Virgin Whore (Erotic Tales from Hawaii) Read online

  At the door, Yong paused and cocked her head as if she were listening for something. Then she cracked open the door and peered outside. Apparently satisfied that no one was in the hallway, she opened the door and motioned for me to follow her.

  Back in the bedroom, Yong locked the door and stepped over to the air conditioner.” Lie down on the bed,” she said. “I will give you oil massage.”

  I checked my pants pockets and found everything intact. I slipped a breath mint into my mouth, dropped my robe next to the bed, and lay down on my stomach. In the darkness of the room, with the door locked, I finally felt at ease.

  Yong fiddled with the air conditioner controls. I got the impression that she was stalling. Finally, she slipped out of her shoes. I thought she was going to undress at last, but she didn’t. She knelt fully-clothed next to me on the bed. She picked up the bottle of baby oil and dribbled some on my back. Then she began to rub it into my skin with her bare hands. “How is that?” she asked.

  “Mmm. Feels great.”

  I expected her to start asking leading questions. She wouldn’t want to risk openly propositioning me, just in case I was a cop. So, she needed to ask me subtly suggestive questions to try to elicit a proposition from me. But she said nothing. She just continued rubbing me in silence.

  “So this is your first night, huh?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?” She reacted as if I had interrupted her concentration.

  “This is your first night?”

  “Yes. You are my first customer.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Tonight. Tonight is my first time.”

  “No…I meant how long have you been in Hawaii?”

  “Oh. About three months.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I was born in Korea.”

  “Did you just come to this country?” I had heard stories about women being brought from Asia illegally to work as sex slaves. I wondered if Yong might be one of them. I had no problem with buying her services if they were offered freely, but I wasn’t interested in exploiting her if she had been trafficked.

  “Oh, no. I have lived in United States for years.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Arizona.”

  “Arizona, huh?” That explained why she spoke English so well. She might have lived there for quite some time. I figured she probably had married an American serviceman who brought her home with him. “So what brought you to Hawaii?”

  “Divorce. I needed a job.”

  That made sense to me. It was a common story. American serviceman marries Asian wife and brings her to the United States. She’s exotic; he’s a means to an end. After a few years, they divorce. She needs a way to support herself and maybe some kids, too. She can’t make it on minimum wage serving fast food, and she isn’t educated for anything else. Someone tells her of the opportunities to make good money in Hawaii, living among other people from her home country. So she ends up working in a hostess bar or a place like this.

  I decided not to ask about her marital problems. She already was pensive. I didn’t want her in tears.

  “So you came to Hawaii three months ago?”

  “Yes.” She began rubbing oil down the backs of my legs.

  “So what did you do before you started working here?”

  “I worked in a bar. Anne’s Place.”

  “Hmmm…don’t think I have ever been there.” No doubt a hostess bar. Probably had a different name last week.

  “How did you like that?” I asked.

  “OK. But I didn’t make enough money.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Hostess bars are very competitive. With her cut of twenty-dollars-a-drink, a pretty girl can do well just drinking with her customers. But a plain girl has to fondle her customers and grant sexual favors. Otherwise, she spends a lot of time sitting alone at the end of the bar, singing Karaoke or watching closed-captioned television. Yong seemed too classy to be giving blow jobs in a secluded booth. She probably spent a lot of time sitting at the bar.

  She finished rubbing the bottoms of my feet. “Turn over,” she said. I rolled over onto my back, and she began to rub oil into my chest, her eyes focused on her hands. My penis was somewhat swollen but still soft. I tried not to think of anything that would cause an uninvited erection. I still wasn’t sure what Yong’s intentions were. If she was worried that I might be a cop, she might just rub oil on me until my time was up.

  I already had been there quite a while. How much of my hour was left? Out of habit, I tried to look at my wristwatch, but I had taken it off for the shower. Then I noticed the glowing numbers of a digital clock sitting on the night stand: 12:48 a.m. I was pretty sure I had arrived before midnight, so my time was pretty much up.

  I looked at Yong. Still fully-clothed. Still concentrating on her hands as they slid up and down my thighs, her fingers just grazing my balls from time-to-time. I was beginning to doubt that she was going to offer me more than a rub-down. I wondered why. How did she expect to make any money? I didn’t think she got a cut of the forty dollars I had paid the house. Surely she wouldn’t expect much of a tip for rubbing a little oil on me. I wondered again if she found me distasteful. If she had lived in Arizona, she probably had been married to a white man, so it probably wasn’t my race. Was she waiting for me to make the first move, still worried that I might be a cop? Whatever it was, I tried not to let it matter to me. I learned long ago not to have high expectations. I’d take her if she offered, but I didn’t have to have her. I decided just to relax and see what happened.

  “So how did you decide to work at this place?” I asked.

  “Oh, one of the girls working at the bar told me about it. She knows the owner.”

  “So you thought this might be better than the bar?”

  She bowed her head. “I needed money for my children. The owner loaned me $3,000. Now I must stay here until I pay it back.”

  Money for the children. Likely story. These girls’ tales of woe almost always were bullshit designed to elicit sympathy and concomitant willingness to spend money. Yet, something about Yong made me suspect that she might be telling the truth. Either she was genuine, or she was very clever.

  “How many children do you have,” I asked.

  “Three.”

  I almost asked their ages. But then I realized that I really didn’t want to know any more about them. I didn’t want to have to imagine their sad eyes as their mother left them to come here. I didn’t want to think about the pain and humiliation of a mother prostituting herself for them. Most of all, I didn’t want to see myself exploiting their mother’s situation for my own sexual gratification.

  After a few minutes of silence, Yong asked, “Are you married?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Some of these women prefer married men. They figure that married men are less likely to carry diseases, and married men usually want nothing more than a simple business relationship. But other women prefer unmarried men. Unmarried men provide more money-making opportunities through more involved relationships. And some even provide a way out. I decided that I didn’t much care about Yong’s preference, so I took a shot.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “How many children do you have?”

  “None.”

  “No children? Why not?”

  “Well, that’s a long and boring story.”

  “Your wife can’t have kids?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How can you stay out so late? Where does she think you are? What do you tell her?”

  “Nothing. She’s out of town.”

  “Oh, I see.” She hesitated for a moment and then asked, “You come here often?”

  “No, this is my first time.”

  “First time! Nooo! You go somewhere else before?”

  “No, no. I just saw the PennySaver ad and thought I would give it a try.”

  “First time? So you don’t have no disease? Married man must be caref
ul he don’t give disease to wife.”

  “Yeah. That would be trouble.”

  Yong slid her oily hands up and down my thigh a couple of times. Then she gently cupped my balls, slowly massaging them with her oily fingers. “Are you going to give me a tip tonight?” she asked.

  I took a deep, involuntary breath. At last, she was getting down to business. But did we have enough time? Or was she just expecting a tip for the oil rub-down?

  I cleared my throat. “Of course.”

  “Um…How much do you want to spend?”

  “Well, I don’t really know for sure. Depends on what we do. Seems like we don’t have much time.”

  She released my balls and slid her hand up and around my now-rigid penis. She stared at her hand as she slowly stroked me. “What do you want me to do?”

  I took another deep, shuddering breath as I felt my penis throb against her grip. “Full service,” I said.

  “Full service?” She continued staring at her own hand as she stroked me.

  I wondered if she knew what I meant. Maybe she didn’t yet know the jargon. I wasn’t sure what else to say. It seemed too crude just to say I wanted to fuck her.

  “I want you to do everything,” I said.

  “Everything,” she repeated softly, glancing at my face and then closing her eyes. She continued stroking my cock with one hand while she cupped and massaged my balls with the other.

  “How much tip for ‘everything’?”

  At this point, with a two-handed grip on my cock and balls, she definitely had the advantage in negotiating a price. I decided to start by offering the standard fee. “Two hundred,” I said, fully expecting her to make a higher counter offer. I figured that she knew that she had the upper hand, and I was just hoping that she would come back with something realistic.

  “Two hundred,” she repeated without expression. Then, “I’m little bit cold.” She let go of me, wiped her hands on a towel, and got up and adjusted the air conditioner controls.

  I couldn’t read her at all. Was she satisfied with two hundred? It was the standard tip for full service. And it probably was more than she made all day working in the bar. But surely she would counter my offer.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed with her back to me. Hugging herself with both arms, she leaned her head back and stared at the dark ceiling, as if searching for the right words. I wondered if she were going to ask for a bigger tip. Then I realized what was going on. She really wasn’t focused on price. “Yong?” I said softly. She half turned her head toward me. “Is this the first time you have done this?” She closed her eyes and nodded.

  “I was virgin when I married my husband. Until now, he was the only one.” Her shoulders started to shake.

  I reached over and rubbed her back for a few moments. Then I lightly tugged on her shoulder as an invitation to come to me. She hesitated and then lay down on her side, back to me. I wrapped my arm around her and gave her a gentle hug. “Just relax and take it easy. I’m not going to push you to do anything you don’t want to do,” I said. She nodded again. Then she rolled over and nestled against me, her face pressed against my chest. I kissed her on the forehead. Her hair smelled of fresh shampoo.

  I wondered what must she be feeling, about to prostitute herself for the first time. Fear, anger, depression? Probably a mixture of those and more. I brushed off a wave of guilt. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake I made that time in Manila.

  The young Filipina had said her name was Cecelia, but she couldn’t spell it for me. She said she was 21, but I thought she looked younger. Fresh and nubile. Beautiful white smile. Flawless brown skin. Iridescent pink bikini that glowed in the black light. I bought her a few drinks and, at her urging, paid her bar fine so she could leave with me. She took me by taxi to a sex hotel where they rented the rooms by the hour. But once inside, she lay back on the bed, fully clothed, and stared morosely at the overhead mirror. When I asked what was wrong, she said that she hated her job. I felt guilty, as if I somehow were exploiting her, even though she propositioned me and clearly was prepared to give herself to me. I said that she didn’t have to go through with it, and asked if she wanted to go. She nodded, and we left without my ever having touched her. We shared a taxi back to her bar. I paid her the same as if she had gone to bed with me. She took my money and got out of the taxi without even thanking me. And then I knew who had exploited whom.

  I decided that this time with Yong would be different. She offered herself to me of her own free will. A value-for-value exchange between consenting adults. She had to work off the money she owed the owner. So if it wasn’t me, it would be some other man who would be her first customer. And there would be others. I might as well be the first. I would treat her well, gently and with respect, and make it as easy for her as possible. Of course, I knew I was rationalizing. But that didn’t change anything.

  I decided to stop thinking about Yong’s apparent distress and just enjoy the moment. I was relaxed from the oil rub-down and yet stimulated by the newness of the woman snuggled against me. But time was a problem. Surely my hour was about to expire. At best, we’d have time for a quickie. And Yong didn’t seem primed for that.

  As if she had been reading my mind, Yong stirred and asked, “Can you stay one more hour?”

  My spirits lifted. “Sure. No problem.” Apparently, she intended to go through with it. And with the preliminaries already over, we would have nearly the whole hour for “full service.” I suddenly became aware of the growing sensation of need and urgency in my balls.

  “Be right back,” Yong said. She got up, stepped into her shoes, and slipped out the door, leaving it slightly ajar. A thin shaft of light violated the dusky room.

  I felt exposed, lying naked on the bed with the door ajar. No telling who might wander by and look into the room. I had no idea how many women were working there or how many customers were being entertained at the moment. I found the robe lying on the floor next to the bed and pulled it over my midsection.

  Yong was gone longer than I had expected. When she returned, she wore a disturbed expression. “She wants you to pay forty dollars more!”

  “OK. No problem.” I already had assumed as much. I reached for my pants.

  “You sure?” Yong asked.

  My balls tightened. They were in control, so I was sure. No problem at all. I handed the money to her. “Uh-huh. Hurry back.”

  Her face relaxed. She looked me in the eyes and flashed a genuine smile as she took the money and slipped out the door again. This time, she was gone for only a couple of minutes.

  When she returned, she wordlessly locked the door. She kicked off her shoes. Then she removed her earrings and bracelets and placed them next to the clock-radio on the night stand. She moved into the corner of the room, away from the red glow of the light. She fumbled with her belt for a moment and then stepped out of her long skirt and carefully folded it on the floor. Then she peeled off her top and dropped it on the skirt. Now she was clad only in bikini panties and a strapless bra. I marveled at her slimness. Not the gaunt, bony skinniness of the malnourished, but the comfortable, round slimness of one who was just naturally that way. She reminded me of a tall prepubescent girl. Only the breasts belied the image. And perhaps they weren’t all her. They seemed unnaturally large for such a slim woman.

  She slipped into bed next to me, her head on my shoulder and one hand on my thigh. She started to speak, and then stopped. Finally, she asked, “Um...are you sure you don’t have no disease?”

  I wondered why she would ask that. In a place like this, wouldn’t she just assume the worst? Maybe it was because she was new?

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I said. “Remember, I’m a married man.”

  “You sure you are married?”

  I held up my left hand and showed her my diamond ring. It wasn’t a wedding ring, but how could she know? She examined it with her finger tips and rotated it around my finger a couple of times. Then she slipped her hand into mine.

>   We lay together silently for a little while longer, and then she began to rub her hand up and down my thigh. She cupped my balls, gently massaging them with the confident touch of a familiar lover. My penis swelled instantly to full hardness. She kissed it and then enveloped its head with her lips, flicking it with the tip of her tongue. I was surprised that she was sucking me without a condom.

  Almost as if in answer to my thought, she stopped sucking and said, “You don’t need to use a rubber this time. No need to worry. You are my first man in two years. I don’t have no disease. Not yet. Maybe next time you see me, I will. But not this time.”

  Somewhere, in the far recesses of my mind, I knew that I should use a condom. No sense taking any chances. But my balls had taken charge. And they craved the stimulation of my bare penis probing the warm, wet depths of her pussy. They clamored to answer their calling in life: To flood her with sperm-laden semen. Nothing else would do. A condom would foil my primal need to mate with her. I needed to inseminate her and know that she felt my warm release flood into her. Only then would my balls be satisfied, their mission accomplished, their needs gratified. At least for a little while.

  Yong took my penis in her mouth again. She slid up and down its length, expertly applying just the right amount of pressure with her lips and tongue. Enough to stimulate, but not so much that she pushed me over the edge prematurely.

  As a lover, she knew exactly what she was doing, perhaps from years pleasing the husband who had fathered her three children. But as a whore, she clearly was a novice. She hadn’t yet developed that penchant for finishing off the John as quickly as possible. She hadn’t asked for the money in advance, and I wasn’t even sure we had settled on a price. It seemed I really was her first customer. I could hardly believe my good fortune.

  I explored her body with my fingertips as she continued her oral massage. Her skin was smooth and soft. Despite her slimness, her behind felt round and firm through her sheer panties. But her breasts were bound by a tight bra. My fingers examined the fastener that held the bra together. I couldn’t figure out how it worked. I longed for the day when a simple tug on the free end would disengage the little metal hooks.