Note to the reader:
All sexually active characters are age 18 or older at start of story.
This story is 32 book pages long and broken into three chapters. Please read them in order to prevent confusion.
*****
These days you hear terms for all sorts of tourism: Eco-tourism, Wildlife-tourism, Medical-tourism, Geographical-tourism, Marine-life tourism, Aviation-tourism, Alpine-Tourism, Space-tourism, Arctic-tourism, Historic-tourism, Safari-tourism. You name it. If you think it might be fun, there's someone, somewhere, who will figure out a way to separate you from your money for taking you on a tour to experience it.
Sex and erotic tourism likewise exist. Don't kid yourself.
There's a whole side-street,
Soi Cowboy
in Bangkok, dedicated to erotic tourism.
Patpong Street
, another Bangkok district, is likewise. Soldiers, construction workers, commercial visitors, locals, and just plain tourists bring with them the cash that keeps those never-ending nightclubs, brothels, and hotels alive, as well as many more streets, hotels, avenues, and alleys like them all over the world.
Similar in Manila, capitol of The Philippines.
Similar in Amsterdam, although handled there with much more dignity than most places.
And similar in just about every city and town in the world having more than one male and one female in it. In most places it's called marriage, some it's called prostitution, some its only called
that part of town
. But it's there, none the less. Women selling sexual favors in exchange for a place to live, food to eat, clothing to wear, medical care, and everything else it takes—as that old saying goes—to keep body and soul together.
The harsh reality is: In any world where the necessities of life don't simply fall abundantly off the trees ripe and ready to eat, there's trading of one sort or another going on. And you might be surprised to learn, the age-of-consent in at least six countries is 13 (three have even lower, clear down to 11), which makes sense. When a girl, or her family have nothing else to sell, in many places she goes on the market whether or not she wishes. That's better than going hungry, mostly naked, and sleeping out in the rain.
I liked the city in which I lived because it had less hypocrisy there about pay-for-sex than in most towns where I might have lived. And being a well paid construction superintendent put me in a great position to trade a portion of my wages for my preferred version of erotic tourism. My company let me choose my quarters, and as long as I stayed clear of the local law—which didn't care one hoot about prostitution or whatever you choose to call it—my company cared not one smidgen who I had sex with—or with how many, or how often.
My quarters allowance afforded me ample space for a much nicer suite than I could have afforded back home in the States, and my wage level, helped along by the currency exchange rate and the country's low average per-capita income, bought me all sorts of services I'd have had to scrimp tight for at home: A modest car with driver (He called himself Turbo-Taxi) at my beck-and-call 24 hours a day, a cook, a maid, a laundry girl, and a pool-girl
/
gardener—meaning plenty of
woman-power
to cover the realities of my women's biological limitations.
They had it made, they knew it, and because a surplus of attractive and willing young women swarmed around us
rich Americans
like a flood, my girls weren't about to chance losing their seat on my gravy train. As long as I didn't kill one of them, or beat them into life-critical condition, everything stayed cool and I remained the best thing to ever come into their lives. No, I don't beat women—not beyond an occasional, playful spanking, anyway. But I do my best to wear them out in bed, which I don't consider abuse, and they don't seem to consider it so, either.
Because I couldn't begin to pronounce their names, I didn't try. I just called the cook, Number 1, my first maid had been Number 2 but she quit to go home and care for her sick grandmother, so the laundry girl, Number 3, took on maid duties as well, and the garden/pool-girl took on Number 4, all in their order of seniority in my employ. They understood when I called one or the other of them by their number, so their 4
th
grade equivalent education sufficed, and they understood numbers well enough I could send them out to the market with pocket money and not get screwed over when they brought back my resulting change. In fact, when returning with my change, whichever number she was just bubbled over with satisfied eagerness when she came up with exactly the correct change.
Of course, I paid all the household expenses and gave each girl a small allowance. From this, she bought her specifics: a spot of perfume, toiletries, make-up, woman's necessities, that sort of thing. When it came to clothing, I bought that. They'd have it no other way, they said—and made that quite clear when we five went clothes shopping one Friday evening each month. They were continually trying to put me into formal clothes, but I was a Dockers and sport-shirt sort of guy so I was cheap to clothe. Clothes for them? Even cheaper. I learned early in my residency that a thong, a string bikini-type bra, and a pair of maximum height heels ran pretty cheap. That's what I wanted them to wear in my place all the time, so they did.
Each afternoon when I left work, there at the curb in front of our office stood Turbo-Taxi waiting to hold his car's door open for me. Inside the rear seat, there'd sit my 'A' girl for the upcoming evening, ready for whatever I hinted I wanted. If she was the cook, one of the others would stand in for her in the kitchen. It all worked out even. The three girls rotated, spreading themselves among the seven days of a week.
This Friday, my 'A' girl was Number 4. I don't think she faked the enthusiasm she displayed when I crawled into the darkened rear seat of Turbo's car. Her affection had to be real; you can't keep up a facade that solid, twenty-four hours a day through life's little annoyances and mishaps otherwise. No, hers was real—as was that of the other two.
"What Master want first?" she said, making it obvious my choice was infinite.
"You choose."
"Oh, Master! You so good you let Number 4 choose. You nurse from me here, yes? On way home? Please?"
Sure. Why the hell not?
First I kissed her—or I should say, she kissed me, because I certainly got the better of that exchange—just to let her know we agreed on her choice. I pulled back from her smothering kiss and said, "Turbo? Take a long way home."
"Yes, Sir. Around the Bay Road long enough?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Around the Bay it be, then. You need stop anywhere when we get close to home?"
I looked at Number 4 with raised eyebrows to ask if she needed or wanted a stop.
She slowly shook her head, and put on her naughty smile I knew meant, 'I want you home as quick as possible.' That put a smile on my thoughts, too.
She scooted back from me toward the opposite side of the car, then motioned me to follow. I ended up on my back with my head in her lap, my knees up, and my feet on the seat near where I'd crawled in. When I looked up, there hung her two beautiful breasts, bobbing around as she worked her bra off them. Then her left one settled onto my lips.
"Now, My Master," she whispered. "I saved everything for you since this morning. You work so hard, and you so good to me I want give you to have all milk I make. But I too full, now, so not comfortable. Please hurry to suck Number 4 dry? Okay? Yes?"
I certainly would, you could bet on that!
I sucked her nipple and whole areola against and between my lips, then sucked harder to be certain she understood how much I loved that. The start of her milk sweetened my mouth. All I could think was 'Wonderful!'
"Oh, that already better," she said with a relaxing sigh.
I eased up, not wanting to suck too hard. She grabbed her breast with both hands, squeezed it, and shoved it against my mouth.
"That's even better. But hurry, Master. Other tittie still too full."
I skidded the first nipple out of my mouth, picked up the other one, and put suction on it.
"Now, you talking so nice!" she said. "It must been fuller."
Did I care? Either one or both! Wonderful.
By the time Turbo Taxi pulled into the gate at my place and sat there with the motor idling while the motorized gate did its thing, I realized what I was doing with Number 4's breast was more a case of simply enjoying having it in my mouth, than actually getting any milk. I opened my eyes to see her looking down at me, a smile on her face.
"Both feel good now," she said.
I shook my head softly, causing the breast in my mouth to fall loose and slip down alongside my cheek."
"All finished?" I said."
"Up to you, like always. I hold you like this forever, if it's your want."
Definitely habit forming! Every time one of my three did this, I more fully understood why babies always look like they're in seventh heaven when suckling. Best lollipop in the world, and every woman comes equipped with two of them.
"Oh, Master. I want you like this forever, but I want the rest of you, too. Please, we go in 'partment, yes?" With that, I fought my way clear of her motherhood symbols, kicked my feet and knees off the seat, sat up, pulled Number 4 over and kissed her hard on the mouth.
"Good idea, I think," she said. "We share with Number 1, okay?"
Numbers 1 or 3. Yes. I knew why she seldom shared with Number 3. That would take some getting used to—I mean to screw your man for all you're worth while you mother watches, critiques—and maybe participates?
Those two had come into my employ together, mother and daughter. A tough situation, but then solving all the world's
non-nicities
was not in my job description, nor that of any other individual, for that matter. And employing Number 3 and Number 4 definitely gave them an easier row to hoe than they'd have if I didn't.
Number 3 came from one of those tough situations: Poor family that sold her into prostitution at age 10, then pregnant with Number 4 at age 12, and now thirty, working as my maid and laundry girl and rising her now age 19 daughter. The best I can say, is she did great with Number 4, and did her best to make sure I kept them both. She coached Number 4, and had coached her well from when she first put her to work at twelve. In your bed that barely nineteen year old could easily turn your eyeballs around backwards without a moment's hesitation—just like her mother.
I suppose had I been in Number 4's situation, I'd have chosen shares with the other candidate rather than my mother, too. How would you like having your coach and mother critiquing your performance while you're trying to enjoy what a man and a woman can do for each other? And if what I did for Number 4, did as well for her as she did for me, then we did very well by each other without needing any feedback and critiquing except what our own bodies gave us.
As Turbo Taxi stopped in the portico protecting the back door, Number 4 gripped a handful of what I had in my lap
"Please, Master?" she said, urging me toward the car's door. "Nothing make me want you more than you sucking my titties." She stopped a moment, then thought better of it. "No, everything you do is so good, I just get so sexy wanting you always. You fuck Number 4 in ass tonight?"
By now she was dragging me toward the kitchen.
"Number 1? You gotta help me. I want him so bad, I'll probably just come all over him, and then you'll have to help me get him off. Please? Let me have him first, but when I can't go any longer, you help. Yes, please?"
"Don't worry, Number 4. We'll take care of him, don't you worry. Just do your best, and then I'll help you finish him off."
By now Number 4 was dragging me through the servants' area, and toward the master bedroom. As we passed her mother (our cook for tonight), the older woman called out, "Now you remember what I told you, okay, Honey? Your job tonight is to ball his lights out. Nothing less, okay?"
