For more than nine years, I worked at a large private English school in our nondescript town in the middle of Vietnam, but the director and I grew apart over time, and so we agreed not to renew my contract. The best thing working there was that I had met my muse Nguyet, with whom I was still having an affair, although we didn’t see each other as often as we used to.

After enjoying two months of vacation, I decided to take myself on another round of visits to English schools around town, as I couldn’t imagine spending all day in front of the computer, teaching online. I had saved enough money to mostly live off interest, but I was also curious about the many so-called English Centers that had sprung up in our sleepy town during the last eight years.

Throwing my hat into the proverbial ring could do no harm; especially, since I didn’t need to accept a position that I didn’t like. Ideally, I would find two schools between which I could choose, after I had tried to drive up the hourly rate a bit as well. Basically, I was curious to see how places operated – knowing that I would also meet new people.

English was required from first grade on, here in Vietnam, and students wanting to continue at university were strongly encouraged to take an IELTS test early in twelfth grade to avoid another long English test while they were taking their national exams, after they had graduated from high school.

Overall, students liked English, as a subject, but many Vietnamese English teachers had difficulties pronouncing words and lacked practice in writing. Sure, they were good at grammar and vocab, but they couldn’t really speak English, as strange as that might sound. To alleviate this predicament, thousands of English Centers had opened all over the country, which were keen on hiring foreigners.

Ideally Filipinas, as they were pliable and could be paid less than teachers from the U.S. or Europe. That business model had been selling like hot cakes for years, but then Covid came and now, those English Centers didn't give a flying fuck about education any longer: Raking in as much dough from parents as possible, while keeping up some pretenses in regard to education appeared to be the preferred business model.

For teachers, this meant much more outside control as well as long, inconvenient hours, during evenings and weekends. Many English Center owners had bought property during the boom and were still encumbered with mortgages. Of course, there were also exceptions to this general rule, as the Vietnamese valued education, on the whole.

One of the worst offenders, however – one of the worst We’re taking as much money from the parents as possible but just offer a show of education – was the relatively new International School on the south side. The whole place was outright ridiculous: fortified like Fort Knox and way too large for our small, nondescript town.

The student body, I had been told on multiple occasions, consisted of ten percent nice kids, who wanted to learn, but the rest was spoiled rotten, as their parents were filthy rich. The place paid their foreign teachers well but, with so many powerful parents and their spoiled-rotten offspring, the money wasn’t worth getting involved, I always felt; partially, as I never liked the idea of wearing a suit and tie to greet the bunch at 6:55 in the morning, bowing toward an open SUV door.

Then, instructors were not allowed to leave the campus, even if they weren’t teaching. There were also rumors about pot-smoking – and blowing the smoke right in the teacher’s face – incompetent supervisors, who barely spoke English, and the inability to tweak the students’ behavior even in the slightest, as that may incur the wrath of the mighty parents.

I still had applied there recently, as I was curious to see what it looked like inside, although I was well aware of all the shit I knew I wouldn’t want to deal with. Over the years, I had met countless foreign teachers, as they were easy to spot around town and since there was only one bar here that sold beer on tap.

At my very first visit to said International School – simply to get an email address to which I could send my application – I had been passed from one entrance gate to the next with arm gestures, as the guards assumed that I couldn’t communicate in Vietnamese. Tired of this nonsense, I had insisted at the third stop, on the west side, until a young Vietnamese chap had come down, so that we could exchange our contact information in the glistening sun.

Oh, well. The funny thing was that, next, a woman who owned one of those smaller English Centers arranged for an interview for me with said International School, as she apparently had connections. So, finally, I would be able to enter the monstrous, 300 by 350 yard campus and, perhaps, even get to see a classroom.

The guard on the south side showed me where to park my motorcycle and go next. I ended up in the lobby of some conference building, where no one was waiting for me. Of course, not. I asked for the Wi-Fi password at the reception and then stretched in one fat, brown armchair to amuse myself on Twitter.

The cold and the silence were almost eerie, like in space. Odd. Hearing Bowie in my head, I felt like in a science fiction movie, although the architecture wasn’t unpleasant. Of course, the nippy air was just the result of the modern A/C system, but it was also symbolic: the atmosphere was lifeless and far from welcoming.

After fifteen minutes, a young woman was approaching me. She was sporting a knee length, pleated grey skirt and a purple polo with the school logo on her chest. The lady was about twenty-three and neither attractive nor the opposite. She was pleasant, fuss-free, friendly, and warm. She also spoke decent English but then led me into an even colder room, where the burgundy tables were arranged into an oval.

Like a huge pussy. Some young dude in a white shirt and tie was sitting on the left, close to the clit, behind his large laptop, and asked me to take seat across from him, about four yards away. The girl had disappeared, but then returned with a half-full glass of lukewarm water. Odd.

Unfortunately, she took off again, leaving me alone in this cold, unwelcoming environment. I felt as if we were in a soundproof room; like in a gangster movie. If I hadn’t been twenty years older, ninety pounds heavier and eight inches taller than the young chap across from me, I would probably have been intimidated. But no, I just readied myself to the interview, which was about to ensue.

Knowing that I wouldn’t be offered the position – which I didn’t really want, anyway. Since I wasn’t a trained professional with a degree in teaching – but ‘only’ had a PhD in Education – the International School couldn’t directly hire me and had to go through the other English Center that I mentioned briefly. Which would also formally hire me – to then pimp me out to the much larger place where I was currently interviewing.

Now, the young Vice Director began to list all the unpleasant things that would come with the position: the long hours, the confinement, and the sycophantic greeting routine in the morning. In addition, I would have to prepare Power Point presentations for every class, which I was to upload to a website. Before class.

A friend of mine from India had already told me that the system was bound to crash every other day. And yes: one wasn’t to criticize the students, ever. Mister Long didn’t explicitly state why, but probably to mollify the affluent parents. And, as if that wasn’t enough: occasionally, I would have to partake in Saturday morning activities. Physical ones, outdoors, from what it sounded like.

When he explained that the small school would keep a chunk of my salary, too, as they had arranged our relationship, I knew we could basically stop there, but still asked him how much they would deduct. For shits and giggles. Typically, Mister Long explained, the International School would pay around 2,500 bucks per month, but I shouldn’t expect more than 1,800 in my checking account.

Well, that would still be eight times the average monthly salary in Vietnam but, of course, I didn’t feel like relinquishing 700 bucks. Every month. Because I didn’t have a teaching degree; ‘only’ a PhD in Education. I had taught future teachers for eleven years, at three universities, on two continents.

I felt like getting up, but I didn’t want to be rude, as Mister Long – which was pronounced Lomm – wasn’t done yet. Was I familiar with computers: Excel, Power Point, and PDFs? he asked. I don’t recall exactly what I replied, but it must have been something along the lines of I started using computers around the time you were born.

He looked at me in disbelief but, when I added that I was indeed aware of the benefits of modern technology but reminded him that the students should rather pick my brain during class, he nodded, for the first time. We both knew, however, that we wouldn’t come to an agreement. So, after less than an hour, the interview was over, and I got up: I thanked him for his time, knowing that I would never hear from Mister Long again.

I sauntered back through the cold, unwelcoming building, with its tiled walls, all by myself, regretting that I didn’t see the young damsel again, whose name I didn’t know. I noticed that there were no students, at 3:30 in the afternoon; no voices, no laughter, no frolicking, no sign of vitality. Nothing reminded me of learning or education – nor life in general.

As I was already dressed up, for a change, I cruised through town, thinking about where else I could introduce myself. I had two coffees but then ended up at the only bar in town that sold beer on tap. Unfortunately, the cute, petite waitress wasn’t working. Eventually I left, as it seemed her day off.

This all had been in early October and, sure enough, the ludicrous International School didn’t even have the decency to turn me down properly. Now, almost two months later, the owner of that smaller English Center contacted me again: this time about a part-time position at the much-dreaded place. Again, she would be the pimp – and I, the hooker/teacher.

They were offering sixteen bucks per hour, but I declined. Thinking that this might solely be about the money, they added three more U.S. dollars per hour, which still wasn’t enough, with all the prep time and the marking I would have to do. And all the other bullshit, of course: wearing a tie, being confined during off hours, as well as the entitled kids and parents, who were used to having everything their way.

When the Center owner insisted again in the evening, I made it clear that I didn’t want to have anything to do with the institution. And thought that would be it. But no, the next morning, the young chick – who had guided me into the freezing interview room with the pussy-shaped tables and brought me the glass of tepid water – had written to me on Zalo, a social networking site in Vietnam.

I didn’t know if she was just curious or if Mister Long had asked her to do so, as everyone knew that most men are suckers for young Asian women. Why are you opposed to working for us? Quyen asked, but then added: The money is the most we ever offered to anyone.

Since I liked her, I told Quyen that, frankly, she was the only positive recollection I had of my visit to the school. To not sound cheesy or sentimental, I added a few points of criticism, listing all the things I didn’t want to do, toward the final years of my teaching career. In the end, I just didn’t want to support a bullshit system that pretended to educate but couldn’t even provide textbooks to students. Not even as copies.

Which I knew from my Indian buddy, Ajay. Curious if they would add another two bucks on top of what they were offering, I kept the whole conversation friendly, as I believed in not needlessly burning bridges. To twist my arm further, Quyen told me that I could scrap the tie, as a part-time teacher, and also leave campus if I wasn’t teaching. And no, no dress shoes, either; nice sandals would be enough.

Which were three baby steps in the right direction, of course. However, when I described the cold, unwelcoming atmosphere to her once more, Quyen seemed to take it personally but then, we got distracted by another issue: When I reminded her that the students who had textbooks didn’t bring them to class – which I also knew from Ajay – Quyen claimed that that would be normal.

To which I replied that her pretentious, expensive school should do something about it. Quyen probably felt uneasy as she was reading through my lines but thanked me profusely for my openness, as she hadn’t considered some of the issues as potentially detrimental. She even expressed her gratitude once more for my frankness, after she had said goodbye. And I thought, again, that would be it.

Until Quyen began once more, two days later. This time, she wanted to meet me in person, though, just her and me, at a coffee shop. Did she want to learn more about how her school appeared to an outsider? Or did she have another marginal increase in pay up her polo sleeve?

Of course, I also conceived the idea that she could offer herself, on top of the nineteen bucks per hour, as she would probably get a nice bonus if she could convince me to work for them. In the end, I dismissed that thought, as we had never flirted. And Quyen didn’t strike me as particularly sensual, sexy, or wanton, either.

Not that she wasn’t attractive; most Vietnamese girls were, more or less. Quyen was of medium height, neither slim nor chubby, with pleasant features. But she didn't seem convinced enough of her own allure to toss herself into the mix. Maybe Mister Long had forced her to meet me in person? Well, I was definitely curious enough to meet her again. And she knew I had a lot of time on my hands, as I wasn’t working at the moment.

After I had agreed to meet her, however, Quyen suggested the café right across the school, which I found odd, as students might hang out there, too. If she wanted to turn our meeting into a sensual encounter, I would have expected a different location.

I had been to said café multiple times and sat down inside, near the wall facing the school. Which was just two feet high, so I had a nice view of the street in between and the gate, where I had received the contact information in the glistening sun, the first time I had made a step to an interview here.

As I was smoking, I saw Quyen moseying across the street, in her grey, knee length, pleated skirt, purple polo shirt, white socks, and blue sneakers. The first thing she said, though, was that she would prefer to sit upstairs, where I had never been. Interestingly, she was holding her helmet in her left hand. Apparently, we were going somewhere else, afterwards.

Subtly, this began to feel like a small adventure that would go beyond our relationship as HR chick and job applicant, although I had to admit that I wasn’t exactly enamored with her. But then again, there was nothing wrong with Quyen, either: She was ten inches shorter than me, had dense, pitch black hair, a womanly figure with harmonious proportions, without any truly superfluous fat.

Quyen was a young woman in her physical prime and had just shaved her legs. Her relatively large bosom was heaving nicely, as she was now sitting across from me, around the corner of the table, upstairs. I could even make out the contours of her bra, under her polo, which was a nice touch.

Quyen’s face was perfectly oval but seemed wider at the bottom than at the top, which could have had to do with her hairdo. Apparently, she hadn’t bothered to go to the hairdresser for a while, as her bangs’ length was approaching that of the rest of her hair, which she had casually parted in the middle. She also had a small wart close to her lower lip, on the left, which I found almost endearing.

Anyway, when she smiled at me for the first time, the ice was already broken, and I had a hunch that we wouldn’t talk much about why I had refused to work at her school. The waitress had long brought her milk tea, which Quyen was sipping now. If she wasn’t drinking, she kept stirring her beverage, like she was nervous, but after she had taken another gulp, she asked if we could go for lunch together, later.

“My motorcycle is on campus, but I could ride with you, couldn’t I?”

I was slightly perplexed, as Quyen didn't know how entertaining I could be, but she was no child and perhaps sensed that we could have a good time together. I knew she had two hours for lunch, which she confirmed when I asked her. And then, she told me that today was soup day, in the cafeteria, which was never enough, though:

“I’m a bit tired of the same food every week. It’s decent, but I’ve worked here for a year.”

“Is it enough food, at least?” I was curious, kinda avuncular.

“Normally, yes. But the soup’s kinda thin,” she giggled and blushed, smiling again.

“Sure, we’ll go somewhere else, whatever you like. It’s on me,” I naturally offered.

Quyen thanked me, and I waited for her to say something, but when she didn't, I asked her bluntly if she was here to try to convince me again. For some reason, she looked up and down on me, like she needed a bit of time to think, but then replied:

“No. I mean, you said already that you don’t want to. Several times.”

Technically, she could still try, but I didn’t feel like unraveling the history of our failure again. Yet I definitely wanted Quyen to know one thing:

“You know, like I said before, you are the only positive memory I have of the whole place.”

Which sounded rather melodramatic. But it was true. And a compliment – although my happiness with her partially arose out of the rest being so cold and inhospitable.

“Well, Mister van Wyck, I thought about the whole thing: You’re right. Many students don’t like the school, especially the older ones. And the teachers never stay for long, although the money is good.”

“Just call me Douglas,” I offered.

Yes, that was true: Another friend of mine had quit there, but then decided to do another year when his Vietnamese wife wanted a car. He also had shared some of his experiences, which weren’t too pretty. And I simply didn’t want to get up at five and then work until five in the afternoon.

Should I ask Quyen if she was making a bit more than Vietnamese assistants at other schools? Well, no, that wasn’t relevant at that moment.

“How did you end up here?” I asked her, instead, nodding across the street with my chin.

“A friend was here from the beginning, when they opened. She told me they were looking for someone.”

“Your English is pretty good. Better than most receptionists’,” I told her, truthfully.

At many English centers in town, I had encountered ladies who didn’t speak English at all. So, if a foreigner showed up, asking for something simple, such as an email address, they wouldn’t be able to help. At least, I knew by now how to ask such things in Vietnamese.

“I was in the gifted class at Vo Nguyen Giap,” Quyen told me.

That was a decent high school, named after one of Uncle Ho’s close comrades, during the war. The general had just died, at the ripe age of 102, when I arrived in Vietnam. I knew where the school was: across the river, not too far – as the crow flies – from the vacant hotel, where our orgy troupe had been meeting for the last three years.

“I also took some English classes at university, in Saigon,” Quyen added.

Modestly, she had her hands in her lap, and I still couldn’t be sure what had motivated her to meet me for coffee today. Perhaps, she just liked practicing her English, although she could do that with the foreigners at work. Since Quyen had finished her milk tea, she now asked if we couldn't take off:

“Are you hungry?” I nodded, reaching for my keys and taking the last sip of my coffee, after I had extinguished my ciggy.

On the way down the stairs, her calves caught my eye, since I had to pay attention to the steps in the semi-dark stairwell. Yes, her lower legs were nice: firm, yet soft. Roundish. Womanly. As I was paying, I asked Quyen if she came here regularly:

“No, there are too many students. And it’s too close to work to enjoy it.”

Her smile was nice, again. Standing at the urinal, though, I regretted that we hadn’t flirted yet; particularly, since we had been alone upstairs, for the whole time. But then, Quyen wasn’t entirely my type, and I didn't want her to feel uneasy. I was twice her age, and she still didn’t radiate sensuality, in her grey skirt and sneakers. On the other hand, she was young, intelligent, seemed a good person, and healthy – for the lack of a better word. Was she still a virgin, perhaps?

As the café was on a corner and one could see my Honda well from the school, Quyen turned into the side street and said she would walk away a bit, first, so that people wouldn’t see her getting onto my bike. To give her a bit of time, I quickly smoked one of my Slims, before I got on and followed her.

When Quyen finally was sitting behind my back, she didn’t hold on to me but leaned forward, at least, so we could talk, as we were rolling through traffic:

“Mi Quang?“ I asked her, at some point, which was a popular dish in Central Vietnam: thick noodles with different meats, hardboiled egg halves, and greens.

There were several places that offered decent Mi Quang. Quyen thought about it for a few seconds, but then suggested we buy something we could eat with our hands, sitting on a park bench. So, soup wasn’t an option.

“And I don’t want people to see us together,” she added quietly.

Which was understandable.

“What about Goi Cuon, then?”

Those were summer rolls, like non-fried spring rolls, with greens and tofu, wrapped in rice paper. We could drive to the park across from ‘our’ vacant hotel and sit on the bench, where Mira had peed onto the stone tiles, out from under her skirt, about a month back – the day we had bumped into Ly and Khoa, Hiroshi’s driver.

We had even filmed Mira’s sweet little depravity. I will never forget her stunning light thighs, with the sparse brown bush and her glistening little boat-hull pussy in between. One day, I might be able to watch Quyen micturate. Probably not today, though. But then, I couldn’t really imagine her being into such shenanigans. Although…

Stimulated by my recollections of Mira and to get into the mood, I tried to imagine what Quyen looked like under her skirt. And smelled like. Would she lift up her skirt, on the park bench and let me look at her thighs? And panties? Maybe next time. C’mon, Quyen hadn’t asked me to meet for coffee to eat summer rolls afterwards – and that would be it, had she?

Well, perhaps she hated the other girls in her office or was just bored and needed a break from her lunch routine, the soup, as well as all the gossip and bullshit problems at work. And Mr. Long. I would have found it a tad strange, though, if she had picked me for sheer escapism.

And Quyen hadn’t dressed up or prettified herself, apart from shaving her shins. Which ran counter to the theory that we were on a date together. But then, again, if she had dolled up at work, just before lunch, her colleagues would have become curious and probably teased her. Which Quyen, obviously, wouldn’t want.

And they surely would have asked her where she was going. And with whom. Anyway, by now, Quyen had directed me to a joint that sold said summer rolls, and we were waiting in line. She told me she wanted only one or two, though, as her lunch would still be waiting for her in the fridge, at her office:

“We always heat up the soup in the afternoon. We got a canteen for that,” she giggled, for some reason.

I wasn’t sure if she meant a mess kit or a cafeteria, somewhere near her office, but it didn’t matter, and so I only remarked that, yes, it would be a waste not to get the food that was part of her salary. In the end, we bought five rolls, as I didn’t know if I wanted two or three. Four wouldn’t have been enough maybe but, as they were fairly large, six seemed excessive, although they were only vegetarian.

But they looked good and would be pretty filling. The lady had also given us a large cup with plenty of peanut sauce, which was the best part of it all. Outside, I suggested we drive to the park across from the vacant hotel, without mentioning the latter, though. Once we were there, I could still nonchalantly toss it into the conversation. And mention that I even had the keys to it.

Quyen knew, of course, that there wouldn’t be anyone at the park, at this time of the day, on a regular Wednesday. I also had grown to like the idea of eating in the park; partly, because I had such fond and rousing recent memories of the place.

As we were approaching on the side of the hotel – and since the large, wide street had an elevated median with bushes, flowers, and palm trees – I decided to park outside the hotel. Quyen didn’t seem surprised and, when I extended my hand to lift her up on the median, which was fifteen inches high, I mentioned in passing that the keys to the hotel were in my pocket.

Still standing on the median, Quyen seemed completely flabbergasted. Thunderstruck. I liked that she was still holding my hand, but I could see the cogs turning behind her forehead, framed by her too long bangs:

“Mister Douglas, I was in there once, when I was a child. Can we go inside?! Oh, please, pleaeazze!” she was whimpering, beaming in excitement.

So, we turned around and hopped back across the street, toward the entrance door. I asked her to hold the bags with the food and drinks, which we had just bought and then opened the padlock. I pushed the screeching metal door open and then drove my Honda in, before I put the padlock through the latch inside.

The click had something ominous. And final. Quyen didn’t seem queasy, however, and so I didn’t even ask if she was feeling uncomfortable. Yes, I was a burly guy: taller and physically stronger, but she knew who I was, where I used to work, and that I had been living in our town for ten years.

“Why were you here, back then? Did you know someone who worked here?” I asked her one of the two obvious questions.

“No, we had relatives visiting from Hanoi, my uncle and cousins; they were too many. So, they stayed at this hotel,” Quyen added quickly, before she almost ran toward the atrium to look up and see if the classy, large chandelier was still up there.

“Oh, Mister Douglas, you have no idea how happy I am to see it again!” she was clapping her hands.

Like a successful young star on stage. Or like some girl in a movie. Yes, that was an awesome moment, which by itself was already worth our lunch date.

“But, tell me: Why do you have the keys to the hotel?” Quyen asked the other obvious question.

“A woman who I used to work with is now at the large real-estate company, which is in charge of the hotel,” I replied truthfully, before I took her hand again: “We meet here for… for an hour of love, like twice a month. It’s our little love nest.”

Was that too much to divulge? Well, I would have found it lame, for the lack of a better word, to lie to Quyen. And, in the only semi-furnished room on the fourth floor, there were condoms and a bottle of lube, right within sight. As well as towels and two beds with fresh sheets. The bottle with the gel had a bright orange and yellow label.

Quyen wasn’t stupid and would be able to put two and two together. So that the whole thing wasn’t just between my muse Nguyet and me, however, I added that there were also several others meeting here, as they were still living with their parents. Which was true. Quyen didn't need to know about our orgies, though, I felt. At least, not at this point.

“Often, young couples can’t have sex at their parents’ house, you know,” I added.

“Yeah, I know. I used to go to small hotels with my boyfriend,” Quyen sighed, as we were going up the stairs.

We were still holding hands, which was a nice touch, and I felt the onset of an erection. Since Quyen seemed to be going through her memories, looking up at the chandelier, I didn’t follow up on the boyfriend, but stuck to the imposing building:

“Yeah, I can only imagine what it looked like, back in the day. We’ve been coming here for three years. There used to be nice paintings on the walls.”

“Back then, I was only down in the lobby. I don’t know about the rooms,” she told me.

“One is still furnished. Do you want to eat in the kitchen or that room, which is one more floor up? It’s nice, with plants and a table.”

Quyen thought about it briefly:

“Couldn’t we go up to the roof?” she suddenly asked.

Holy Cow, what a striking idea. Why had we never thought about that? Not Nguyet, nor Mira. Nor Hoang or Charlie. Nor me. No one.

“I don’t know if there’s a hatch. But we can try,” I nodded, intrigued by the option.

Of course, it would have been counterproductive to deny Quyen her wish. I would have forever remained the lame older dude, in her book, if I didn’t try, at least, everything in my power.

On the sixth floor, we peeked inside the maid’s chamber, which still had a bed and a wardrobe in it, but we didn’t see any chains, belts, dildos, handcuffs, or other signs of the BDSM shenanigans that butch Emily had done with Mira here. Thank God. Mira’s ex had surely taken all paraphernalia home with her.

There were still some clothes, though, which appeared to be Nguyet’s. I recognized her black cardigan and greenish denim skirt, as well as her lacy burgundy top. Interestingly, Quyen didn’t comment on the clothes but pragmatically grabbed two blankets that I had never noticed before. They were thick and grey, reminding me of those we used in the army. She sniffed them, making a face, before she chuckled:

“We can sit on them, like at the beach. And eat. They seem clean enough,” she rejoiced, as if she had absolutely no doubt that we would be able to get access to the roof.

Naturally, I liked her cheerful teenage optimism and noticed that this hotel-plus-chandelier thing had brightened her mood immensely, although it hadn’t been bad before. When she had pressed the two blankets against her bosom, she kinda looked like I could have kissed her, but I was still holding the two bags with the picnic. And the thick blankets were like buffers between us.

So, we just smiled at each other, making a tacit contract, which was also super-nice, before we left the room again and continued toward the front of the building. I was tempted to bring up her boyfriend, but we could also talk about him while we were eating.

As we were walking along on the creaking floor boards, we kept looking up but, so far, we hadn’t seen a hatch. I had never been in this part of the building but, just when I was looking at her calves again, Quyen remarked:

“Do you know what?! I like the smell.”

“Yeah, musty, but kinda subtle. Not bad: wood, dust… it’s definitely more interesting than the buildings at your school,” I chuckled.

Quyen let that snide remark slide but kept walking and looking upward, instead. I loved her sense of adventure as well as her determination. And again, she didn’t seem afraid at all: just curious to add to the memories she already had of the building. And her childhood.

Although it was a slightly bizarre situation: I mean, we didn't really know each other and, until today, our relationship had developed along the lines of refusal and criticism. Not so much of us, as persons, but her weird, unpleasant workplace, which – oddly enough – was our only connection.

Finally, we saw a somewhat flimsy metal ladder, which was hanging from a hatch to the roof. Luckily, the opening seemed big enough for me, but sure: somehow, maintenance workers had to have access to the roof. And the hatch also needed to be big enough to pass a tool box through it.

At the old hotel where I used to live, downtown, there was even a spiral staircase up to the roof, where we once had had a rousing photo session with Tina and Linh, my former students, wearing beautiful dresses.

“Mister Douglas, imagine the view!” Quyen grew excited, now that we were so close.

She stepped aside to let me go up, first. Perhaps, because I was a guy, but she probably didn’t want me to look under her skirt, either. Which, at that point, wasn’t particularly important to me. I was more concerned if the hatch would open and keener – just like Quyen – to finally get onto the roof and enjoy the view we would have.

And so, I went up the ladder, which wasn’t made for big, heavy people like me, while Quyen – who weighed about half – was watching, with the two blankets still pressed against her chest and belly. Now, together with the two picnic bags. When I reached for the hatch, I had to press quite hard, but then we saw the light. The thing wasn’t particularly heavy, so I propped it open and let it fall backwards.

I went back down halfway to fetch the blankets as well as the bags, and then up again. A minute earlier, when the hatch had fully opened, Quyen had let out a cute squeal – and perhaps wetted her panties. She seemed exceedingly chipper. Luckily, I wasn’t wearing my best clothes, as everything was somewhat wet and filthy but eventually, we were standing on the roof together.

Fortunately, we had some napkins, but I noticed that we had forgotten to fetch glasses from the kitchen. Well, we could bury the cans under the ice and then drink straight from them. It was late November and the weather only warm, not hot. The beer would taste fine.

In the middle of the roof was a large puddle, and there were some vents. The rest of the concrete was dry and clean, more or less. Naturally, it was windy, but since there wasn’t much to see, we slowly sauntered closer to the edge. We put the bags and blankets down near the low wall around the edges to admire the view. Up here, about thirty-five yards above the street, it was a bit cooler, but still about 80 degrees Fahrenheit.

“My cousins went up to the roof, back then. They’re a bit older than me.”

Aaah, Quyen had known that getting up here was a possibility.

“My house is in this direction,” she was pointing northward, across the park and the river.

“How old were you when you were down in the lobby?” I was curious.

“Nine or ten,” Quyen replied before she slowly stepped two feet back.

She then turned toward me, so I moved closer, looking at her pleasant face. Our eyes were tracing each other, and I surreptitiously placed my hands on her hips. She didn't seem to mind and then, we finally kissed. Fleetingly. Quickly.

Perhaps, as she wanted to eat. Quyen spread the blankets on the floor; both of which she folded once, so that there were four layers. We sat down, kinda at the same time, which was awkward, as we bumped into each other. I cracked two cans of beer open, and then we toasted, after we both had taken a bite from our summer rolls, which were delicious.

The sauce was close to divine. Quyen was sitting like a tailor, while I had placed most of my weight onto one thigh – like the Little Mermaid. I had propped my torso on one arm next to me. After our tentative kiss five minutes earlier, I found it legit to ask Quyen about her love life:

“You said you went to hotels with your boyfriend. Are you still together?”

Well, Quyen wouldn’t be here with me if they were, would she? Apparently, she wasn’t a virgin anymore, which was good to know.

“That was in Saigon, at university. No, he wanted to do a Master’s in Australia. I think he’s still there,” Quyen added, before she shoved the rest of her roll into her mouth and laughed, sounding relieved.

Like she was happy that she was single and free, back in her hometown, near her family. I remembered that her legs had been hairy on the day of the interview, back in early October but, like I said, she had shaved them the day before. So today, they were super smooth and delicious. Her skin looked like milk.

I could make out some blueish blood vessels. Had she shaved her thighs, too?  Those were still covered by her skirt but, of course, I didn’t want to be brash and blatantly ask her to show me her legs. She would have done it, though, I was pretty certain.

We just kept eating and occasionally looked around, but we also kept glancing at each other. Of course. I was still puzzled that no one in our orgy posse had ever suggested checking out the roof here. But then, perhaps they just never told me. I wouldn’t put it past Emily and Mira, for instance, that they had checked out every nook and cranny of the hotel, while they had been here for their nookies.

Well, yes, we had been fixated on the beds in the room on the fourth floor or the cozy maid’s chamber on the sixth, where we had gotten the blankets from, on which we were sitting. One day, we need to have an orgy up here, out in the open. With Quyen, since she liked everything so much, I thought to myself.

“Your colleagues are nice?” I decided to make some small talk.

Somehow, it didn’t feel like we could talk about sex. Inadvertently, I had asked the perfect question, though:

“Yep. But, do you know what? First, Ngoc started meeting her boyfriend over lunch, and now, Trinh is doing the same.”

“And then, there’s only one topic in the afternoon?” I chuckled.

“Kind of. Ngoc isn’t very experienced, so she keeps asking questions about what the others did over lunch. Sometimes, it’s like a competition, and I’m sitting in between, trying to focus on my boring papers,” Quyen giggled.

And blushed. Which was the cutest thing. Naturally, I didn’t know either of the two damsels, Ngoc or Trinh, but I instantly grew curious about what exactly they were doing over their lunch breaks. Should I ask? I probably could have. Quyen would have told me.

But then, I conceived another thought: Was she here today, with me, to create her own stories? Did she want to fuck during her lunch break, so that she didn’t feel left behind. Quyen had broken up with her boyfriend more than a year ago, so she was probably horny. Should I ask her? No, that would only ruin our lovely time.

And so, I just grabbed the fifth – my third – roll, after I had offered it to Quyen. When she shook her head, saying she was full, I took a large bite, almost half, but then fed her another bit, which she gladly took. So, I handed her the rest to be able to light a ciggy and crack another beer open, which we would share, so it wouldn’t get warm.

At some point, we got up to walk around some more. We enjoyed the view in every direction, and Quyen pointed at several taller buildings to explain what they were. In most cases, I already knew, but I didn't say anything to let her have the fun.

But yes, as were standing close to the edge, Quyen admitted she had vertigo and asked to sit down again. This time, she actually lay down on her right side, but stuck her left, sneaker-clad foot behind her other knee. She supported her head with one hand – like a teen at the beach – and was absentmindedly playing with the hem of her skirt.

Which had fallen into her lap, so that I now could see her left thigh almost completely. Nice. Quyen was bashfully smiling at me, and I felt my cock twitch, for the second time that day. As I was admiring the lovely arch of her hips and butt, Quyen suddenly uttered the revoltingly hot, immortal line:

“Mister Douglas, are we going to do it quickly, before we go back down?”

Not knowing what I could reply, I just nodded, flicked my cigarette butt away, and got up to relieve myself of my pants and underpants, as that wouldn’t have looked swift if I had bashfully done it, sitting on the blanket. Quyen had piously turned her head away but now, she was looking excitedly at my half-stiff, throbbing cock, which was peeking out from between my shirt tails.

I briefly wondered if she had meant actual sex – or maybe, just a blowjob? – but, the way the healthy young woman was lolling, she looked pretty much ready. When I had sat down again, near her head, she hesitatingly grabbed my noodle but then sat up to reach under her polo to open her bra on the back. I slid closer to caress her soft, warm belly, under her shirt, before we kissed again.

Eager to continue the treatment of my dick, she clamped her tongue between her teeth and focused on getting my rod stiff enough to enter her. If I wasn’t misreading the signs completely. She was using both hands, for some reason, and seemed determined. I was still looking at her face, but neither of us had said anything, after her fulminant proposal. At some point, though, Quyen giggled and said:

“It’s so big… nice.”

“Yes, this afternoon, you could tell Trinh and Ngoc a story,” I chuckled, but Quyen only shook her head:

“They aren’t meeting their boyfriends today. Trinh has her period. But I will keep what we are doing to myself, anyway,” she assured me, with an impish smile.

“Sure, but take a bit of spit,” I requested, before I reached further up under her polo and loose bra.

Oh yes, her boobs were firm and heavy. And fairly large. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought they belonged to a more mature woman. I could feel her nipples pumping, while her areolas seemed to have lots of little blisters.

“How old are you, actually?” I asked her, panting.

“Almost twenty-four,” Quyen replied, also wheezing slightly.

Meanwhile, my cock had grown almost fully stiff but now, I was curious what her boobs looked like. And so, I massaged and kneaded her chest only for another thirty seconds, before I pushed her polo up – which offered my dick a much appreciated boost:

“Mister Douglas, this is really nice… today, I just wanted to see if we… perhaps, at some point, but everything’s so… here, on the roof… so awesome. C’mon!” Quyen finally said, before she lay down on her back and pulled her skirt out from under her butt, toward her back.

“When was your last period?” I asked her quickly, before we would lose ourselves.

“Last weekend,” Quyen replied, panting.

Her answer had come quickly, as if she had been waiting for the question for an hour. Finally, Quyen pulled up her skirt in the front as well and let me look at her legs, which were very light and harmonious: Womanly round, without superfluous fat. Warm and inviting. The complete opposite of her workplace.

Man, was her skin smooth! But her panties were also interesting: They were divided into two halves, black and white, but asymmetrically. Sort of. There were several black bars on the white side, which reminded me of Tuyet’s black dress with the white parallel stripes on the shoulders. Like a children’s piano.

Under the fabric, there seemed to be a nice boat hull, too, just the way I liked it. The way it was proper. After I had nodded at her, as I had seen enough, Quyen pushed both thumbs inside the waistband of her undies – and we knew that the moment had arrived.

“Mister Douglas, I’ll keep my clothes on, today. It isn’t very warm,” she apologized but then nonchalantly pushed her panties down her young legs.

She fiddled them off one shoe but pulled them back up on her other thigh, like most Asian girls do during sex, as if they were afraid to lose their underwear in the fracas.

What I was looking at now, however, was one of the most enthralling pussies I had ever lain my eyes upon: Quyen’s brown outer labia were elegant, like painted, and not too densely covered by hair, which was perhaps the best of both, of all worlds.

What was even better, though, were her inner lips, which were thick but not crinkled. No, they were smooth but protruding by half an inch. Yes, she did seem aroused, although I couldn’t immediately spot any translucent nectar. But yes, that pink vertical strip of tender flesh was absolutely captivating – and arousing to the utmost.

Before I would lie down on her and cover this most alluring sight with my massive body, I took another eyeful; partially, as it was so unusual to see a fully dressed woman exposing herself like that. Quyen was still holding up her polo, too, so that I could also marvel at her tits, but then, her pussy caught my eye again. Man, that vertical strip of salmon-colored flesh between her pitch black hair was the sight of the year. Easily.

Her legs looked absolutely delish, too – and, hadn’t Quyen said she would leave her clothes on today?! Like she already knew we would do it again?! Man, her sneakers and her panties wrapping her thigh were super cool, too! And that vertical pink strip was like four inches long. Jesus!

And then, her pubic mound, her mons veneris: It was almost six inches wide, across, at the top, but reached all the way down to her perineum, another eight inches or more. Man, I couldn’t get over it. Awesome. Enthralling. Bewitching. Quyen’s pussy was more beautiful than her face, almost.

Which I wouldn’t tell to her face, though. But maybe, to her pussy.

“Douglas, stop looking at me like that,” she laughed, with mock indignation.

Which was super sweet. Of course. Deep inside herself, she must have relished, though, that I was so fascinated by the details of her young, mature body. And fittingly, she had finally scrapped the Mister.

Which would have been ludicrous to use, during intercourse. I was kinda waiting for a Just come on top of me, as my muse Nguyet tended to put it, but Quyen just opened her legs further, inviting me on top of and inside her.

Oh man, what a lascivious, nonchalant gesture that had been. Since Quyen did seem a tad embarrassed that I was so shamelessly checking out her snatch, I did us the favor and just mounted her. Tenderly. In the end, everything went surprisingly quickly, like we both were afraid that the other could change their mind.

As soon as I had found my position on top of her and begun to thrust, Quyen quick-wittedly pulled up her polo and her lovely blue bra again, close to her collarbones, so that I could see and fondle her breasts, while I was happily pumping, writhing, and hollering on top of her.

Oh yes, although I hadn’t seen any nectar outside on her labia earlier, inside she was splendidly greased. My glans was polishing her G-spot nicely, which was probably glowing by now. With every fifth thrust, I gained another quarter inch. Eventually, I let go of her breasts, though, to take her head between my forearms, instead.

Oh, man, Quyen was a lovely young woman, who had taken her courage, which had led us all the way up to the roof here. Yes, this was the bee’s knees. In hindsight, we both had been aroused during the hour we had spent together, yes. And now, we were grinding off the peaks of our arousal.

As I was still thrusting inside her, Quyen opened the buttons on my shirt to caress my back, before she buried her nose in my chest hair. I let her suck the messenger substances off my skin, but then propped my torso onto my outstretched arms to better be able to watch her boobs bobbing.

Sweet Jesus, we had gathered quite some steam over the last five minutes and now, our act had developed into a proper St. Vitus dance. Oh, her tits were awesome, too. Their areolas were burgundy, almost brown, with lots of whitish little blisters. The way we were positioned, I unfortunately couldn’t lick them. Next time.

When I felt a nippy breeze going through my butt crack, I lay down directly on her, to provide warmth and comfort. Feeling her divine breasts on my skin, I sniffed her hair and felt that my cock had completely disappeared inside her young sheath. As comfortable as she was pressed underneath my 235 pounds, Quyen was purring, with her eyes closed.

As womanly as she was, by Vietnamese standards, her snatch was pretty roomy; similar to Ly’s, who was fifteen years older, though. And the two of them had a similar figure, too. Maybe one day, soon, they would meet. Anyway, Quyen was sweating profusely, but her face seemed to be saying that I could have banged her forever. She was in bliss, mirthfully cooing in little cascades. Yes, it felt like she hadn’t had sex for a while.

As cool and awesome as the location was, we did receive musty whiffs from the blankets from time to time but, the way things were looking, we would do it again soon. Probably downstairs on the bed that had already seen so much debauchery, over the last three years. Next time, I would take good care of her boobs, first. And then lick her pussy. Profusely.

Quyen also needed to pee on me, at some point. Would she? Why not?! She wouldn’t be affected if she didn’t want to be. Yes, we would do it naked, and really slowly, the next time. The whole nine yards. But then, doing it up here, on the roof, was stinking cool: Above most roofs of the city, in the great outdoors, within sight of her parents’ house. Almost.

The way we both were wheezing and panting, moaning and groaning, our eruption was imminent, and I only thrusted two dozen more times. Adding to my hoarse hollering, Quyen was squirming under me and had started to let out cute, excited squeaks. I had the silly vision that some maintenance worker would now pop his head through the hatch – which was like six yards away – and holler something, but then I exploded inside Quyen, roaring up at the friendly grayish sky.

For the final throes, I had propped my torso onto my forearms again to protect her, but also to be close to her face. Which I had grown to like, over the last hour. I could feel her sneakers on my back, since she had wrapped her legs around my torso, and now, she was squirting uncontrollably. Did she have another skirt at work? And another pair of panties?

It didn’t matter, at that point. My cum was flowing out, into her; strangely, not so much in splashes but more like a continuous stream. Which was a nice touch. Heartwarming. Relieving. After all we had been through.

Quyen opened her eyes again and was smiling at me, as she was playing with my nipples and ruffling my chest hair. She smiled impishly, before she let out another cute sigh.

Jesus, how exciting those existential moments always were: One had to make a move, toward the inevitable. Quyen’s question if we couldn’t do it quickly before we would go back down had been the best ever. It had armed and disarmed me, at the same time. Unmitigated, with no second thoughts. Just like that. Like an avalanche.

At the café, earlier, nothing had reeked of sex. Whatsoever. The hotel, the chandelier, and the rooftop had just overwhelmed her. And she had been right: if we had eaten and then gone down again, without touching each other, that would have been lame, for the lack of a better word.

I couldn’t remember if a location had tipped a lady’s stance toward sex with me, ever, but now, Quyen let her Boa constrictor legs fall to our sides again. However, she asked me to stay where I was, so that it wouldn’t leak out and soil her skirt.

“Phew, this was a lot,” she finally said, sniveling, looking chipper: “But, of course, I don’t have another pair of panties.”

Which was super cute, again. It reminded me of my second time with Nguyet, when her mother had found Nguyet’s soaked panties in the hamper and thought it was some malign discharge.

After Quyen and I had come down together for several minutes, whispering sweet nothings, she announced that she had to pee. Finally. So, we got up, as the blankets weren’t exactly comfortable, anyway.

“Just go right here. The rain will wash it away.”

Quyen was a country bumpkin. I was sure she had already peed outside at some point, and she didn't seem sheepish when it came to sex and bodily functions. She thought about it but then sauntered over to the east side, still holding up her skirt. With her panties around her left thigh.

She sat down on the low wall, facing me, carefully holding up her skirt in the front. She was blushing and hollered, asking me not to watch her so cheekily, but we both knew that that was impossible. After what we had just done together. Ok, I turned away for a second, but then shamelessly looked at her mesmerizing midsection again. Man, perhaps her pussy was more beautiful than her face, yes.

Of course, I remembered how Mira had peed out from under her school uniform skirt, but this here was even hotter. Partially, because Quyen’s cunt was new to me but also more powerful, more potent. For the lack of a better word. And her thighs! They were almost a tad too thick and not particularly elegant. But, man, was this whole scene turning me on: the light skin, the thighs, and then the furry animal between them.

“Do you know how beautiful and hot you are, when you’re peeing?” I chuckled, as I was handing her some napkins, which we had received with the rolls earlier.

I watched her gladly, as she was dabbing her wet toy boat hull and then, how she put her panties back on. Of course, I took a whiff off the soiled, wet napkins, before I tossed them into the bag with the empty beer cans, after I had poured the water out. I dressed and then, we checked if we hadn’t forgotten anything. We smooched and kissed some more, for which she opened her bra again. Quick-wittedly.

In the end, I peed as well, while we were up here. It looked like it would rain later that day. And it wouldn’t bother anyone. Quyen didn’t watch, though; instead, she was looking over the canopy and river, toward her parents’ house. She seemed a tad melancholic; well, she certainly had to process what had just happened.

We descended down the ladder and were now standing on the semi-dark, musty sixth floor:

“Are we going to do it again?” Quyen asked

“Now?” I teased her.

“I would, but I can’t,” she sighed: “I must go back to work. Can you drive me?”

“Of course. And, next time, we’ll do it nice and slow.”

On the way down, we looked at the chandelier together and, on the fourth floor, I showed her the only furnished room of the whole hotel, so that she could mentally prepare herself.

“The roof is way cooler. Or that small room on the sixth,” said Quyen.

“Sure. But, for the roof, we need the perfect weather: not too hot or cold. And no rain, of course.”

“If the weather isn’t nice, we’ll do it in that small room, upstairs,” Quyen was resolute.

Before I would push my Honda outside, I dropped the two blankets in the washing machine. I would come back later to hang them up to dry. Back from the work room, we kissed again.

To round everything off, I asked her, half-jokingly and half seriously, if I had to work for the International School now, maybe part-time.

Quyen giggled, shaking her head: “Nope, Mister Douglas, that is no longer possible. And, if you were working for us, we wouldn’t have done it today.”