Erotic Tourism

Just then the door to Number 2's room creaked open and Number 1, my 'A' girl for the rest of the night, stepped in to claim her time with me.

"Okay my sister sleep her with me?" Number 2 said.

"Of course." I smiled to them both.

She translated several things to the newcomer, putting more smile on her lips. She stepped timidly toward me, picked up my hand, and kissed the back of it. As she stepped back, she knelt before me and kissed the floor.

"No, no! Tell her, Number 2, we don't do that here. I don't want the women in my home kissing the ground I walk on. I just want them loving me so I can love them back."

Number 2 translated that, then told me that she'd actually said. "I told her she will sleep here with me, that you must now go with Number 1 who is your woman for the night. I told her we share, and we love it this way, and you are wonderful man."

The girl knelt again, kissed my foot, this time. Ah, what the hell! What guy would chastize a woman who kisses his feet? With that, I reached down and patted her on the head, turned, and left for my night with Number 1.

***

As I left work the following afternoon, Turbo Taxi was right there at the curb when I came out of the building. When he smiled that way, I knew something was up.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Turbo?"

"I bring old girl and new girl today. I pick them up from clinic, but not have time to take home first." That smirk stayed on his face, though, so I suspected that wasn't the complete story. When I climbed into his back seat, I found Number 2 sprawled against the opposite end of the rear seat, doing her best to get herself adjusted for a nursing session.

"Hey," I said, "let's not embarrass your sister, okay?"

"Oh. Master, she not embarrass. She just wish she give you milk, too."

Yeah, right! What the hell was I going to do now? So I returned to plan #1—which was to pretend I didn't want Number 2 and her milk—which was a damned lie.

The sister in the passenger's front seat turned toward us and said something I couldn't translate.

"My sister say she want watch so when doctor says she not have sickness, she already know how please you."

"So? What did you two find out at the clinic today?"

"She pretty good, but not good enough. She get in-ject-on. Now must also take pills for one week, then return for more test and more in-ject-on. After that, one more week for pills, then another test. If that test say good, then she and I share you. That make her happy, and me happy, and you happy."

Yeah, right! What I didn't need was a fifth woman to keep happy every day of the week! And this one spoke no English at all, which would make it just that much tougher. I shook my head.

Number 2 gave me her I want you look while motioning toward her exposed breasts the way she usually did to invite me to suckle.

"Just a minute. We got more to talk about first."

"You want I drive around Bay Road, Master?" Turbo said over his shoulder.

"Yeah." What the hell was I going to do now?

"Come, Master. You make Number 2 breasts happy, you whisper to me, I hold you tight just like mother hold baby."

The girl in the front said something, to which the woman showing me two beautiful breasts replied, then translated for me. "She wonders why you wasting time. Don't you like me tonight?"

I shook my head, but Number 2's invitation didn't slack. If anything her expression became even more inviting.

"We gotta talk about your sister here. She needs to learn English, at least enough to have sex."

"Oh, she already know some words. I teach her today." To this she said something to her sister, after which her sister turned to me and said, "I love you, Master. Please you fuck me?"

Okay? One of the more helpful phrases. "What else did you teach her?"

More untranslated gibberish passed between the women before the front seat girl said to me, "You like Number 5 tonight? You say how, and I fuck you all night plenty good."

"Number 2? What answers does she understand?"

"The important ones: Pussy, ass, titties, mouth, sixty-nines, doggie, cowgirl, milk."

More critical communication, no doubt about that!

"And if I say nothing?"

"You'll probably hurt her feelings."

"She understands about the disease? I'm not fucking anyone who has any diseases?"

"She know. One her friend in old kitty-cat house get very sick and after long, long time, she die. My sister not want that for you—or me—or herself."

"Okay, then tell her she is very beautiful, and will be more beautiful when she heals from being beaten. Once the doctor says she has no disease, I will fuck her every way I know, and every way she knows, and every way we both can learn. She should listen to you, Number 1 and 4, too, and learn everything you and they know. Especially listen to Number 3. She worked in a kitty-cat house for nearly twenty years and has fucked just about every situation you might imagine. Your sister might learn from her, too, and when she comes up with new ideas, I'll try them out with her. Okay"

For that I got a smile and her attempt as saying, "Number 5, say Thanks, Master."

As I finally got down to suckling off Number 2, I was thinking: My supper table held six places. One for me and one for each of my five servant girls. I sure hoped another stray didn't wander in. I didn't really have space for a larger dinner table.

Erotic Tourism - Chapter 3

Not much exciting happened during the following year—except the routine excitement occurring in Turbo Taxi's rear seat, my bedrooms and elsewhere in my quarters.

My company finished Phase I of the airport job, which might have presented living quarters complications had they brought me back to the States. What would I have done with Numbers 1 thru 5 in that case? Left them there to survive as best they could on the streets of that town? Or could I find another job with another company near by and keep them on?

Needless to say, I was relieved when TWSI got the contract for Phase II, and they again made me Project Manager with the same housing guidelines as before. Completion date lay five years in the future, so Doug old boy, I told myself, relax and enjoy life.

Turbo Taxi bought a newer car—and a bit more fancy—the company bought a few new furnishings for my residence, the building's owners booted me and my ladies out for a month while they redecorated my suite, and overall they spruced the place up quite a bit.

Not so wonderful was my administrative luck in that I again got Shirley Gately for my head project accountant. What I should have done was taken her out to dinner on some ruse, taken her to a hotel somewhere she couldn't escape from, and screwed her lights in and out for a week. Maybe that was what she needed. Doesn't every woman? I suspect that's the reason Shirley had never married; if she got along with every guy as poorly as she did me, at 45 she had damned few years left before earning the title, old maid.

The good side of this was Phase I closed-out and Phase II opened-up fresh, so it took several months for Miss Gately to reach her preferred position of being several months late on payments. After that, I visited her every month, and used the same tactics to get my payments processed. Had I been her, I'd have understood that delay wasn't likely to work with this guy—ever—so why put up with the aggravation. But not her. Maybe she kept me running up to her office every month for the social experience?

About six months into Phase II, something different did happen, though, but I swear I had nothing to do with it. Hell, I barely had time for doing my job and keeping Numbers 1 thru 5 happy. What happened the company big-shots kept so quiet you had to listen outside corporation strategy meeting key-holes to learn anything. Most of us only knew Shirley Gately had disappeared, and according to local immigration authorities on our end, she hadn't left the country. Likewise, she hadn't entered the good old USA. So where was she?

About four weeks later she showed up again, dropped off at a local police station out in the dingles, nearly naked, somewhat beat up but not too bad, but walking so bowed-legged anyone could guess what had happened to her.

Again, the higher-ups in TWSI kept it all hush-hush, but Miss Fat Ass, the receptionist (Yes, accounting still had her, too) couldn't keep her mouth shut when it contained juicy gossip about Miss Gately. So the word filtered out that an American woman had been abducted, taken to a remote location miles away up in the hills, held there for a month, and used as an instructional asset to train terrorists in methods of obtaining compliance,—whatever that meant.

I had two payments in process for Phase II when Miss Gately returned., but contrary to Gulfstream's preferences, I gave her several days to get organized, then went up to accounting with the intentions of using my normal tactics to get those payment checks issued.

Nothing remained the same in her office. The pile of clutter no longer swamped her desk, I didn't have to wait for Miss Fat Ass to lead me back, and when I found Miss Gately working away instead of gazing around as if in a trance, announced my presence. She actually smiled. I received both my checks without the slightest resistance, and upon leaving, received what seemed genuine thanks for sending the documentation up promptly and coming up to hand-carry the checks to the sub contractor.

Wow!

When I checked my office e-mail the following morning, there was a note from Miss Gately thanking me again for being so helpful and suggesting she would buy us lunch some day at my convenience.

Wow, again!

Two weeks later another payment came due, and my checking with Gulfstream said they were yet to receive their check. I marched to accounting and back to Miss Gately's cubicle, expecting my usual hassle. I'd no sooner rounded the corner leading back there, when a hand went up above the cubicle wall—with a check in it.

"I'm glad you came up," she said, standing. "I didn't want this to be late and cause trouble, but it seems the only way I get you up here to talk."

"Oh, hi."

"So how about it? When do I get to buy lunch?"

"Uh?"

"Today?"

I shrugged.

"Boy, I must be doing something wrong. I know I'm pretty old for you, but just spending lunch with an old lady won't age you into oblivion."

I chuckled. Miss Gately wasn't that bad looking, once you got past the pain-in-the-ass part I'd put up with for four years. Where was she going with this?

Where was an invitation to accompany her to some sort of local classic music concert I had no interest in.

But in my twelve years of corporate experience I'd learned the importance of social interaction with other people you had to work with, or who could help make—or sabotage—your success. If I played this change in Miss Gately right and eliminated my time wasted getting payments out of her, then perhaps an evening spent on classical music might not be a total bust.

So I went. It was Saturday night, so I'd had Friday night to bribe my regular girls to overlook my absence the following night.

Turbo Taxi did give me a strange look when I brought Miss Gately from her quarters in the Empire Hotel Apartments.

"Shirley?" I said as we readied to accept his open door into the back seat of his car, "this is my regular driver. He prefers to be called Turbo Taxi. Damn good driver. Knows more about my life than I do. If I'm late getting somewhere it's my fault. If I'm too early, it's his fault."

She stopped, stepped back, and looked him up and down.

Then she nodded and said, "My pleasure to meet you."

Wow! That coming from Miss-Pain-In-the-Ass! And toward someone about twenty steps down the status ladder from her, yet!

When we arrived at the concert hall, he helped her out, for which he received a well-executed thank-you, Mister Turbo. Wow, again!

"How long you think this performance will last, "I said to her as we were turning toward the building.

"Uh, I'd guess two hours."

"Turbo? She says about two hours. I'll call when it gets close."

"Right on, Sir."

So we headed toward the granite steps leading to a grand portico.

"I like your driver," she said, putting slightly tighter grip on my elbow.

"He's good. I've had him since the second week I was here. I trust him far enough to use him for odd jobs and such and he never lets me down."

"You keep him busy? Fully? Or are you paying for a lot of idle time?"

"Don't know, and don't care, just so he's there when I need him."

"Would you mind if I borrowed him sometimes? The drivers Empire Apartments have available leave much to be desired."

"It's up to you and him. He's a private contractor. He schedules his time."

"But you have first call on his full time, right?"

"Yes, but anytime I'm not using him, it's his time."

"But he gets paid? Whether you're using him or not?"

"A retainer, yes."

"Then if I borrowed him, I'd owe you instead of him?"

"I guess. But the fee would be quite reasonable."

"Good. You using him tomorrow?" she said as she led me down the plush-carpeted aisle and found our seats. When we sat, her hand found my hands in my lap. I looked over at her.

"Been a long time since I held hands in a theater or a concert."

Had been for me, too, but for different reasons. Maybe I should change that with my ladies. I had no clue what sort of concert or program they'd like—any of them. Was there an etiquette book somewhere describing how one man takes one or more of his five ladies out?

***

I let her have Turbo Taxi the following day, something about horse races that Sunday afternoon. That evening, I got him back and just took a drive in the van around town with all five girls. I figured I'd better discover more about their entertainment preferences than merely what went on in our bedrooms. Turbo involved himself in the resulting discussion, which didn't bother any of us, far as I could tell.

"I like your Miss Gately," he said out of the blue. "Is she really the one you used to complain so much about? Seemed very nice to me."

"She's changed lots lately."

"Must have."

With these four sentences the gazes of all five my women fixed on my face. Oops! Maybe I'd just stepped in it!

"Don't worry, ladies. I just work with her. She has her own apartment. Turbo took her to the horse races this afternoon."

"She ... uh ... fuck good, Master?"

"Wouldn't know. I'm not fucking her."

"Why not? Maybe if you did, you'd have less trouble with her."

Maybe, but I wasn't about to fuck some woman that gave me a pain in the ass at work. And I wasn't about to be dipping my quill in the company's ink, either, as the old saying goes. Life was too short, specially when I had more than enough at home.

It's amazing the information that floats around a town, unencumbered. Turbo Taxi must have kept his ears open, because he found out more detail about Miss Gately's abduction than I'd have imagined possible. Lots more. Must have resulted from a mix of innocent chit-chat as he drove her to the races, what he learned by keeping his ears open in town, perhaps what I said I'd heard at TWSI, and maybe he'd interrogated Miss Fat Ass that afternoon he came up to the accounting office to deliver papers I needed from the jobsite.

One thing I learned out of all this was, in a third world country, you didn't want to be a middle-aged woman who gets herself abducted and kept for nearly a month as a sex slave for a terrorist group of thirty-five men trying to learn how to fuck women into submission.

But they must have become pretty good at it. Miss Gately certainly had a smile on her face the whole two weeks following her return. And my comment earlier about her walking bow-legged? That only applied for the first week and a half.

The second time Miss Gately borrowed Turbo Taxi for an afternoon, I asked him to gently drop a hint or two about why I hadn't asked her out.

When he returned, I broached the subject to see if she's gone off in a rage as a result, or if she'd continue her cordial treatment of my requests for Phase II payments.

"I think you're okay now, sir. She just wishes she found a man like you. She said she's really sorry she acted such a jerk."

I nodded.

"But Turbo have idea, if okay with Sir."

"Yes?"

"I have taxi friend who have client like you, but little older. This client come here because his wife just die and he want away from everything at home. He not doing well after one year. Maybe we put your Miss Pain in the Ass with Him, now she nicer than before. What you think?"

If it might guarantee the financial side of Phase II continued smoothly, I'd even introduce them! I did, and it did.

***

Completely aside from Miss Gately, one afternoon at the close of work, Turbo Taxi cornered me on the steps above where he always picked me up. I wondered, had something gone wrong ta home?

"Mister Walters, Sir. Turbo sorry to hold you up."

"Sure, Turbo. What is it?"

"Your girl is in car so I not want to say loud for others to hear."

"Okay. Go ahead."

"I ... well, I ..."

Must be pretty serious! I nodded to repeat my go ahead invitation.

"Yes?"

"I, Sir ..."

"Go ahead, Turbo. We're both grown men."

He looked down, then after a moment, back up.

"Sir? I have niece, see?"

No, I didn't, but lots of people did. What was the hang-up here?

"My sister, she die. She not have man. Niece not have father."

I raised my eyebrows to ask more about the question, hoping this wasn't going where I suspected it might.

"What about other relatives?"

"Just me. I keep no woman, either, you know."

Was I getting roped into solving all the world's problems? Again? More than I was now?

"So, Turbo, where's she live now?"

"With me."

"That's good, yes?"

"That not good."

"Why not? I think you'd make good father for her."

"Woman should have good man—like you—not only uncle."

"What?"

"Like you. You better man with Number 1, Number 2, Number 3, Number 4 and Number 5 than most men be with one woman."

Well, I sure as hell didn't need another.

"Come, you come see. She pretty girl. You like very much. Number 3 not come at last minute, so I bring niece. You see, she see, you both like."

Ohhh, SHIT!

I tried not to do what he led me toward. I tried not to expect Marilyn Monroe, Elke Sommer, Faye Dunaway, Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly or any other of the world's most beautiful women. Or mine at home, even. But somehow my feet still followed Turbo. I was still saying No when he opened the car's door.

"Sir," he said as the door opened. "This my niece. She pretty, yes?"

Well, she was, no doubt, just like my other five—in her own way of course. To say she was better looking would necessitate dropping the others below their rightful description. To say she was less good looking wasn't fair, either—by a long shot!

"Tell him how old you are," he said softly."

"I eighteen, two days past."

"You're sure?"

She nodded. "I eighteen, okay."

"You speak English very well."

"Thank you. I learn from uncle. He very patient. He not say very good, but he do hear very good."

I looked at Turbo, and put a jesting smile on my face.

"She right. You know that!" he said with a grin.

I nodded. He spoke well enough to keep me out of trouble on the city streets, and poorly enough to keep me in trouble with my girls at home.

"So, Turbo, is this a set-up? Where is Number #3?"