often seen. The hotel had sold "memberships" to serious gym-rats who always provided visual stimulus to each other to work ever harder—and to hotel guests who needed the impetus. That afternoon was no different. Several really bulked-up Asian body builders were spotting each other. Somewhat incongruously, they all sported shiny posing jock-like straps and cut off tees—togs that would probably get them arrested on the streets. I guess that's the club uniform. Or maybe this was a new hotel perk. Darkly tanned, oiled, over-muscled hunks were lifting, grunting, shouting out guttural phrases in Chinese, and encouraging each other with taps and strokes. (It seemed to me that the hotel had attracted a contingent of gay body builders.) None seemed particularly well-endowed. Jorge whispered that they were all probably on steroids—sacrificing manhood size for muscle definition.

I added that the new regime definitely frowned on the LBGTQ lifestyle—so the better-off gay Chinese had joined the Western-style hotel-affiliated health clubs where the reach of the party was restrained. Jorge remarked that the sights were better than they had seen in the Bangkok red light district (where femboys seemed to outnumber jocks). At least they would be inspiration for Jorge. But we kept to ourselves; mostly using the machines. After nearly an hour, Jorge left me to my stretch routine and went down to lift a few.

He was immediately the focus of attention. His form was precise; the weights, respectable; he, an exotic pumped Westerner—and it was obvious from his tight workout shorts that he was built. Two of the guys began to chat with Jorge, obviously setting the stage for a hook—presumably in his room at the hotel and presumably with both of them. Jorge soaked up the attention and played along. He was definitely flirting and enjoying himself. Finally I joined him, linked my arm with his, tapped his butt and walked off with my fingers in his waistband palming his ass, deciding to end his performance. We would shower in the suite. The Chinese took a quick glance at me which seemed to devour me totally, and then stared at both of us with regret as we left. I guess they understood the Western notion of private property after all.

So shortly we were back upstairs. "You can be a real tease, Jorge. I hadn't seen that side of you—although I'm now guessing that your day at the pool in Singapore might have drawn some attention."

"Let me have a little fun, Anson. Those guys deserved everything I threw at them. I even chubbed a bit to give them a show. I know the rules. I'm yours—at least for the trip."

I looked hard and hungrily at Jorge and thought, but did not speak the words, "and maybe after this trip as well."

Meanwhile Jorge was eyeing my sweat soaked tee and shorts. I was wet through and my pumped pecs, abs and glutes were all plastered to the silky workout clothes. He was apparently remembering our first "down and dirty" time together and was immediately erect. He wanted a reprise. And he was going to initiate this time.

I pulled off my tee and stretched toward the ceiling. He walked up behind me as I bent to remove my shorts and jock, lingering just a bit in tease to display my lily white rock hard glutes. Jorge grabbed around my waist, lifted me from the floor, and carried me to the bed, still doubled over in a submissive posture. He pushed me onto the edge of the bed and bent down. This promised to be interesting. He separated my ass cheeks and his tongue plunged into the moist crevice. He licked up and down, then sucked, and finally plunged his tongue inside, burying his nose in the moist cleft. I was surprised, but pleased. I threw my arms up in surrender. "Oh, yes, boy. Do me. I'm ready." If he wanted to play in the dirt, I was game.

After a few minutes of deep tongue-thrusting, Jorge flipped me over and dove in to swallow the ball sacs, rolling the contents with his tongue. Then it was a long lick up the back of my shaft, a retraction of the hood, and he sucked on the bulb as his tongue played with my slit. I was really sensitive and my sensations were on fire. Over this, the aromas were intoxicating. After a few minutes, Jorge's head lifted. His hair drooped over his forehead and his dark eyes were hooded with lust, but they were staring seductively into mine. I was mesmerized with his sultry beauty. Then, Jorge switched gears again, suddenly and bounced up onto the mattress, back-side down.

"I think I'd like you to ride me. Those guys got me started. They got me to thinking. They even complimented me: Did you know that I'm hung like a Tang horse? It's a good thing they didn't get a good look at yours. I think they might have fainted on the spot. Next time, when they're around, I want you on that weight bench. I'll make sure you chub a bit. They apparently work out at the same time every day. I want to watch their eyes as they scan your equipment when your legs splay to the sides. They might even be ready to play if you want."

I ignored his taunt and began to straddle, but Jorge used his strong arms to spin me. "Let's do vaquerita (young cowgirl)," as he handed me the tube of lube. I used it on him and then shot a glob up into my own anus. Then I slowly descended onto the rigid cock that was beneath me, being careful to use it to stroke my nut as I did so. I felt my ass touch his pubes as our balls collided. I reached down to fondle them together, pushing hard on his taint. Jorge hissed in approval. Then I had an idea. I picked up my jock from the duvet and fitted it over his sac, pulling hard on the elastic bands to pull him up into me.

"These are my reins, caballo. Behave or I'll pull hard to bring you to heal, and maybe even turn you into a caballa. This cowgirl is in charge, amigo." I laughed, bounced on his gut and held his balls hard to mine, pulling the base of the jock deep into his taint. His hips rose from the bid to reduce the pressure, but doing so plunged his cock deep into my gut. He bottomed, then scraped the prostate hard as he withdrew.

He was incredibly aroused—almost to the point of pain. Jorge reached up, crossed arms over my pumped chest and upper arms and pulled me hard down onto his chest, as he raised his legs to reduce the pressure on his sacs--effectively immobilizing and trapping me on top of him. I turned my head and Jorge took my mouth. My back was tight to his chest. Then, he began to buck up into my chute. He realized he was perfectly positioned to tap the prostate and so he did it again and again. "I think I've got the control now, senorita. Enjoy the ride." I was helpless. I dropped the jock "reins" and spread my arms and rested my calves by his side to hold tight to Jorge's hips. This was going to be a wild experience. Jorge flattened his feet and began to pump, going deeper and harder with each thrust, scraping the nut each time. He was incredibly strong and lofted over the mattress with each buck. I was cresting. He could feel it as my ass began to spasm around his dick. So he quickly dropped his hands to envelop my shaft which he stroked hard and fast. I was a goner. I started pumping pre-cum in short spurts into his waiting fists. And then I felt his blast in my gut, one, then another. It pushed me over the edge. My spurts became a torrent of cum, totally covering my smooth chest as it rained down.

Slowly we came down from the precipice, as Jorge slipped out and began to massage my cum into my pecs. "Flip over man. I want some of that stuff on me. That shower is small, so we're going to be very personal in there. Let's make it worth it." I flipped and Jorge cocooned me with arms and legs and held me tight, squirming in my creamy cum and keeping his little swimmers plugged inside me with several fingers.

I was stunned. I was totally spent. I was wallowing in sensation, totally captivated by Jorge's lips, his arms, and his aromas. And dripping with his manhood fluids. How could any one person be so sexy?

I think Jorge was experiencing feelings of protectiveness—and perhaps even love. I was his guy—a big, powerful, wealthy hung guy who could take him to paradise anytime. And he had taken me, hard and long. So I was more, I was a partner in pleasure, willing to let him take me on his terms. Jorge began to wonder how he gone so long without. So did I.

Later we showered (which removed the cum and the aromas, but didn't change the sultry looks that our sated eyes conveyed). So we dressed as Western tourists in non-descript jeans and tees. Then, we ventured out to one of the "second story" restaurants on Hollywood Road (above the exclusive shops below), not far from the hotel. I remembered them as working-class eateries, with wonderful Cantonese style "simple" cooking. They were much changed: larger, populated almost entirely by locals—which meant that the menus were limited and in Chinese. The small photos of dishes for "pointing" were almost useless. Patrons were seated at long tables and benches—picnic style. I wasn't sure how we would order. A request for an English menu was met with a blank stare.

Fortunately, an English-speaking Chinese businessman sat next to us. Rather carefully, I asked, "Would you order for us?" He did and we had a wonderful dinner, often talking with our table companion who was a local businessman, attempting (mostly unsuccessfully) to deal with the growing technical restrictions being placed on exports to China. I'm pretty sure he didn't guess we were partners. We had played it very straight.

Then, it was home and a long quiet evening of cuddles and spooning—this time I was taking all the initiative. After a time, I pushed Jorge forward onto his side, entered slowly and sensuously and brought both of us to a "long quiet climax"—if such a thing exists. For me, this was a taste of what an evening with him back home might be—after a long hard day, a quiet, cuddly evening, culminating in release and relaxation in each other's arms. I could definitely get used to this.

After another workout and a late breakfast, we hopped into a taxi. It was race day at Happy Valley. (Actually, almost every day is race day now.) The place was mobbed—thousands of mostly locals, out to lose their hard-earned money on the chance of winning a fortune—many confident that "Auntie" who knew one of the jockeys had given them inside information. I had booked "space" (not "seats") in the clubhouse—so we stood on the railed balcony to watch. The club was old-fashioned, Victorian in style, and in disrepair. And it was rather high—above the "pens" at the rail where "real bettors" were screaming at horses and jockeys, taking and placing bets, tearing up losing chits, and generally enjoying what was probably their one day off each week. They were dressed mostly in bright Western-style clothes, but all of them had the tell-tale coolie-shaped straw hat to protect from the hot sun. We watched a few races, drank a few weak (almost warm) beers, and mostly people-watched. It was an experience as well as entertainment. And well before the end and the crush of departures, we took a taxi back to the hotel—for a welcome cold happy hour drink on the club floor. Jorge later admitted that he had bet and won about two thousand HK dollars—around US$200—more than the monthly salary of many of the others below us on the rail. His system: he liked the colors (sky blue) of one of the jockeys. (I remembered the trunks he wore in Singapore.) Dinner was on him.