The Clothes Horse

"You'd get half of the bid, plus you'd get to keep the clothes."

I didn't know that I was all that wild about being auctioned off, but I had to admit that I liked—no, I loved—Zhao Zeng's clothes. That was what had attracted me to him in the first place. His black satin shirt and trousers were cut so well—and so provocatively—on him that I could hardly keep my eyes off him, even though I'd come into Hong Kong's Déjà Vu bar on Staunton Street on a members-only Friday night with a Dutch businessman who had picked me up in the lobby of the Butterfly on Wellington hotel and asked me to go up to his room with him.

He obviously had misjudged that I was a male hooker when I'd only ducked into that hotel lobby to get out of a brief rain shower, but I was horny, liked older men, and he was good looking, so I went with him.

It wasn't the money part of Zhao Zeng's auction deal, when he got around to pitching the deal to me, that turned me off. I had found the misconception that I was a rent boy arousing. The Dutch guy, who I was happy to find was pretty limber, had given me 500 Hong Kong dollars—the equivalent of about $60 U.S.—to go up to his room and bang him hard. Which I did. He made so much of a to do about my musculature that I took him with me standing in the middle of the hotel room and supporting his weight wrapped around my pelvis, his legs hooked above my rump, and pulled him on and off my cock while he whimpered and gasped. Before I was finished, I made him lower his torso toward the carpet and grab my ankles, and I jack hammered down into him, with him crying that I was too big for him to take but that, no, he didn't want me to stop. At least that's what I took what he was blubbering in Dutch to mean.

I almost laughed when he offered me another 1,000 Hong Kong dollars to stay the night.

I'll bet he couldn't stand up straight the next day, although he seemed to manage well enough for a second round before we left the hotel room. I put him into a party mood, and he wanted to show me off, he said. So we were doing the rounds of the gay bars, where we would sit for a drink or two with his cronies and he'd let them cop a feel of me so they could appreciate how lucky he was that night. He also, I think, was trying to impress me with his private club membership privileges on the island. He said he wanted me to stay with him for a while and maybe to take a cruise to Macao on his yacht.

I told him no thanks and, no, it wasn't because he was twice my age.

He asked me if it was because of the young, well-dressed Chinese man I'd been sharing looks with at the Déjà Vu, and I'd said that, of course it wasn't. But I was lying about that.

So, when Zhao came up with his proposal, it wasn't the fucking older men part that had me hesitating—I'd just done a middle-aged, albeit in shape, Dutch businessman for 500 HK. What had me going was being sold like a piece of meat without me picking out who I wanted to fuck. Zhao Zeng had told me I could turn the trick down, though, if I didn't like who had given the highest bid for me.

But then I wouldn't get the clothes. And it was the clothes that I was interested in having. I could buy clothes back in Bangkok, where I was a Marine guard in the U.S. Embassy—and well-cut clothes too. But I hadn't seen anything there that could show off my physique as good as what Zhao Zeng wore into the Déjà Vu bar showed off his.

It was only when Zhao took me to his apartment above his shop later that night that I found out that he himself had designed and cut the clothes he was wearing.

I was on R&R from Bangkok. There was plenty of guy-on-guy action to be had there, of course, and I had become a favorite in the gay expatriate crowd and the upper classes of the Thai because of how I was built, keeping toned up in tip-top shape because I was a twenty-year-old Marine and that was part of being a Marine, and because of what I was packing—and how I was able to use it. But I was always looking over my shoulder in Thailand, wondering when I'd be outed and sent home. Going home wasn't a big problem with me—even leaving the Marines wasn't. My dad owned a garage, and I liked tinkering with cars—and also tinkering with men who owned sports cars and who were willing to pay for their fucks. But I'd found a good thing in Asia with the free-and-loose societies here, and I didn't want to have to go home before I'd had a lot of fun.

I'd heard I could have a lot of fun if I took my R&R in Hong Kong. And I'd only been here the better part of a day and already had topped a hotel bell boy—who had a hole I almost needed mining equipment to get into, although, once in, he knew how to maximize my pleasure—and a Dutch businessman, the latter profitably, so I could see that Hong Kong was going to be a lot of fun.

I liked fucking Asians. It was particularly nice in Bangkok, where a lot of the men were such little guys that it would seem that my thick eight and a half inches would devastate them, but who always proved they could take me and make it interesting—just like the Butterfly hotel bell hop had done—and would continue to do every night I returned to the hotel.

Zhao was compact like a lot of the Thai guys were. He was a good foot shorter than I was, but that didn't make him a midget. I was a full six foot five. And, although he was perfectly proportioned, he was slim and what I'd call willowy. Again, this was a lot like many of the Thai guys. I was to find too that he was more experienced in sex than the Thai men I had fucked. My size intimidated most of them, and they tended to become like rag dolls underneath me when I fucked them. Zhao took control and played every aspect of me in the sex act. He wasn't afraid of my muscled body and big dick—he worshipped them and showed that he fully appreciated how I had developed my body

The Dutch businessman was meaty in comparison, although I wouldn't have called him fat. And he was a lot older. He was good looking, though, and had been the boldest of the guys in the lobby of the Butterfly, which unknown to me was a pickup spot, in approaching me, so it had been fine going with him. And he proved to be flexible enough to make the fuck fun.

In comparison with Zhao for what I liked, though, he was second or third best.

He also was philosophical about my changing horses at the bar. He'd had a standing fuck like he said he'd never gotten before, and I'd been very good to him for his 500 HK.

My eyes went to Zhao as soon as he entered the bar. He looked both sexy and elegant in his black satin outfit, which fit him like a glove. He came to the bar and, after ordering a drink, turned and surveyed the room. The Dutch businessman and I were at a table with some of the Dutchmen's business cronies, and Zhao's eyes lingered when they moved to me. They slitted, and I could tell that he was seeing the two of us together. So, I got up from my table and slid up to the bar, where we could contemplate being together closer.

I could hear him gasp from across the room when I stood and he'd been able to see the extra thickness running down my left thigh from my groin inside my tight jeans. I didn't know at the time that this had such an effect on him—but at the time I didn't know how expert he was in how clothes fit a man.

"American?" he asked when I'd bellied up to the bar to refresh my drink and that of the Dutchman, as well, who now was lost in trading business stories with the other businessmen at our table.

"Yes," I answered. "Visiting from Bangkok, where I work at the American embassy."

"You are in superb shape. Do you do modeling?"

"I haven't. I must ask whether you are a model yourself, though—and where did you get those great clothes?"

"No, I'm not a model. Would you like to see more clothes like this—maybe some you can try on yourself—at my flat nearby?"

"You don't engage in much foreplay, do you?"

"Not when I see what I want."

"Unfortunately, I'm with someone," I said, as the barman delivered the drinks to me I'd come up to the bar to fetch.

"Pity," Zhao man said as I pushed off from the bar.

About twenty minutes later when I went to the men's room while the Dutchman and his friends were trading boasts in French, which I didn't speak, and thus was not interested in the conversation, I no sooner had unzipped and pulled my cock out than the young Chinese man came in and stood near me at the urinal.

"No, don't turn away," he whispered to me. "Let me watch you, please."

I found him attractive, so I half turned to him and let him watch me piss into the urinal, and when I was finished, he reached over and took my cock in his hand. I started to go hard immediately. He had his thumb on my piss slit and was gently rubbing that and jacking my cock with slender fingers running down the underside of my shaft. He moved his other hand up the front of my shirt, deftly opening buttons as he did so and then running his hand over the contours of my torso muscles, giving the impression that he was making a mold of my musculature. All the time he was murmuring how magnificently cut my body was.

"They have rooms in the back," he said. "Will you come with me?"

"What, now?"

"Yes, please. You have a magnificent body and a strong, manly face. I would like to clothe you and have you model for me."

"You want me to go with you to a room in the back so you can clothe me and I can model for you?"

"Later, yes, if you're interested. But now I would like you to cover me."

"Cover you? You mean fuck you?"

"Yes, please. You have a beautiful body. I would make it worth your while. I would make a suit for you—one that would fit you like a glove. I would be proud to have my label on such a perfect body."

Throughout this exchange he had been slowly pumping my cock, and I was breathing a bit hard and was otherwise very hard. I was sorely tempted, but I didn't walk out on a guy just because a more tempting one walked by.

"Sorry, but I came here with someone. Tonight wouldn't work out for me."

"But you would come with me if you were free? You cover men, don't you?"

"Yes, I would come. And yes I top men."

"You would . . . top . . . . me?"

"Yes. I find you very arousing. I just can't tonight."

"I think you are about ready to ejaculate. May I take that now and then we can discuss something more?"

Without asking, he was sinking his knees to the floor, taking my cock in his mouth, and for the three minutes it took me to come down his throat, I was lost to his expert attentions.

When I returned to my Dutchman, I'm not sure he realized I had ever been gone. I told him I had to go someplace for a while and that I would come back to his room at the hotel later, and he was so oft handed about agreeing to that that I'm not sure he even remembered we had made the assignation. He was steeped in drink and bantering conversation with his business friends. I had been displayed already; he'd gotten whatever good impression he wanted from having me with him.

I rose from the table and went back to where Zhao was sitting at the bar. "How far away is this apartment of yours?"

It wasn't far away at all—just about three blocks. We entered through a shop front. The shop itself was handsomely appointed. The clothes on the male mannequins rising up from the racks and low shelves of men's folded clothes were even handsome. And so sexy.

The second story displayed even more intimate apparel. I walked around fingering this and that. I particularly liked the mesh wear.

"Do you own this shop?" I asked.

"Yes. And I design the clothes. Do you like them?"

"Yes, I do. The ones on this floor give me a hard-on, if you must know."

"I am happy to hear that. And I would be pleased to do something about that. But first, would you mind if I clothed you and took some photographs? If you allow me to do that, you can have what I pick out for you to wear."

I hesitated a moment and Zhao picked up a black mesh body suit that left little to the imagination. I then said I would be happy to be photographed in exchange for the clothes. And, although I apologized, Zhao was happy that I had a raging hard-on for the photographs.

The photo shoot was on the fifth floor of his shop, which evidently was the first floor of an apartment that went up more floors. The third floor had been his cutting room and the fourth a storage room. The fifth was mostly one large room too, with a kitchen unit on one wall. A velvet-covered platform with camera lights and video machines on tripods surrounding it was in the center of the room and from this a raised runway led off to the back of the floor and a doorway through the only wall partitioning off an area from the larger room. The rest of the room was outfitted with deep, wide sofas and armless upholstered chairs with sloping backs that looked like provocative support for inventive fuck positions—which, as it turned out, was exactly what they were for. The floor was covered with deep-pile carpeting in a light beige, and large, silk pillows were thrown around, apparently haphazardly, but, I was sure, with studied precision.

This was obviously a party room—and a show room for patrons to view clothing being modeled.

Zhao photographed me sprawled on the platform and masturbating myself, with my cock poking out of a slit in the mesh bodysuit. And then, when I was hard for him, he set the video cameras in motion, and I fucked him on the platform.

He moaned deeply when he got the full view of what I was packing, and he groaned and grunted when he felt the full measure of what I could do with it.

I took him three ways—missionary style, doggy fuck, and side split—before I was worked up enough to ejaculate, all while the cameras were rolling.

Zhao marveled during the first fuck position, as I stroked him shallow—although he moaned like I was taking him deep—and he fisted the root of my cock that I wasn't burying and rotated my cock to give him maximum rub on his prostate with my bulb. He cried for mercy when I fucked him deep and fast in the doggy position. But I gave him no quarter—and he loved it. The side split was languid and included kissing and mutual gliding and prodding of hands on each other's bodies until we came together.

Zhao was as expert in taking the cock as I was in giving it. He declared he'd never been taken by anyone as young and powerful and cut as I was, and I complimented him on his ability to sheath more than eight inches and to work a cock with his channel muscles.

It was after that, when he told me how much he had enjoyed me, that he set the unusual proposition.

"How long will you be in Hong Kong?"

"A week, maybe eight days."

"Are you interested in model sex in exchange for clothes and half the bid your services bring?"

"I don't understand."

"Do you want your pick of the clothes I make?"

"You know I want your clothes. You've seen how well I like them—what I was willing to do to get this mesh bodysuit."

"My clothes are exclusive and they are very expensive. But if you model for my private showings for interested men, and fuck the man who bids the highest for your services at the end of the runway show, you can keep half of the money that's bid and the clothes you wore on the runway. I think I can arrange three viewing parties while you are in Hong Kong."

"I don't see myself as a runway model," I answered, with a laugh. "I'm a bit more beefy than the male models I've seen."

"You will be the hit of the show. I have a few regular models who will also be there. But I predict you will receive the highest bids."

He was right. I received the highest bids, fucked six well-heeled middle-aged men on Zhao's king-sized bed on the sixth floor or on those curvy armchairs on the showroom level, while he—and sometimes another male model—was also being fucked on the bed. And I came away with eight great outfits, including a two-outfit bonus because, Zhao said, I had performed so well and turned an amazingly large profit for him.

It wasn't just dumpy older men who Zhao invited to his runway parties either. He was as discerning in the men he invited to watch, bid, and play as he was in the precise cutting of his clothes. I would have happily gone with any of these men in Bangkok just for the fuck. I liked older, wealthy and self-confident men, and I liked fucking older men who melted at being taken by a fit, young Marine. It was all gravy on this gig and all of them were rich enough to offer astonishing sums for my cocking—and I got to keep the clothes I had modeled for them.

Whenever I came out in an outfit, Zhao would call me his "clothes horse." I asked him about this later, and he laughed and said, "That's a signal at my parties. Although the patrons could see it themselves in the cut of the clothes you wore, the significant word there was 'horse.' I use this term to denote a certain level of endowment, and the men set their bidding up appropriately to be able to enjoy the extra length and girth. This, plus your magnificent physique, set the bidding at levels I've never received before."

I returned to Bangkok with three times the money I'd gone on R&R with and a great, sexy wardrobe, along with having my desire for an exotic, free-spirited exercise of my cock, and with an agreement to come back for my R&R next year. Zhao said he loved the Marine in me, and I said I knew of a couple more of the Marine guards at the Bangkok embassy who might like the same deal.

The Dutch businessman was, fortuitously, on the same flight back to Bangkok that I was on. I modeled my new wardrobe for him in his room at the Dusit Thani, gave him another hard, inventive-position 5,000 Thai baht fuck, and barely made it back to Marine House before the last minute of my memorable R&R was up.

Yep, I love my Asian tour—and my nifty new wardrobe.