Erotic Tourism

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?"

I chuckled to myself. Neither woman had ever given me a bedroom session that had been less than that, even the first. Number 3 knew her trade, and had coached Number 4 to perfection. I didn't mind that every time during our rush to the bedroom, when Number 4 turned or paused or coaxed me, more of her clothes and more of mine hit the floor.

All of ten seconds must have passed before Number 4 stood flat naked before me. She reached toward me and said, "Momma say not waste time. Best woman make most of every second with her Master."

I nodded.

"So, what you want first?"

"Just to stand here and look a you. You're so beautiful. No wonder your breasts taste so good."

She blushed, can you believe that? The daughter, trained by a twenty-year prostitute, blushed when I complemented her breasts?

"Oh, you!" she said. "You make me want you so bad, and then you stand there and tease me. You not want ass? I guess choice is me?"

Up to her, the choice certainly was! She was no sex slave—except to her own body! She was simply trained to enjoy what her body was capable of. I suppose her mother had learned by experience that enjoying your work is crucial to enjoying your life. Isn't that what any parent wants for her daughter?

"On the bed, Master, in ususal where-start way."

I sat, turned lengthwise to the bed and settled back.

"Ready?"

"Who's teasing who, now, Number 4?"

"You. You're still teasing me. I so hot I must be smoking, for heaven's sake!"

"Then get up here and let's put something inside you to cool you off."

"I don't want to cool off, damn-it! I want you to burn up my pussy. That's what I want!"

"So, come on up here, then let's take it nice and easy."

"Fuck, no, damn-it! Slip—oooh, god, you in pussy already; it feel like so heaven!"

"All for you, Number 4. All for you."

"Please make it last, Master."

"I have little to say about you, Number 4. It's always you that gets off too quick."

"Please? Try to make it last. I'll try. Really, I will."

"Tell you what: You get to coming on too fast, I'll just pull out and stop you in mid-track. How about that?"

"Don't you dare, damn you! You do that and I'm liable to break you dick off trying to get it back inside. How would you like that?"

"I wouldn't, and neither would you.."

"Oh, so true. Well, you better just fuck me best you can. I know it will be wonderful, and when you hammer me off, then Number 1 will come in and suck you off while I try to get myself back to normal."

"What's normal? You ever think about that? Normal for you is all fucked up, higher on the mountain each time than ever before, right?"

By now she was breathing so hard I knew her last a long time wish wouldn't come true tonight. Now that's what I called wonderful: A pair of beautiful, large enough-to-be-fun and interesting breasts, showing just a hint of Mediterranean skin tone she received from her now long-gone, short-term, sperm donor father nineteen years ago, but light skin like naturally tanned, none-the-less, and blonde hair from her mother, and right now, a strained expression that said before long, she'd lunge over the summit for the toboggan ride down the other side of Climax Mountain. Her thrusts hit me harder, her expression strained harder, and her breath strained as her summit approached. She went ridged, as she usually did like this, then let out a huge gasp as if every breath she'd taken so far had stayed in her body and multiplied in there, until she exploded. Her explosion left her limp and panting like a steam locomotive on a hard pull. Then she stopped, just stopped and melted against me.

What she said wasn't all that romantic. "Thanks, Master. Thank you so much." But the sigh at it's end was the clincher. I knew how much that meant. Her mother, Number 3, did the same, each time.

Number 4 strained to reach to the bed's side table. I heard the button she pressed click. Yes, Number 1 would be with us in a moment.

By the time she arrived, Number 4's breath had returned more or less to normal, she rocked against me, working my penis inside her, all the time clenching her vaginal muscles, trying to get the better of me.

"How you doing, Master?" Number 1 said.

"Wore my lover out. You want me?"

She answered yes so quickly no hesitation had a chance.

"But what about Number 4 here? Don't you want her?"

Of course I did, but my balls were busting, and she could barely muster enough energy to maintain basic life.

"Hey, 4," Number 1 said. "You lie on your back with your head off the edge of the bed. Take him in your mouth, and I'll sit on your thighs to keep you from sliding around when he rams you. He can stick his face in my titties and play with them at the same time.".

Sounded good to me. I started to move in that direction, but Number 4 beat me to it.

In a moment she said, "Now, Master. Stick you all the way down my throat. Please?"

So I did, feeling her choke and gag as she relaxed her throat and opened it up.

"Take it easy on her Master. Don't choke the poor girl to death."

I backed off enough my tip stayed just to the back of her tongue. She gasped, then smiled.

"What?"

"I loved that, Master. Do it again, will you? Just let me breathe again when I push on your hips, okay?"

We did that several times, each time her IN time increased, until I worried she might smother without saying so.

"Master? You ready for a face full of my tities?" Number 1 said.

I sure was, and it must have shown on my face. While my next stroke lingered at Number 4's IN position, a body straddled her and worked its way toward me. Yes. Very nice!

Two hands grasped my face and shoved it between two breasts.

A very womanly 'Oh!' verified that whatever I'd done was appreciated. The hands on my hips asked for relief there, though, so I backed out, to let Number 4 catch her breath.

"Four? You sucking him yet?"

The face into which I had invaded shook, so I backed out.

"Not out, Master. More in."

Okay. Who was I to quibble over details?

***

Now let me tell you, there's nothing like having a face full of extremely nice breasts that need nursing from, and an nineteen year old's mouth wrapped around your dick when your testicles are about to explode. No way I could last—at all—and I didn't. Had I kept track, I'd have maybe brought the count up to stroke five. Number 4 pulled back with full suction on, finishing me off with her mouth well filled and drooling white around the edges of her smile.

My mouth, by contrast, gave me the pleasure of warm milk from Number 1. Believe me, I drooled none of it, although she gave me plenty and that giving lasted much longer than my giving Number 4 my testicle's load.

"That feel so nice," Number 1 moaned just before she kissed the top of my head and urged my face to her other breast. Certainly did to me!

"I hope so. Who's under the table at supper tonight?"

"Number 3, I think."

"Oooh, not likely she'll trade. She really likes that."

A glimpse of that arrangement flashed before my eyes:

At head of the table, sat that special seat, pulled back and ready. The woman in question—naked, of course—sat on the lower level, facing away from the table, at an elevation such that with a cushion on top of her thighs, I sat at perfect height. With me sitting, the other women pushed this special chair, the woman below me, and me into position for dining. My seat girl got busy with the closest part of me that would fit into her mouth, and continued until desert finished on the main table above. Then my helpers scooted the chair back, I stood up, and helped my seat girl up. Not once had this dining experience failed to put a smile on my seat girl's face. What it had done, though, was make for rather spirited bidding for the honor of seat girl for each supper.