David Vance Poses

I was making an effort, but if there was a rise to be had from Dominic Castilano, it wasn't happening for me. The well-known and hunky Italian had bought the Thai garment factories my company's line of men's fashion designs used as a major supplier. And the scuttlebutt was going around in San Francisco that Castilano was gay—and an aggressive top. But, though I had confirmed he was a hunk, having met him on this "touching base" and buying mission to Bangkok, I hadn't confirmed that he was gay—not to mention someone who would meld with me. And that was from no lack of trying.

I came to Bangkok frequently. Ostensibly I came here to coordinate with the local factories on the production of our male fashion line, but behind that was Bangkok itself. I could let myself go in Bangkok. I not only did much of the garment buying for our company, but I also was a model for the clothes—Devon said that if the clothes didn't look good on me, he didn't want to offer them in the line. So I was the one sent to Bangkok to close the deal on the acceptability of the cutting and sewing of the new line.

But even beyond that, I came here for a break from Devon. Devon didn't only own the fashion house; in many respects he owned me too. He was my sugar daddy. I lived with him, often felt smothered by him, and occasionally needed to get away from him and his possessiveness and to kick up my heels.

That was what Bangkok represented for me—the opportunity for some no-entanglement one-night stands with an aggressive muscular hunk in a city of "whatever gives you pleasure."

When Castilano bought the Thai factories, I looked him up wherever I could find him and found that, in media photos, at least, he was a hunk and a half. I decided then that he would be my "thrill" goal for my next company shopping spree to Thailand.

"Yes, I can see that it's a good material for that lounging robe for your company's next year's collection."

Castilano was standing close beside me at the meeting in his Bangkok factory when we were pairing off materials with the sketches for the new line, and I was aching for him to put his arm around me and palm my hip—to show me some sign that bore out the rumors. But he didn't do it.

That disconcerted me. Any other man who was interested in doing me—which was just about any man who did men—would have moved an arm behind my waist and laid his hand there. If I liked the man, I needed no more gesture than that to follow him to a nearby bed. My appetites were such that this even was so in San Francisco, which no doubt explained the tight leash Devon put on me there. I have no idea what he thought I did when I went to Bangkok, but what I did here was open my legs to any good-looking muscular man who showed me he wanted me.

Castilano left both hands on the cutting table surface. He didn't even feel the silky yet gauzy fabric to allow the sensuousness of the material, and the evocativeness of the sketch of the skimpy lounging robe, rev his engines up.

Devon himself had made that sketch and designed that robe in his mind as he was fucking me—to be rendered in material just like this was. He had caught me, standing in the sunlight at the bedroom window, in a robe cut like this, but from entirely different, less-sensuous material. I had been wearing loose sleeping trunks in the same gauzy material, and upon entering the room, Devon had remarked that the material was sexily transparent with the morning sunbeams behind it.

He had walked over, taken the coffee cup from my hands, walked me back to the bed, and laid me on my back. He brushed the robe back from my torso and pelvis while telling me that it was the wrong material and describing what he would make such a robe out of. He kissed my nipples and worked his way down my body with his mouth, while he pulled my sleeping shorts off.

And then he fucked me.

It was, I'm sure, more enjoyable for him than for me. I'd already experienced what this scenario could produce, and although Devon provided very well for me in most aspects of our relationship, his performance on the bed that morning didn't prevent me from craving my little fantasy vacations in Thailand. Rather, it brought the image of the earlier cocking, by the big brute in Bangkok, under similar circumstances to mind.

I couldn't help thinking of that, as we—Castilano, his material designers, and I—were selecting the material for the new robe design there in the center of the noisy, dusty factory floor in Bangkok. I was trembling at the remembrance and was sure that Castilano could feel that and hear my ragged breathing—that, if he were gay and a top, as rumored, he surely could catch and appreciate the encouragement of that. I'd never had a gay top not show interest in me. The image of the connections of the lounging robe design with what now was the ideal material for it had my heart racing. And Castilano was twice the hunk that Devon was—even hunkier than that earlier man in Bangkok had been.

How could he not know, not feel it too? If he was an aggressive gay top? He must have been able to tell that he could have lifted me, laid me on the cutting board table, and fucked me there in the noisy, dusty factory with the corrugated walls and lofty ceiling, in front of all of his workers, and I would have opened to him and loved every thrust of his cock.

But after two hours of handling sensuous material together to realize evocative men's fashions with, and doing so hip to hip, the most of a rise I got out of him was a statement that he certainly hoped I would attend a dinner with his factory managers and him at his home that evening.

* * * *

I was seated at one end of the table and Castilano at the other end in his Thai-style house, elevated on teak columns and located on one of the main canals, known as klongs, in a city called the Venice of the East. The setting was surprisingly traditional for an Italian not long in residence in the city. The house consisted of a series of roofed pavilions with snake skin-like tiled roofs, many of them open sided. The dining room was in one such open-sided pavilion. The lush jungle foliage came right up to three sides of the pavilion, giving the impression of steamy privacy.

I was in unrequited heat for Dominic Castilano, and thus found the atmosphere intimately sensuous—and frustrating.

The frustration was accentuated by Castilano playing the attentive host to nearly everyone at the long teak table but me. I was more than a bit irritated by that because I was the buyer here, the one who a new factory owner, who relied heavily on the orders of my company, logically should be trying to impress.

I was achingly impressed with him, because he was clothed only in a Thai silk sarong skirt knotted at his waist, and his torso was magnificent. I had been warned it would be a traditional Thai dinner—served at a long, low table that we knelt, cross-legged at—bare-chested and wearing sarongs. This had been quite all right with me. I looked great in a sarong and eagerly permitted myself to be redressed in a guest room when I arrived.

Several of the Thai factory managers looked good in their sarongs too, and a few of these eyed me during dinner like they'd like to throw me down on the table right there and fuck me. If I thought it would have kindled Castilano's interest in me, I would have encouraged them to do so.

The rice wine was going around the table freely, and toward the end of the dinner, I had the insistent urge to piss. I asked, interrupting Castilano's boisterous conversation with the man seated at his right, and was directed, with only a cursory glance and a wave of his hand, to a pavilion at the back of the complex, where he said there was a Western-style bathroom.

The bathroom was attached to what must have been the master bedroom. It was a richly appointed room—the bedroom was—with shimmering maroon and dark orange-stripped draperies, a sisal rug underneath, and a huge four-poster teak tester bed in the center, also draped with Thai silk in the same colors and design. This possibly was the most enclosed room in the house, with polished teak walls and conventional windows, albeit the windows were shuttered, the louvers loosely spaced so that the lush green of the jungle could be seen beyond, behind the open draperies rather than covered with glass panes. The draperies rustled softly and the air moved languidly, heavy with the musky scent of the exotic flowers pressing at the walls of the pavilion, from the melodic "wok, wok" whisper of two paddle fans moving overhead.

What accosted me and made me stop and my jaw to drop when I entered the room were the lighted art photographic prints—large and framed—arranged strikingly around the walls.

They were evocative male nudes, high-art prints, the young, well-built men all in provocative poses. I was fascinated by the effect of the overhead paddle fans, moving the highlighting and the shadowing of the beams of light directed on the photographs, giving the effect that the men were moving, if ever so slightly. At any movement I expected one of the young men to turn a thigh or hand slightly and show me his genitals. What struck me the most, though, was that I knew who the photographer was. There was every reason why I would know who the photographer was.

I had hooked up with Liam Ryan, an Australian fashion photographer, in Bangkok two years earlier. Devon had decided to backdrop his men's fashion line with lush Bangkok foliage that year, and I had been sent out to be one of the models. I had been the signature model of Devon's collections for three years at that point.

Liam was a big-bodied hunk, a rough and demanding, cocky, hung bastard, who had been covering me and fucking me hard within an hour of our having met and whose cock I couldn't get enough of. He had been exactly what I took these Bangkok trips to find.

He was striving to emulate the renowned photographer David Vance in his own work. Vance photographed celebrities and magazine layouts—in addition to having a line of male nudes in an extension of the Robert Mapplethorpe evocative style. Because he was a mean son of a bitch, Ryan couldn't help putting an extra twist of demanding sex in his photographs.

Ryan performed the fashion design shoot very well—and afterward he did me royally in a private, male nude shoot, which included a rough, complete fuck before or after each pose. I had never been fucked so many times in one afternoon—at least not by just one man.

A good third of the framed and lit photographs on Dominic Castilano's walls were of me—from Ryan's photo shoot. My eyes immediately went to the one of me standing at a window in an open, gauzy robe, backlit by the morning sun, which I myself had suggested and had emulated for Devon earlier this year to rev him up. I had posed the scene myself to try to relive the fuck with Ryan, to push Devon to new heights of satisfying me.

The fucking Ryan had given me after shooting that, though, made Devon's cocking pale by comparison. Ryan hadn't taken me to the bed. He had fucked me right there, my back pressed to the frame of the window, my knees hooked on his hips, and his palms cupping and spreading my butt cheeks to help me accommodate his hard, thick, thrusting cock.

Another photograph was of me face down on the bed, chest pressed into the surface, and pelvis raised, my face showing the awe and fear in my eyes at the sight of a naked and magnificently erect Ryan, coming at me with a camera firing off, before he dropped the camera, mounted my hips, and fired off himself. A third was taken after sex, with me lying on my back, legs open, arms akimbo, a silly grin on my face, and eyeballs swimming in cum.

I was barely able to make it into Castilano's bathroom before I had to ejaculate into his toilet. I then stood at the sink, looking into the mirror, checking out whether I had changed at all in facial features since that photo shoot. How could Castilano be so aloof from me? Was he blind to the comparison of the photos he had on his wall and me in the flesh? Had he just not looked directly enough at me to make the connection?

I splashed water on my face, set my facial expression as much into nonchalance as I could, and returned to the dinner table.

Castilano did look up at me as I approached the table, and he gave me a little sardonic smile that could have meant almost anything.

But soon thereafter, the dinner party was breaking up—and the guests were departing rather than prolonging the evening. I stood, ready to go back to the guest room where I had changed and to change back into my Western clothes.

But, to the sound of men preparing to leave and saying their good-byes to each other, Castilano's voice floated out over the hubbub.

"Evan, would you be good enough to stay on a little longer? We have more to discuss, I think."

At the edge of the entrance pavilion, as the head of the last guest disappeared down the stairway to the ground, Castilano came up behind me and put his arms around me. He already had unknotted his sarong and let it fall to the teak boards underneath. I leaned back into his chest, my head buried in the hollow of his shoulder, and sighed, as he unknotted my sarong and let it too fall, with a whisper of silk, to the floor.

I moaned, knowing he was going to fuck me, feeling the strength and size of his hard cock at the small of my back. And, indeed, as I felt him pull my feet off the floor with the strength of his hands fanned out under my thighs and his effort to roll my pelvis forward and my butt cheeks up, that he was going to put me on the cock and fuck me right here, right now.

I barely heard the whisper at my ear, "I bought the factories because of those photos—because of you. May I—?"

"Oh, yes, yes, please," I murmured in return.

My thighs climbed his, and he cantilevered my torso out, moving the hands that now were on my waist and then up to my pecs, palming them, as I arched further out, raising my buttocks even more, gasping and panting as the hugeness of him fought to enter me. And then when he had, I moaned as he moved up inside me, and then groaned as he began to pump.