The green light of the bedside clock had said it was just a little past six when her eyes opened, the gray light of dawn already shining through the curtains. And nearly ten minutes later, she was still lying on top of him, at the same odd angle on the large bed, her head still cradled on his shoulder, her naked breasts pillowed on his chest.

She needed to pee. But she lay still, not wanting to wake him ... not wanting to move.

Ten thousand dollars, she thought, as she listened to him breathe, flushing with a feeling that was not quite shame.

Her third night spent naked and screaming as a man she'd known for little more than that had his way with her body.

He had certainly gotten his money's worth, she thought, feeling the little patches of tenderness all over her neck and breasts, trailing all the way down to her belly. He had woken up some time in the night, already hard as he stroked and kissed her awake, not particularly gently. Then he had started biting and sucking hard on her skin, his tongue swiftly following the same path afterward, growling hungrily as she gasped and writhed under him, soaking the sheets beneath her as he fed on her pussy.

She had screamed when he entered her again, from behind, somehow getting her on her knees and her hands on the headboard, as he made his home inside her with another loud satisfied grunt of pleasure. Heat rushed through her as she again experienced the disturbing thrill of having a man so easily manhandle her so he could do what he wanted with her.

He'd fondled her breasts, making her moan and arch in pleasure as he planted bites and kisses all over her neck before his lips closed around her earlobe. And then he made her cry out again as his fingers closed on her nipples, hard and distended on her breasts. He took his time, his member inside her as he fondled her and kneaded her body, hands gripping and squeezing, fingers reaching between her legs to explore her wetness, making her stiffen and call out again and again before he finally began to slide in and out of her pussy.

She came within seconds, throwing her head back and screaming.

He enjoyed making her scream, she thought, a smile coming unbidden to her lips. Not that she'd been anything but an active - extremely active - participant.

He had continued to fuck her as she came, steady, hard and disciplined, his hands grasping her waist, keeping her in place as she collapsed against the headboard, panting, cum flooding out of her pussy. She screamed again, this time at the unrelenting rush of sensation tormenting her body, thoroughly, deliciously helpless as he rode her through her orgasm.

She thought of sex with the man she was to marry in a small number of weeks - not anymore - and how different he was from the man she was lying on top of, naked and still wet. Her fiancee usually came soon after her, allowing her time to catch her breath and regain some equilibrium.

Marquin Haydn was entirely different.

Her screams were ignored as he held her in place, his hands clamps of iron on her hips and waist until she found herself moving with him, hands braced on the headboard as he stroked into her pussy, her cries joining the sound of their bodies slapping against each other.

He stopped to molest her breasts again, hard, making her go stiff as he manhandled her nipples, her pussy squeezing around him as he made her scream again. Then he continued fucking her as liquid once again spilled from her pussy, hands back on her waist as she grasped hold of the sheets, gasping.

Honor had fallen into a fugue state, moving with him but aware of nothing but his motion inside her, when she felt him shudder and stiffen behind her, his fingers digging sharply into her hips as he sharply slammed back into her and held still. He let out a growl and she called out as she felt him come once more, going still as the warmth of his semen spurted into her body, her skin goosepimpling as she relished the feeling of a man releasing himself inside her as only a woman could.

He fell back from her, his breathing loud and harsh, making her quiver at his exit.

Honor collapsed as he left her, face down on the bed, shuddering, her breath taking its time to return.

Finally, she turned around and found him lying on his back and looking at her, eyes glazed and sweat sheening his skin, his breathing already slowed but still deep.

Saying nothing, she had crawled over to him and lain down exactly where she woke up three hours later ...

A sharp pang in her abdomen re-emphasized just how full her bladder was, but she still didn't move.

In a few hours, she was getting on a plane, and she was never going to see him again. The thought was an anvil in her chest that refused to budge.

Another sharp pang, and she knew she simply had to relieve herself.

"Where are you going?"

For some reason, she wasn't surprised that he had woken the instant she moved. So she kissed him, lowering her body back on top of him and moaning as one arm, then the other, wrapped around her and a familiar delicious warmth came to full life between her legs. Finally, she broke the kiss, smiling as she felt his member rapidly swelling up against her belly, his hands beginning a shudder inducing circuit over her naked body.

"I need to pee," she finally said, her lips touching his, reluctance in every word.

A moment passed, and for that moment, Honor wondered whether things had gone too far for any interruption. How powerless she was in the face of his desire - and how disturbingly much she enjoyed the power he so manifestly had over her.

Then his arms fell away from her. "Three minutes," he said.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she should get up immediately before he changed his mind, and that giving in to the intense temptation to kiss him again, his promise of 'three minutes' notwithstanding, just might make her leaving the bed to the bathroom a distinct impossibility.

But she did it anyway, wasting a valuable ten seconds.

"I'll be right back," she whispered, smiling against his lips, playing with fire.

He made a growling noise ... but he let her get up.

Still smiling, she padded into the bathroom, carefully shutting the door behind her - there were some things she'd never be comfortable doing with an audience. She only paused to quickly reach for a 'Fresh Morning!' mint from the helpfully placed bowl on the small shelf above the sink as she made a beeline for the toilet, making a note to herself not to forget that the miracle mints were not substitutes for actually brushing her teeth as the bracing fire of the minty liquid exploded in her mouth.

She sat and peed with a soft sigh of relief before cleaning herself up with the hotel's thoughtfully placed antiseptic wipes. Fastidious as always, sensible Honor and slutty Honor of Bangkok were one and the same on that, it took a while, since there was a rather large amount of some other liquid, milky white, thick, and very male, already there and coating much of her inner thighs.

Finally she got up and waved her hand in front of the sensor to flush the toilet. Her nipples had swollen and grown tight as she had cleaned herself, fingers of heat crawling up cheeks matching the heat burning low and hungry in her abdomen and pulsing between her legs, more 'stimulated' than she'd ever want to admit at the sight of so much male liquid between her legs.

She went to the sink again, intending to rinse out her mouth ... and caught sight of herself in the mirror.

She looked ... different.

Her hair was a disheveled mess, her lips outrageously enlarged and pouting, her nipples jutting out proudly on her swollen breasts and pointing back at her. Wonderingly, she ran her fingers over the darkened patches dotting her neck and covering the swells of her breasts, the trail running down to her belly, the heat in her abdomen spreading as she remembered his mouth and teeth on her skin, sucking, biting, marking her.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and she let out a small gasp as she turned, startled. Her three minutes were up, she realized as he came toward her, completely naked and completely erect - a predator intent on his prey - and he'd come to take her back to bed.

Actually, she corrected herself, seconds later, breathing hard as lubrication flooded into her pussy, her breasts being mauled in his hands as he cornered her against the sink and kissed her, hard and demanding; he'd just come to 'take' her. She growled back at him as she returned his kiss, her arousal rising at the familiar brutality of his hands and mouth on her body - there was no way they were making it to the bed.

She was more than ready when he turned her around, but she still barely got her hands braced on either side of the sink in time. She arched as he fondled her open, watching him in the mirror as he penetrated her with his fingers, feeling her wetness. She watched, quivering as he positioned himself behind her, hands on her waist. Then he was entering her, eyes locked on hers in the mirror as she let out a quiet squeal, her body shuddering as she accepted him into her pussy.

He began to slide in and out of her, and she moved with him, matching his rhythm, eyes locked on his in the mirror.

"You're not leaving today," he said, a simple statement of fact.

She tried to ignore the sudden lightening of the weight in her chest, tried to quell the sudden alarming upsurge of joy. Because she knew it wasn't possible - for her own sanity, she had to leave today. "But you promised ..!" she gasped at a particularly hard re-entry, he had gone in all the way.

He laughed. "My fingers were crossed."

"What about Sarah?" It was a silly question - why would he care what Sarah would think?

She whimpered out loud as he leaned forward and cupped her dangling breasts, stiffening as his fingers made contact with her nipples. "Tell Sarah ..." he grunted, thrusting, squeezing her boobs, "... you're not going back today."

Her resolve was taking a beating and she knew it. Worse, as their eyes met again in the mirror, as she moved with him, she knew that he knew it. But she still tried one more time ... "You bastard ...! You promised!" She tried, absurdly, to glare at him, which failed when she squealed, eyes squeezing shut at the sharp onrush of sensation as he quite expertly molested her nipples - he had gotten remarkably good at that over the past few days.

"Consider this another," he grunted as he pushed her back down, his hands going to her waist, "renegotiation ..."

She opened her mouth to respond but he squeezed her nipples again, making her squeal out loud again, as he pistoned harder into her pussy, quite efficiently forestalling any further speech as she gave in. She knew, from his touch, the violence of his thrusts into her body, that this time her pleasure was only secondary - he needed his release and she could only hold on until he was done.

He came quickly, making a harsh grunting noise as he gripped her waist, sheathing himself inside her. Honor watched him in the mirror, avidly taking in the way his eyes closed, teeth gritting as he released himself into her body. She found herself smiling, pride blossoming in her chest at the pleasure her body gave him, how insatiable he was for her. She hadn't come, but as she felt the warmth of his semen in her pussy, a feeling of immense satisfaction coursed through her that went almost as deep as an orgasm. Almost.

It disturbed her, but she decided right then to shelve it and examine it later. She needed to settle something more important.

She turned around when he finally exited from her and put her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him, for a moment, just feeling his heavy breathing fall on her face. Then she brought his head down so she could capture his lips with hers.

How could she have ever told him 'no kissing', she wondered?

But when she finally broke the kiss, even naked and in his arms with his cum and hers trailing out of her pussy and down her inner thighs, Marq Haydn was faced with sensible, disciplined Honor Banet at her most determined. "One more day. I'm leaving tomorrow. No ifs, ands, buts or ... 'renegotiations'."

He made to talk but she kissed him silent, biting his lip. Not to hurt, even if it did, but to make a point.

"Ow," he said, grinning.

She didn't grin back, meeting his eyes, uncompromising. "I want a real promise this time. I'm serious."

"Okay," he said after a long moment, clearly fighting with himself. "I promise. I'll let you leave tomorrow."

She believed him, despite herself. So she kissed him again.

________________________

Her guide for the second day of her tour of Bangkok was a woman. Jao had sent her along with the silver Mercedes, a driver, and a handwritten note apologizing for not being able to take her around himself, and introducing Chailai as the best tour guide in his employ.

Chailai's accent had significantly more British in it than Thai, but any doubts about the extensive depth and breadth of her knowledge was dispelled during their drive as she provided an in-depth running commentary of every single section of the city they drove by.

"We're going on the river. We'll first go down to the floating markets, then we'll see the Wat Arun," she had said with a wide smile as they both settled into the backseat. "Hope you don't get seasick?"

Honor smiled and shook her head. "No."

"Good." Chailai nodded, happy. "Then we can ride through the khlongs and you'll see some of the real Bangkok."

"What are khlongs?"

"Oh ... that's the Thai word for canals." She raised her eyebrows, making a face. "They're a bit stinky, though."

Honor wrinkled her nose expressively, smiling at her guide. "The stinkier, the better."

Chailai was true to her word. The smell of the khlongs was far from pleasant, almost enough to make Honor regret her bravado. Thankfully, Chailai had anticipated the problem and come prepared with a pair of scented scarves.

"The smell used to be much worse," Chailai informed her as they sat low in the fantastically colored and decorated long-tail boat, their only other company the smiling driver who had bowed to both of them and exchanged a few quick words with Chailai before setting off.

Honor gave her a questioning and somewhat sickened look.

"But the government has been running a sanitation and clean-up program for the past three years," Chailai continued, clearly amused at Honor's facial expression. "They're bringing in the big machines next year. The tourism and environment ministries all swear that in two years time, you'll be able to swim here."

"That's great," Honor said, genuinely pleased, though she couldn't imagine ever wanting to swim here. She suspected that no matter how clean and clear the water would be then, she wouldn't be able to entirely forget the greenish brown malodorousness of it now. Or the large numbers of water monitors she saw coming out of the water to bask in the sun.

She took numerous pictures of them as Chailai explained that they were protected, along with the numerous waterbirds perching on rocks alongside the muddy canal banks.

Chailai looked at her curiously. "Mr. Haydn's company is part of the clean-up project." Her look at Honor plainly asked, 'How come you don't know?'

Honor looked at her and answered truthfully. "I didn't know that." Inside, she told herself another truth. 'Because I'm not his woman. I'm just his whore.'

But she found that this piece of knowledge was a cheering one. From everything she'd seen and heard about him, Mark Haydn was apparently a good man. It was nice to know the man who had been inside her within the last few hours was not just some uncaring corporate monster.

The children she saw swimming and playing in the river made her even more glad that someone was doing something about cleaning it up. She took pictures of them, and got one where two boys and a girl actually posed on a veranda for her before waving and jumping once again into the brown water.

Either way, Honor enjoyed herself immensely - and before she knew it she had taken well over a hundred pictures in the first one hour of their ride in Blue Dragon Guides owned long-tail boat - known locally as a 'ruea hang yao'. From the very moment they set off the variety in the buildings lining the canals, showcasing all from profound poverty to ostentatious wealth, was something she found fascinating. Cheek by jowl with each other were corrugated tin shacks, elaborate temples, homes built on wooden stilts, restaurants, schools, and full-fledged high-fenced concrete mansions with large gardens and docks of their own.

As Chailai explained, they were travelling through the khlongs of both Thonburi and Nonthaburi. The former was now a district of Bangkok, but it was previously an independent city of its own, and even once the capital of Thailand before the capital was moved across the Chao Phraya to Bangkok by the first King Rama in the late Eighteenth Century. But Nonthaburi was an independent city of its own, the second largest after the capital and close enough for people to live in one and work in the other.

The change of pace was striking. Everyone of the local citizenry she saw was hard at work, making a living. From the floating stalls stacked high with clothes, shoes, utensils, tourist items, trinkets and other knick-knacks for sale, to the skilled rowers floating along in all directions while simultaneously grilling and roasting fish and chicken on charcoal grills grafted unto their boats, no one was idle, and yet, the best way she could describe life along and within the canals of Bangkok was ... relaxed.

Finally, the boat captain, cut his speed and turned the boat toward a highly decorated structure built on struts in the water.

"That's the Klong Bang Luang Artist House," Chailai said.

Honor saw the web address arranged in large white hand-fashioned capital letters hung above the balcony as the boat sidled up to the building 'www.klongbangluang.com'.

"We're going to get iced coffee, and watch a show," Chailai informed her.

Honor smiled, curious. "That sounds good."

Honor was captivated from the moment she set foot in the large wooden house. As Chailai explained, when the owner of the house could know longer afford to keep it, he sold it to the local Art Society. Everywhere was covered in some piece of artwork, from face masks, puppets, sculptures, to paintings, drawings and fabrics. But what was truly fascinating was the musical puppet show put on by a troupe of masked men and women in black dramatizing the Ramakien story - every flawless jerky movement by the puppeteers perfectly timed and coordinated and transmitted along to the little puppets representing the Thai gods.

Everyone in the audience, from the small crowd of tourists to the small class of elementary school children was silent from start to finish. The only snatches of noise being the flash and click of multiple cameras. The puppeteers and their musicians were greeted with wild applause when they were done, which they gamely received as if for the first time. Honor was only slightly surprised to find that she had taken over fifty pictures.

She'd finished her remarkably sweet iced coffee by then and guiltily went for another before they climbed back into the boat.

Their next stop was one of the floating markets, and again, Honor found herself captivated, staring at the mass of wooden boats moored along the riverbank, the vast majority of which were cooking some variety of seafood, rice and noodles in large woks on artfully attached stoves. She saw huge prawns, blue crab and various large species of fish roasting on grills and people, sitting on the floor, feet dangling over the water, eating with gusto and chattering happily with their neighboring diners.

Other boats sold fruits and vegetables, mangoes, pineapples, papayas and pomelos - a handful sold the infamously malodorous durian fruit - and as she watched, she saw the vendors rapidly cut up, slice and dice fruit into fruit salads for wandering customers, most of whom, she noticed, were Thais.

In fact, she noted with a start of surprise, she could only see two other non-Thais in the crowd, one a pretty black woman in a filmy sarong and wide-brimmed straw hat with a swarthy man wearing dark mirrored shades. They were sitting at a table in one of the awning covered restaurants on the riverside, chatting and looking completely at home as the long tail boat slipped by.

Honor then noticed the splashing in the water and looked over the side to see an energetic school of black catfish swarming around the boat. Chailai wordlessly handed her a plastic baggie of breadcrumbs and they both leisurely fed the fish as the boat chugged on through the floating market. Honor saw three more tourists all looking about as fascinated as she felt and she found herself smiling widely, realizing that she was thoroughly enjoying herself.

Finally, Honor felt the engines begin to slow and the prow of the boat swing over, approaching one of a few empty docks. The market was a little bit quieter here, but not by much. There was still a lively trade in cooked seafood, fruits and trinkets.

"Someone's picking us up outside the market," Chailai said as they left the dock, having waved goodbye to the long-tail boat driver, whose smile was even wider because of the large denomination baht note Honor had left in his hand. "But first of all, ..."

"Food," Honor said.

"Food," agreed Chailai, grinning back.

A short walk away from the dock, Chailai led them to a restaurant under a bright red awning along the shoreline. The food was being prepared by three women cooking on a platform out on the water. The young and somewhat chubby Thai man who directed them to a pair of plastic seats fell into a fast-running conversation with Chailai before finally walking off to the restaurant's floating kitchen.

In less than two minutes he was back with two large wooden bowls and two pint glasses of freshly squeezed pineapple juice. The first thing she saw was the fist-sized prawn topping everything. Further examination, under the prawn, revealed a mound of noodles surrounded by a thick black broth dotted with shredded pieces of shrimp, periwinkles and even tinier shreds of chilli peppers, bell peppers and basil leaves, and curious streaks of bright orange and yellow. It smelled hot, mildly pungent with the familiar scent of fish and chilli oil.

"Special recipe. Best food in market," the plump waiter said to Honor, smiling widely. "Very good. You will like."

And as if to make sure, he stood by as she twirled noodles unto her fork, dipped into the black sauce, capturing bits of shrimp and the streaks of orange and yellow, and lifted the fork to her mouth.

"Oh my @#&% ...!" she gasped.

Chailai started laughing.

"You like?" the waiter asked.

"Oh my @#&%!"

________________________

"And this is the infamous Khao San Road," Chailai announced.

Sundown was a little less than an hour away, but as she looked, Honor saw that the short street's bright neon signs, LED strings, Chinese lanterns and sound systems were already being switched on by the street's numerous establishments. The bars and shops were almost all lit up, their open fronts were already doing a brisk business and a fairly even mix of native Thais and foreigners of all ages and wearing everything from full formal business suits to casual shorts and T-shirts were making their way up and down the narrow street, being dodged by men on motorbikes and tuk-tuks.

Honor had heard of Khao San Road. The bright lights, music, people - including very young children - moving and chattering freely all combined to create an atmosphere that was not unlike the start of a huge street party, not the seedy and shadowed warren of flickering neon-lit alleyways Honor had imagined.

But she was not on the street for the atmosphere.

Forty minutes earlier, they had been coming out of the grounds of the Wat Arun when Honor's heel had sunk into a crack in the pavement. Trying to yank it out had resulted in the heel breaking into two jagged halves, the lower half still firmly wedged in place in the crack. Considering how impossible it would be to find a similar pair so many years after its release, and despite her still being awed by the majesty of the Temple of the Dawn, Honor had felt that it wasn't entirely appropriate to be somewhat distraught at her misfortune - it was one of her favorite pairs of shoes.

"I know a guy who can fix it good as new," Chailai had said. "In minutes."

Honor's response had been immediate. "Where?"

"Khao San Road," Chailai had said. She raised an eyebrow, meaningfully.

Honor had rolled her eyes, unimpressed, "Let's go."

The driver - his name was Mongkhut, according to Chailai - had picked them up outside the floating market, and he had simply nodded when told where they were going next. On the way, after a brief exchange in Thai with Chailai, they had stopped at a small supermarket, where he had dashed in and returned with a pair of flip-flops for Honor to wear.

"Are you sure this guy can fix this?" Honor had asked.

"Yes," Chailai had said without hesitation. "He'll likely tell you the designer, year and collection from just looking at it."

Honor frowned. "If he's so good, why is he on Khao San Road?"

Chailai shrugged. "Probably because he gets a lot more business from the girls than he would get somewhere more ... respectable. Last time they tried to kick him out, the girls almost went on strike."

Now Honor saw that the working girls were already out, seated on stools or standing in groups, laughing and chatting together, and regularly calling out to potential customers, looking like groups of girlfriends out for a night on the town rather than streetwalkers. Except for the fact that the average girl was wearing little more than a bikini or strategically tied strips of cloth.

As she watched, she saw a man in a suit and carrying a laptop case being led off by the hand into a curtained doorway. The widely smiling young woman leading him was wearing a sheer bikini at least two sizes two small for her and a bright red mini-skirt that could be more accurately described as a belt.

Chailai saw her watching the concluded transaction, but Honor kept a neutral face and they wordlessly walked on.

And besides, Honor thought, discomfited, remembering the events of the past few days, how much different was she, really?

"Come," Chailai said. "He's this way."

Honor followed her tour guide into the street, following the path Chailai made as she quickly and expertly weaved through the increasing mass of people. They were a quarter of the way into the four hundred meter street when Chailai made a sharp left turn into a small gap between two loud music playing go-go bars. Honor swung left after her and came to a stop in front of a stall that looked like it could be packed up and moved within two minutes.

A large painted sign said simply 'Shoe Repair' with two telephone numbers underneath. Honor immediately came to the safe conclusion that the Thai writing accompanying the English text was repeating the same thing in the native language. Two girls, wearing nothing more than sheer scarves tied over their breasts and what looked like leggings cut into severely short lowriding hotpants stood before the stall speaking, one of them holding up a pair of strappy high-heels.

Finally, the young woman holding the shoes handed over a number of Baht notes, and the two girls, chatting, turned and left.

The thin and spectacled proprietor behind the stall looked to be in his late thirties, and when he smiled in recognition as he saw Chailai, he revealed several discolored and misaligned teeth.

Chailai and the man exchanged pleasantries in rapid Thai before she gestured to Honor.

The man looked at her with the same discolored smile and said, in careful, heavily accented, much practiced, English. "Hello. My name is Anapan. What is yours?"

Honor smiled back. "Honor."

He inclined his head in a small bow. "It is nice to meet you." He nodded toward the plastic bag in her hand. "Let me see shoe please."

Honor handed the bag over.

"Ah ..." he said, when he pulled out the white and brown leather slide with the broken four inch chunky cork heel. "Moldoon!" He smiled widely. "Summer collection - 2020."

Chailai turned to her, eyebrow smugly raised.

Honor was suitably impressed.

"Can you fix it?" Honor asked.

"I can fix," Anapan said with casual confidence, examining the second undamaged shoe before he looked up at her. "Come back, thirty minutes."

So, once again, Honor found herself closely following Chailai as she wound a path through the crowded and narrow street, grown substantially more populated as dusk rapidly approached. This time, though, they had no specific destination, so it was more of a leisurely pace that Chailai set so Honor could see what could be seen.

She saw girls in bikinis and lingerie - often significantly less - climbing the stages to begin their routines for the go-go bars' clientele. One bar had a stage with no less than eight poles around each of which a young woman in nothing more than a g-string was gyrating and spinning round, all perfectly coordinated, to loud male cheers and applause. There were other girls - only slightly less naked - dancing near individual tables or in front of the bar. She gave Chailai a level look when she needlessly informed her that the right amount of cash would usually convince a dancer to give a more private, and significantly more intimate performance to the gentleman offering said amount of money.

Chailai had the grace to look suitably abashed before she carried on to tell Honor that 'Khao San' translated to 'milled rice' - referencing the street's history as a major rice market.

Honor was listening interestedly until they were passed by three laughing young women, all wearing the same leggings cut into the shortest and lowest riding of hotpants and scandalously sheer tube tops. It was not the lack of modesty that drew her attention though - many of the girls around were even more exposed - it was the fact that they had tattoos running from their legs up to their chests and what they were wearing was meant to show them off. Two of the girls had some version of the typical Indian henna pattern trailing around their backs and sides and over their chests to their collar bones. The third had a full Chinese dragon, tail starting at her ankle and winding around her thigh, the roaring horned head over her small breasts.

The second thing was that they were clearly not Thai - two were blonde, and the girl with the dragon tattoo was a brunette, all very Caucasian ... and all speaking with pronounced American accents.

Chailai noticed her surprise.

"Tourists," she said, by way of explanation.

"Why are they dressed like that?"

She gave Honor a meaningful smile. "Ever thought of just going somewhere and becoming someone else, and letting go of all your inhibitions?"

Honor was suddenly uncomfortable with how close Chailai's question hit home. The fact that she had been taken out and mounted on a hotel balcony by a man she'd only known for a little more than a day - and that after a full day spent nude and copulating repeatedly with that same man - was certainly not anything the Honor Banet anyone knew back home would allow. Not to mention the episode in the car park and the walk through the lobby in nothing more than a shirt with semen still trailing out of her vagina.

She hadn't just thought of going somewhere and letting go of her inhibitions - she had done it.

She decided to treat Chailai's question as rhetorical. "So they come here and ... try a little prostitution?" Honor asked.

"Maybe a few do, I think." Chailai giggled. "But mostly, I think they just want to dress like working girls, dance on stage, and just enjoy the attention."

Honor again felt uncomfortable, remembering the immense surge of heat between her legs at the male attention that had greeted her in the lobby, and realizing that she had a lot more in common with the three young tattooed women than she was willing to readily admit.

"What about the tattoos?" For some reason, Honor only then began to notice that a not insignificant number of the Thai prostitutes were sporting similar tattoos, large and across their backs, stomachs and legs though not nearly as elaborate.

"Oh," Chailai said. "TemPTats"

"What?"

"TemPTats. 'Tem' is for temporary, the 'P' is for permanent, which makes it an oxymoron, and then, tats," Chailai explained, pointing at a small trademarked logo. She lifted up a side of her shirt to reveal a small tattoo of a hummingbird on the side of her stomach. "Permanent ... until you change your mind."

Honor gave her a puzzled look.

"It's only available in this part of the world. It's by a company from Singapore," Chailai explained. "Your food and drug agencies in the West haven't approved it yet." She lowered her shirt, "You put the remover on it and it washes completely off in one day. Otherwise, it's permanent. Better yet, it's painless both to put on and take off."

"Oh ..." Honor said, deciding that a tattoo that was painless to apply and permanent until you decided otherwise, and then painless to remove, seemed like a much smarter investment than the alternative. "I suppose 'TemPTat' is also a play on the words 'tempting' and 'tattoo' ..."

Chailai grinned. "That as well."

They continued weaving through the human traffic, the volume of the music from the bars around them becoming progressively louder as the sun sank further beneath the horizon. Honor saw more bargains struck and more barely clothed young women leading men of all ages into darkened corners and curtained doors. She saw more bars with girls in even more advanced stages of undress dancing on stage to male, and some female, applause. Two establishments had large storefront windows where girls in severely undersized bikinis and lingerie were dancing, drawing a growing crowd of watchers.

A few meters past the second storefront, Chailai slowed down to point out a tattoo parlor advertising 'TemPTats' with the rather unimaginative name of 'Skin Art'. Its windows displayed three naked female torsos covered in elaborate multi-hued patterns. From the number of people trooping in and out, the small parlor was obviously doing a lot of business. As Chailai explained, it took less than fifteen minutes to have a tattoo applied. A full body tattoo obviously took much longer, and was significantly more expensive, which was why it was most often seen on the tourists and not the native Thai girls who came to Khao San every night.

Honor suddenly found herself tempted to go in and have something painted on her body, remembering the brunette girl's dragon winding up her body and abruptly realizing why it was tugging at her mind. The scene in 'The Odalisque' as whorls and lines of henna were being applied to the slave girl's body before her first night with the Emperor was one of the most erotic in the entire film. Even more memorable was the film's depiction of the numerous times 'Ramya' and 'Prince Armaan' met to consummate their love; the camera had paid particular attention to the painted patterns on her skin as her body flexed and twisted, the score never drowning out the heavy breathing and crying out as the two illicit lovers pleasured each other.

Despite herself, her mind conjured up the image of Marq Haydn returning to his hotel suite to find her nude, oiled, perfumed and tattooed, waiting for him. The answering surge of heat in her abdomen and rapid tightening of her nipples made her swiftly push that thought aside, still not quite yet used to how intensely the mere thought of him aroused her.

"Time to go, I think," Chailai said. "Anapan must be done by now."

Honor looked at her watch and nodded in agreement. Anapan's thirty minutes had ended twenty minutes ago.

Chailai looked at her with a wicked grin. "Or maybe you're tempted to get a TemPTat?"

'Yes,' she thought, even as sensible, disciplined Honor Banet smiled and said, "Not today. Let's go get my shoes."

She pretended not to see Chailai's disbelieving look.