My Orean Hottie

As for me, I puttered around the house, managed my investments, read, exercised and noted in wonder how Boh McAlistair-Park, M.S/Ph.D. professor of mathematics could, the instant she was in the carport at home, transform into utterly nude, tiny (4' 9") Boh, a Korean-Asian hottie-nympho-slut wife.

Given my new problems with adult-onset diabetes, she simply solved them by having five vials of bi-mix around (four frozen), a couple of cases of sterile, one-use, 31-gauge syringes and a dozen loaded-and-cocked-ready auto-injectors and boxes of alcohol wipes placed in the house: bedroom; spare bedroom; living room; study; kitchen; bathroom; garden (in a small, tight box); beside the sofa; in the car.

Plus two loaded syringes and an auto-injector in her purse, plus lube.

About half a year before our first anniversary, my wife got a shock when she got a call from her mother. Apparently her Dad had kicked her Mom out of their home and moved in his much-younger secretary.

Mrs. Park wasn't depressed or blue. Instead, she was mad as a hornet. After getting a Korean lawyer to start work on a divorce, she flew from Korea to San Diego, and took a cab to our place.

When she arrived, I was confronted with a middle-aged, kind of dumpy, chubby Korean ex-wife. Not speaking a word of English, she and Boh had long talks. She stayed with us in the spare room. For just two nights!

Boh and I made love twice, with Boh screaming out her orgasms in Korean (deliberately). Then we did it again, in the swing, and Mommy watched and listened from in the yard.

When, at Boh's insistence, I got her a snack after sex, her mom got a good look at Old Faithful (chemically enhanced version). The next day, Boh had more long talks with her Mom.

The upshot was that her Mom moved into a Residence Inn nearby, got a gym membership and hired a personal trainer, a spoken-English teacher and a speech therapist for accent reduction.

That evening, Boh simply said, "Mom heard us screw, and then saw you with huge cock sticking out. She just said, 'Humph, I want one of dat, so I can yell like you do ... only louder.' She's already screwing the trainer and the teacher. Now she's gonna learn English, exercise and get herself in shape, so she can get a few cocks of her own."

Apparently, that's exactly what happened. Over the next few months, as she frequently visited us, Mrs. park changed from a dumpy ex-wife to a toned, bronzed, well-spoken, middle-aged, Korean potential-sex-fiend-girlfriend.

At the six month point, about our anniversary, she came to Boh, to say 'goodbye.' She was dressed in light-gray, spray-painted-on Capri pants with high-heel sandals, dark glasses and a sheer, black, bare-midriff front-zipped halter top, with middle-aged boobs oozing out on all three sides, nipples prominent.

An older white guy in a sports car pulled up in front and honked, and Korean Mom went out the door with a happy squeal plus a purse, a small bag and her skimpy bra and mini-panties in her hand, which she left draped across our mailbox. The guy drove off, one handed, with Korean Mom, laughing ... his other hand already on her naked right boob.

After a while, we started getting postcards and letters, in a combination of Korean and English, describing polyamory life in a gated, 'clothing-optional,' adults only, 'swinging-positive' living place, out near Twenty-Nine Palms, in the Mohave Desert. One of the letters had an enclosed picture, focused on a free-hanging Sky Chair, surrounded by naked guys, each one erect and obviously porking an older Asian woman, who was suspended on a strap-only swing in mid-air.

The caption said, 'Nine guys. Three times each. Den I go back home, jill-off once and den screw boyfriend, twice! Dat make 30 times in one day. Wheee!'

We're still curious.

Her Dad, on the other hand, didn't fare as well. Younger secretary turned out to be a world-class gold-digger and an industrial spy for his largest competitor, as did the even younger girlfriend that followed. We don't know what happened to him, after the bankruptcy and liquidation of his family's business.

The usual way we ended the day was for Boh to come home after teaching, writing or whatever it was that rapidly rising young professors of mathematics did during the day. After getting out of her car in the carport, she begin stripping off her clothes, to emerge a few steps later, in the living room, stark naked and aching to get laid.

Then she'd flop down on the soft, spread her legs open to give me a good view of her 'womanly parts,' bounce her boobs in her tiny hands, and invite me to stare at her body with lust in my heart. Preferably with good, hard, lust in my large boner. After a suitable time for play, I'd fix dinner, we'd eat, she'd clean up, re-display herself-not bothering to strip, since she was already nude-and re-entertain us until time for TV and or bed.

This night, it was just the reverse. When you've got several millions, somehow, almost by magic, you find yourself on this or that committee, and hit-up regularly for donations. Nobody seemed to care where my money came from, as long as it was green and available.

I'd had to sit through the political bickering and in-fighting associated with the San Diego Symphony Orchestra Associates meeting. I finally got away at dusk, having only had to pledge the year's salary for a new percussionist and a set of three new 'kettle drums.' Whew!

So I was the one getting home late, this time. There was an unfamiliar car parked outside, and I could see Boh's car in the car-port, so I assumed we had visitors. However, from the car-port through to the living room, there was the usual trail of clothes: jeans, blouse, shoes and socks (Boh still didn't wear any panties or bra, unless she was literally forced into them ... which was kinda fun, with lots of giggling and naked thrashing).

However, in the living room, piled around the brass stripper pole, was a blue, front-zipper sundress, a pair of tennies and socks, and a leather purse ... and no panties or bra.

Off in the kitchen, there was evidence of a couple of meals (rice and veggies, as Boh was otherwise helpless with any other cooked food). The Sky Chair, which I'd left pulled to one side to get access to the back yard, was left on the floor, obviously used, There was an odor of sex pervading the chair, and evidence of squirting orgasms in a couple of towels left on the floor.

The towels pointed to the bedroom.

When I peeked inside the bedroom, I saw my Boh, curled up in a tight ball, a smile still on her face, sleeping the sleep of the totally fucked out. She was still nude, and her face, chest and boobs were smeared and sticky with squirt.

Right next to her, lying mostly on her back, was a tall, red-haired mature woman, aged I guessed at about 39. She was sleeping, her large-but-widely-based boobs rising and falling with her breathing.

Grinning a bit at the two lovers, I started to turn and go out, but the taller woman opened one eye, then grinned, and said, "I'm not asleep. Yet. You have a hottie nympho slut for a wife. We made love all afternoon."

She patted the covers, then pulled them down, and added, "Come to bed, lover. When we get up in the morning, she'll inject you and then you can have both of us for sex, all day long. She'll love that and so will I."

I said, "Hi, Pat."

—THE END—