Asian Boy-Sluts: 12 Stories of Tempting Teens, Takers, Teasers and Pleasers

By Mo Gardener

The erotic bundle pack of Asian Teen Temptation - Interracial hook ups between cute looking, slim and sexy, Asian boys and foreign tourists; 'one-timers', quick flings, hook ups, and ass-for-cash deals. Hard, explicit sex set in exotic eastern locations.

This is one collection you won't want to miss if you are into tempting Asian teenage boys with their sun kissed bodies, demure looks and slim fit bodies. 12 incidents of bar room pickups, massage parlor happy endings, beach trips, street prowlers and sleazy hotel rooms.

Please note that some titles have been released before. Titles include 'The Target', 'Who Goes First?', 'Paying the Cop', 'The Massage Room, 'Secret Performance', 'Gay and Frustrated', 'The Call Boy',  and five more stories that you won't want to miss.

Teasing and tempting Asian erotica intended strictly for over 18's only. If you like a slow build up to an explosive climax then this will definitely ring your bell – One handed reading throughout – Buy now!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mo Gardener
• Release date: May 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393548751

Book preview

The Call Boy

Some people are very lucky.

They are lucky because they were born in a lucky year.

Being born in a lucky year, they have parents who make good money.

Because their parents make good money, they live comfortable lives, they eat regularly and well, they go to school, and are afraid of very little.

I am not lucky.

I was born in the year of the Water Monkey, which the astrologers say doomed me to a life of wandering, like driftwood on water.

My dad had money, though. My mother did not.

But then she was wife number four, and while wives two to three didn’t mind, wife number one did.

Chinese men can only have one wife, see?

The others are merely concubines or mistresses.

What’s the difference?

Wives are arranged, mistresses are for fun, while concubines are mistresses who bear children the father recognizes.

And while children are the property of their fathers, mothers do the raising, regardless of their status.

I’m not in China, by the way, in case you’re wondering.

I’m in Thailand, Bangkok, specifically. I was born here.

Neither of my parents were, which is why I ended up the way I am, I guess.

It was all fine when my father was alive.

My mother, being number four, was the youngest, and wives two to three understood.

First wife, being born and raised here, however, did not.

So while he made provisions for us, he died. When he did, she invoked local law, and in the end, we were lucky to have kept our small house.

We would have had no place else to go, otherwise.

The Chinese community takes care of us when they can, but it’s not much.

Still, we eat, so that’s something, I guess.

My mother followed my father shortly after I turned 17, so there’s only my older sister and younger brother left.

She works in an office, but she doesn’t make much. Hard to do that when we couldn’t afford college.

I was never good with school, so I dropped out. Why waste money?

The youngest is good at school, though, and he works very hard at his studies, so he’s our last hope.

My sister knows what I do, but keeps her mouth shut.

He doesn’t, but suspects.

In this house (modest as it is), there are some things we do not talk about.

I am only 19 in terms of consecutive years, but in terms of experience, I am far older than my older sister.

===

It is night, and I am wandering around a district in the city looking for clients.

I never lack willing customers, but I am very picky.

They hate us, the brown Malays, because many of us dominate their economy, their industries, their entire nation. They think that because some of us do, all of us do.

A client of mine (a foreigner from America, I think), once told me that we (the Chinese) are the Jews of this part of Asia. I do not know what Jews are, nor do I care.

Nor am I comforted by the idea of another hated minority out there.

They hate us, but they love our light skin.

Few can afford my price, however, and I have to be careful as some of them are not kind.

I know. I still have some of the bruises to show for it.

At the top of this country’s pecking order are the Europeans, mostly Spanish, who remained after it was handed over to the Americans.

There are also Americans who have stayed, even after they handed this country back to its people.

Below them are the mestizos, the half-breeds, born of the union between white and brown, who live like they, but are seen as somewhat less than they, depending.

The more white they look, the higher their status. The more brown they look, the lower.

Both types are generally arrogant, but they tend to pay well.

Beneath both are the Chinese, who control the wealth, but have no status, whatsoever.

I do not generally go with these, because ours is a small community.

Our community is further divided among those of us who still speak Fukien or Mandarin, who still worship the old gods while honouring the Lord Buddha; and those who have become Christian, who speak only English and the local languages, whose only ties to being Chinese are the way they look, and who hold Spanish or American names.

These I go with, but only if they make the first move.

Beneath the Chinese are the brown Malay-Polynesians, and beneath them, the indigenous dark-skinned, curly-haired people who lived in these islands for hundreds of thousands of years before the first ships came here from Indonesia and Malaysia, which then bore Hindu names.

My preference is for the foreigners, the Japanese, the Chinese from the mainland or Taiwan, the Koreans, the Europeans, the Americans.

I generally avoid guys who are loud and arrogant, let them go find some other ass to play with. The services many require of me are not worth the prices they offer. It is not easy, what I do, and I must keep walking to avoid trouble... which is why my feet often hurt.

I must stay in these crowded streets with their revellers, both local and foreign, but in doing so, I am up against stiff competition from others like myself.

If I wander off to the less frequented areas, the chances of getting clients become less, while the chances of getting mugged or worse, becomes more.

Some of the barefoot, filthy street children recognize me, and even try to pimp for me on occasion.

I guess compared to them, I am lucky.

Some of the guards and doormen of the hotels and restaurants do likewise.

I have an arrangement with some of the bars, as well, but with the exception of one particular bar, I usually only accept the others’ business when I’m desperate, or when the bills pile up too high.

Drunk customers who pass out are the best. The worst ones are those who don’t pass out but remain drunk.

Like I said, I still have the bruises from some of my encounters with the latter.

As for those who abused me while not under the influence, well, I have no explanation.

Some people are just cruel, I guess.

Some of the establishments have asked me to dance for them full time, having seen my body and liking my face, but I have some pride left.

I do have a nice body, which is not too muscular, but many have praised my definition. I have no fat on me, whatsoever, because what money we can spare after food and bills is for my younger brother, the studious one.

I’d like to be noble and say that this is all for him, and while I love him with all my heart and would die for him, this is not all about him.

I’ve known... since as far as I can know, that I like men.

Granted, this is not the way I wanted to make a living. I’ve been with some of the ugliest, fattest, ickiest guys you could ever lay eyes on that it’s a wonder I wasn’t cured.

But I’ve also been with some men who could have graced the covers of those glossy fashion magazines.

It makes me wonder why they’d ever need my services.

I guess we all get lonely sometimes, huh?

Some of them say MY face could grace the cover of a fashion magazine, but one should never believe clients.

That’s Junelle, by the way. Don’t let the dress, the make-up, and the long hair fool you. She’s a he, but don’t ever let her catch you calling her that.

Junelle seems to have adopted me. She watches out for me whenever she can. I know she likes me but I don’t think she likes me in that way... though with her you can never tell.

She runs the bar of a three-star hotel that provides full services for its guests, both men and women, like many around here.

These sometimes make up my bread and butter, since the staff who pimp for me usually get to know the guests first.

The problem is that they sometimes demand exorbitant commissions in return.

Junelle isn’t one of those, however.

She usually takes her cut first, as a finder’s fee, and lets me keep whatever my clients pay me after.

She also has a good nose for the weirdos, the psychos, and the sadists, and I’ve yet to be hurt by a client she’s thrown my way.

Hers is the only bar whose business I never hesitate to accept.

Hello, Mr. Brand-New-Pair-of-Shoes, my soles are starting to wear thin.

===

As far as clients went, that one was quite good.

I like premature ejaculators. They make my life so much easier.

Romantic bugger, too. Treated me to a very late (and very much appreciated) dinner.

Wanted me to spend the night. The really nice ones always do.

They also think they can save you, which is ludicrous if you think about it.

I mean, they’re the ones paying for sex, and they think you’re the one who needs saving?

Pathetic.

Still, he paid well.

I can actually buy a new pair of shoes with what he gave me, but we’ll see.

There are other things my house needs besides shoes for me.

===

I am walking in the Park because it is late afternoon, and I don’t like to stay in the house alone.

My sister’s at work, brother’s at school, and after cleaning up, I feel useless staying at home.

Besides, I sometimes get clients here.

Local, usually, but every bit helps, what?

I could probably find a regular job, but the one’s who’ll hire me all pay peanuts, and I’m no monkey.

I’m watching a fat cop pass me by, and I know that I probably make more in a night than he does in a week... possibly two.

That said, why the hell would I want to work a regular job?

See that fish-ball vendor over there?

Fish do not have balls, it’s processed fish meat, made into a ball and deep fried. He owns his own business, but I’ve asked a few how much money they make, and it’s not much either.

If I ever own a business some day (I can’t keep doing this forever, yeah?) that’s not gonna be one of them, no sir!

Well, hello!

I spy a hot, shirtless jogger in blue shorts with a white headband.

This one clearly pumps iron.

Malay, and can I say that brown never looked so good?

Crew cut. Crap! Police? Military?

He’s coming this way.

With chiselled abs like those, no way he’s police. They’re all fat.

Military, then?

He’s coming closer.

He’s stopping by me, jogging in place and jumping up and down the way joggers do when they stop.

The sun is gleaming off of him, and I confess, my jaw is resting on the pavement.

I can’t place his race. He looks Malay, but the lighter colour of his skin where his shirt used to be tells me that much of that brown is because of a tan.

His nose is more angular than a regular Malay’s, and his face has more chiselled planes.

I see blue stubble on his face, which tells me he’s definitely a half-breed.

The hair on his head is very thick, another sign of these half-breeds.

Very well. A half-breed of Malay stock.

He’s also quite tall. In fact, looking around as I have, he’s probably the tallest one in this park.

Not overly buff, but very, very well defined.

He’s looking at me, and I know I should turn away, but my mind is in a haze. He’s so beautiful.

Hello! He says to me in a perfect American accent.

There’s something in the American diet that makes them all so tall.

Hello, I reply hesitatingly. Are you American?

Just with ‘hello’ you could already tell? He answers cheerfully.

Actually, yes. But I lack the education or words to explain.

I sit here smiling stupidly up at him.

For this one, I would forego my fee. He must think I’m some sort of ignorant provincial! But I can’t help it! I’m frozen to my concrete seat!

I finally decide to lower my eyes demurely, like the good Asian kid that I am, and realize it was a mistake.

Still bouncing in place, I can’t help but notice that his crotch is at eye level, and that the bulge bouncing there in front of me in those shorts of his is big.

Crap!

Now my eyes are stuck between his abs and his bouncing groin.

I wish he would stop bouncing up and down already!

When I die (any minute now, surely?) I want to reincarnate as his underwear.

He’s talking, but I’m not picking up his words.

I look up, and he’s looking in the direction of the fish ball vendor. All I catch is the rising lilt of his voice as he says ...that?

Taking a guess, I assume he’s asking what the hell the fish-ball man is selling.

I tell him he’d have to try it to understand, and he invites me to go with him to sample the wares.

Personally, I don’t enjoy fishballs, preferring the chicken and squid balls instead.

I do not know if chicken or squid have testicles, but please refer to my previous explanation about the fish.

===

He had to leave.

Of course he does.

People like him always have somewhere to go.

But he was very kind and friendly and cheerful, like most Americans are, while I stayed behind, beside the fish-ball vendor, my heart breaking inside as I watched him dwindle off into the distance.

His name is Ray.

Ah well. My brother will be home from school soon, and I’d better get something on the stove for him, what?

===

It is night, and I should go out, but I don’t have the heart for it.

Besides, with what I made the last couple of nights, plus the fact that my sister will get paid tomorrow, we should be good for about another week or two.

I generally make more money than she does, but it’s neither regular nor predictable.

I have the room to myself this early in the evening, because my brother is downstairs in the kitchen studying. He’ll keep that up till very late until I come down for him.

If I don’t, he’ll pass out on the kitchen table which will collapse, since it’s only a foldable plastic one.

My mind, of course, is on Ray.

But call-boys like me can’t fall in love. Even if we did, what good would it do?

For all the pillow-talk that clients make, who wants a whore for a lover?

No matter. I’ll be better tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.

But first (while I have the room to myself) I push my hand down below my shorts, grab the hard-on that’s calling out to me with its need, and relieve myself.

===

It’s Friday night, and I’m back in my own area

I was originally going to go to the city where more of the wealthier, local crowd hang out, but they mostly pick you up in cars there.

The chauffeur-driven local women also cruise those streets, looking out for men (sometimes women, too), and while they tend to pay well, it’s not something I go for.

Inspiration strikes closer to home, you know what I’m saying?

Besides, I’ve heard nightmares about some of the people who drive around there picking up those like me.

While there is danger everywhere, the sheer number of crowds here, the unending party atmosphere of this place, the familiar faces of people like Junelle, provide me with a sense of security.

That sense of security is not without basis, by the way.

Besides the number of embassies in this area, it is heavily frequented by tourists, so the city government increases the number of police in the area.

It wouldn’t do to scare the tourists away, now would it?

The cops here are generally decent (or as decent as local cops can be). They’re not ordinary police, are better paid, and their sole job is to keep order and the tourists (both local and foreign) safe. Not to judge.

Are you kidding me? Judge? In this place?

Hah!

I make a bee-line to Junelle’s place, enjoying the looks I attract as I pass.

I don’t dress like some of the others here, in tight-tight sleeveless shirts with tight-tight leather pants or shorts, gaudily advertising their services.

I dress simply, in long-sleeved shirts, slacks or jeans, sensible shoes. If it’s chilly, I’ll even wear a jacket.

The locals can tell I’m no tourist, however, because of my body language, but many of the tourists can’t.

Sometimes, I’ll even pretend to be a tourist from China or Taiwan around these people. That I speak English with a strong accent is not something they’re sophisticated enough to spot.

It drives the price up, you see?

The fact that it does should be a dead give-away that I’m not made in China, though I look it, but tourists are not always up and about on a full drawer, if you know what I mean?

There are even some foreign prostitutes here from China, Indonesia, The Phils, and other places.

In some of the higher end hotels and establishments, they even keep a stock of Russian and other Eastern European prostitutes, but those don’t walk the streets, no, no!

At least not when they’re on duty, that is.

I once even had a Russian guy offer to take me to Russia, but do you think I’m that naïve?

I may be poor, but I’m not stupid.

Junelle’s standing outside her bar, smoking. I don’t know why she does that since she allows smoking inside.

She sees me coming and waves me over, smiling.

There’s my best boy! She screeches effusively, putting her hands on my shoulders and kissing the air around both my ears, going mwah-mwah at each.

Chinoy, by the way, is slang for Chinese

I have a geeeft for youuuu, she continues.  She looks around conspiratorially, and drags me into the bar, killing her cig on the ground before walking inside the smoke-filled room.

Tour guide? I ask. I’m not a tour guide! What the hell did you tell him, ‘elle!?

But she’s obviously accepted the money already, and so won’t brook any argument. She plunks me down at a tiny two-seater table beside the bar.

Patting my head, she goes off to get my client.

While my English is decent (we have an illegal free cable connection our neighbor hooked up for us at home years ago), I don’t hire myself out to pretend to be someone’s date, which is what tour guiding usually means, so I’m sitting here fuming.

Tour guiding also means you get hooked up to some old fogey, carrying his bags and cameras around, while the real tour guides do all the blabbing.

You’re supposed to keep your mouth shut, pretend to be a cousin, nephew, friend, etc., and after the tour, you go down on the old bugger, or let him go down on you.

For an extra fee, you let him fuck you.

Sigh.

I am not in the mood for wrinkled old men tonight.

I’m still sitting here fuming when Junelle walks up to me with Ray in tow.

Crap.

I want to die now.

Really.

The look of shock on both our faces tells Junelle we’ve met before, so she starts looking at him suspiciously.

I take eeet you two have met befoooore? She asks him in dripping tones. Like I said, she’s very protective of me.

In the Park, the other day, Ray stammers, still looking at me in shock.

Of all the... why does it have to be my crush!?

My sister’s not too happy with what I’m doing, but she’s practical enough to know that without the extra income I bring in, we’d probably starve.

I know my brother suspects, but if he knows, at least he also knows that it keeps him in school, so he’s never looked at me as anything less than the brother who loves him and takes care of him.

The look Ray is giving me, however, is killing me.

I’m not proud of what I do, but I’m not exactly ashamed of it either.

My face is reddening, I know it’s reddening, and I’m fighting back the tears, furious that I feel this way over some guy I shared some fish-balls with for a few minutes the other day!

I feel so small.

Hey, are you ok? That’s coming