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tagRomanceLBFM Pt. 01

LBFM Pt. 01

byLittleBrain©

This is my first story on Literotica although I have published a few elsewhere and may bring them across if suitable.

Somebody famous (probably Mark Twain as he had all the best quotes) once said that fiction is always semi-autobiographical i.e. write what you know but I would be the first to say that David King is not me. I may have experienced some of the things that happened to him and I would have liked to have experienced more of what he did encounter but in the end this is a fantasy ergo fiction i.e. not fact.

Having said that: if 'Jess' ever reads this and can identify herself then I hope that she completed her project.

For those of you looking for a stroke book: go somewhere else. This is in the 'Romance' category for a reason although could equally have been in the 'Mature' category. It is long; the longest I've written so far but I hope those setting out will read to the end.

I'm English by the way so I write in English as it was meant to be written. Please use Google Translate for those of you who are separated by our common language.

Let me know what you think.

LBFM

Chapter 1

I'd been keeping it together all through the long flight trying not to think too much and just let the free booze and made-for-video movies numb my brain but I knew it would hit me sometime. However, the manner of the breakdown was a surprise; right out of left field. As I waited for my baggage at the carousel a young Chinese girl carrying an iPad approached me.

"Excuse me sir, would you mind answering a few questions about your experience of Hong Kong airport to help us improve our service?"

I'd been coming here for so long now that it was inevitable that they'd get me sometime and I couldn't really claim that I was in a hurry as the belt hadn't even started depositing the first bags yet.

"No, I'd be delighted to."

A slight exaggeration but it pays to be polite. The normal questions started flowing, the type where they give you options and you have to say which you think is the most accurate and as we neared the end she asked for some personal details and with it the killer blow.

"What is your marital status, single, married, divorced?"

I looked at her in panic, my tongue completely tied and my brain frozen.

"Emm ... I ... err ... don't know."

It was her turn to look confused.

"Sorry sir, I do not have that option here."

With that my resolve, to keep it in, broke and tears came to my eyes. The poor girl looked horrified so I turned away looking for the toilets and almost ran across the baggage hall. I'm felt that every eye was on me and I could hear the questions and comments.

"Mummy, mummy, why is that man crying?"

"Hush dear; he got a market research question wrong!"

I sat in the stall for what seemed like hours reflecting on the conversation I'd had two days ago. Conversation, huh, more like the closing remarks at a business presentation.

"So in summation ..."

Yes, she used the word 'summation'.

"So in summation, he's like a younger version of you and makes me feel young again."

Yes, "younger" would be the correct description, he's exactly half my age! If I did the pervert calculation of half one's age plus 7 then my wife is a pervert by three years. Not that she'd admit to it because despite being over 40 she looks 10 years younger and a certified MILF. I'm sure she hasn't told Steven her real age.

Over 40, that's her problem; despite how good she looks she's completely neurotic about it. The boob job was meant to help but that just brought into question other perceived imperfections so Botox and lip fillers followed and then an affair ... affairs ... who knows. Me, the stupid, trusting soul, working long hours and away from home for extended periods just to keep her (and me in all honesty) in the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed. I had given her ample opportunity to find someone to make her feel young again.

I should have guessed when she started going 'clubbing' or going away with her (single) girl friends or from the fact that she had started sleeping in the guest room because our old mattress suddenly gave her a bad back. One £1500 memory foam, orthopaedic mattress later and now it made her too hot. At least I did get to have sex with her on the one night she tried it, the first time in months. I didn't even twig when we met Steven (a football coach at the boy's prep school) in the street and she became very animated and invaded his personal space so much she was out the other side.

Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! That's me, by the way, but for whatever reason I wasn't looking for it. Too trusting by half!

So here I am, 52 years old, sitting in a toilet in Hong Kong airport crying my heart out over a failed 20 year relationship wondering how the hell I got here. It will never last they told us when we got together and there was only an 8 year difference but we were from different sides of the tracks, well different layers of a management hierarchy but you know what I mean. Well an 18 year difference even from the same side of the tracks will surely crash and burn.

Won't it?

What would I do if it did? She obviously needs something I can't give her. Maybe an elixir of eternal youth would work but I don't have one handy so I'm stumped. I, too, look good for my age but she's counted the tree rings and knows how many there are. So, if being a good husband and father and earning a good wedge, keeping it all together and never straying counts for nothing then I can't offer any more.

Trouble is; I love her too much. Well, I love the 21-year old petite girl whose gorgeous arse I saw walking away from me on the first day of the new job and later became my PA. I love the girl who I kissed for the first time 6 months later, 5 months after her wedding.

OK, so she has a previous conviction for adultery but then I was married at the time too but I had at least got past my first anniversary.

I love the girl who gave me a blowjob and swallowed my come in my car after a squash match and then followed it up by impaling herself on my cock in my office while the world went on outside. I love the girl who made me come four times in one evening the first time we made love in a proper bed. Does that paint the picture? It was fun, exciting, risky and as raunchy as hell.

That girl I love. What's she's become, I'm not so sure.

Trouble is: you get so used to what's around that you have no idea how to go on without it.

When finally I left the toilet my bag was the last one on the belt and they were just about to take it to the big pile of accumulated, left behind, shit that you see in every airport baggage hall in the world. How do people forget they've got a suitcase, or a baby stroller or a false leg?

The Hong Kong MTR system is a thing of beauty and quietly and quickly whisks you from the airport into the centre of Hong Kong. For those who don't know there are two parts to the centre of HK, the island itself and Kowloon which is the mainland and the two are separated by the harbour. Usually I stayed in the Intercontinental Hotel on the Kowloon side, with a spectacular view over the harbour but this time I was booked into the Holiday Inn on Nathan Road with a spectacular view of the air conditioning ducts of the building next door. I had whinged to my PA about this but apparently the Intercontinental and most of the other hotels were full for some convention and the bank would not run to the cost of the Peninsular. The Peninsular is an old, colonial era building and was a great hotel with a great view over the harbour until the Intercontinental and a couple of museums were built in front of it on reclaimed land but that's HK for you.

The journey to Kowloon takes about 20 minutes and I sat numb and staring for the entire journey. I walked to the hotel despite the heat; it takes 10 minutes or so and the humidity gets to you but a taxi would take longer due to the one-way system and crazy traffic. I checked in and dumped my bags, showered and changed and went back out for my HK arrival ritual of riding the Star Ferry over to Central on the island and then back again. I do it just to breathe in the smell, listen to the voices and look at the sights. HK harbour is the greatest skyline in the world as far as I'm concerned and is stunning at night and my jetlag just melts away in the 15 minutes or so it takes for the round trip.

Given my emotional state this time it didn't have the desired effect so I wandered up Nathan Road, one of the liveliest, craziest shopping streets in the world which normally energises me but I wasn't in the mood so returned to the hotel and headed to Harry's Bar on the first floor.

I'm sure that every hotel in HK has the equivalent, part cocktail bar, part knocking shop but it seems more obvious in Harry's Bar and I've never really noticed in the other hotels I've stayed in. The cocktail lounge is all relaxed seating and table service for families and business people but the bar area at the back is a different atmosphere although there are a lot of business men back there too. Not so many families though!

I just wanted a drink but felt uncomfortable sitting alone in a deep sofa in the lounge so headed for the bar, a horseshoe arrangement with stools against the bar and the outer walls. Surprisingly there was a free stool at the bar and I sat and ordered a beer and looked around at the lovely girls, many involved in convivial conversation with tired white guys. They were mostly Thai and Filipina but also a number of stunning blondes, probably Russian. At the open end of the horseshoe stood a couple of Chinese guys who looked to be the management. But not hotel management if you get my drift.

The last thing on my mind was to hook up with any of them so concentrated on my beer and it disappeared very quickly. Evaporation, I guess. I ordered another and stared at it to make sure it lasted longer this time.

The old guy next to me whispered something in the ear of the young blonde he was sat next to and left. 30 seconds later the girl did too, shooting a look at the management as she went. An inscrutable nod in return was the only response. I returned to my beer and my thoughts before they were interrupted by someone standing next to me.

"You want to buy me drink and talk about what's bothering you?" came a quiet, well spoken voice with an almost English accent instead of American.

I looked up into the dark, smiling eyes of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and all I could do was stare.

I have always thought South East Asian woman to be incredibly beautiful and sexy but the DNA in this girl was mixed with something else and the result of this fusion was incredible.

As I slowly marshalled my thoughts I managed to look at her more closely, despite my depressed frame of mind, there was a subconscious recognition that this was a perfect match for my inner definition of female physical beauty as the girl looking back at me ticked all the right boxes:

Malay, Thai or Filipina ... check but enhanced by the fact she was part Hispanic which gave her even higher marks in my eyes

Large, dark, almond shaped eyes ... check

Full sensuous mouth with an adorable over-bite ... check

Flawless complexion and little make-up ... check

Long black hair almost to her waist ... check

Small, petite breasts but not flat-chested ... check

Tight, compact bum but with womanly curves ... check

Well, I guessed the last as I was looking at her front but just knew that under the fairly demure black cocktail dress there would be a smoking hot body. However, I could see that she would tick another box; she would be much shorter than my 1.85m height as our eyes were almost level and I was sitting on a bar stool. There is something that appeals to me about petite women and I mean women not children, maybe I secretly want to dominate them with my superior physicality but I prefer to think that it is some innate protective streak. I looked at her eyes; they showed actual concern or maybe she was a very good actress.

I was speechless and I must have looked like a gibbering idiot as she continued to look at me quizzically, awaiting my response.

However, I was at a loss how to answer. A 'yes' would invite more conversation and the expectation that other things would follow. A 'no' would be churlish given that she had been solicitous of my well being. I could just finish my drink and leave but a normal conversation might be just what I need even if it was with a bar-girl and loaded with unspoken expectations.

"What makes you think that something's bothering me?"

She smiled knowingly.

"In this game you learn to spot things and you've been worrying that beer to death."

I tried to think of something witty to say to that but all that came out was boorish.

"Been at it long ... the game I mean?"

I quickly tried to apologise.

"Sorry, the word 'game' sounds rude it wasn't meant to be."

She smiled, accepting my apology.

"Don't worry, I used it first. I've been here 2 years, on and off, but I'm looking to get out."

"What would you like to do instead?"

"I'm a qualified intensive care nurse but can't seem to get a job back home."

That shocked and surprised me. Here was somebody with a valuable skill that was selling their body instead.

"You should go to the UK, they're crying out for nurses there, especially for intensive care as they are always delaying operations because of the shortage of nurses."

She shook her head.

"That's what my mother did for 10 years and I only saw her three times between the age of 5 and 15. I wouldn't want the same thing to happen to my daughter. This way, I get to see her every 2 weeks or so."

She looked at me, smiling expectantly and when I didn't respond she continued.

"May I sit down?"

She'd been perfectly charming so far and was just trying to make a buck so I invited her to sit down and bought her a drink although I'm dammed sure there was no rum with the coke whatever my final bill might say.

"You speak good English, like an English person, have you spent time there?"

"No, I've never been but my mother used to send DVD's of British TV programs back and I'd learn from them. She'd get them second hand so most of them were old comedies ... Dad's Army, Fawlty Towers, Blackadder ..."

She stopped and smiled again as she recalled dialogue.

"Sire, I have a cunning plan ... don't panic Mr. Mainwaring ... what do you expect to see from the window of a hotel in Torquay, a heard of Wildebeest?"

I laughed at that. It was surreal. Here I was sat in a bar in Hong Kong talking with a hooker who was quoting lines from my all-time favourite TV shows.

"They don't make shows like them any more. Unfortunately I remember when Dad's Army was first launched. The TV was still in black and white in those days ..." I trailed away in a dismal reverie and then the more immediate problems rushed in. I found myself fiddling with my wedding ring.

"There you go again, letting whatever it is bother you. You look much nicer when you smile and you definitely look good for your age, I would never have guessed you were over 60 to be remembering black and white TV!"

I looked at her sharply and started to splutter that I was nowhere near 60 and saw that she was grinning. She rested her hand on my arm in a friendly and intimate gesture to apologise for winding me up. I smiled back feeling genuinely happy for the first time in a couple of days but felt that I had to warn her that there would be no trade from me.

"Err ... excuse me I don't know your name."

"I'm called 'Cookie' here but you can call me Jessica which is my real name."

"Where are you from Jessica? You don't look Chinese to me."

She smiled.

"No, I'm from the Philippines. My full name is Jessica Arroyo."

"Oh, I was expecting something properly Filipino but I guess the USA is a bigger influence these days. You've done well not to have an American accent."

"My mother made sure that I didn't. My father was an American serviceman who got her pregnant and then dumped her when he returned to the States. After that she disliked most things American and thought it would be better for me to sound more sophisticated. Nobody has Tagalog names any more and Spanish ones are becoming less common as the great US of A becomes all consuming. You haven't told me your name yet."

"I'm David King, I'm pleased to meet you err ... Jessica."

We shook hands and smiled at each other as though it was a social gathering at the village cricket club. I felt guilty at what I was about to say as she was charming and beautiful and I felt easy in her company even if she probably was half my age.

"Err ... Jessica ... I feel ... I ought to tell you that I'm not looking for company tonight. I'm sorry to disappoint you but I'm ... I'm just ... I just came in for a drink ... and whilst you're very attractive and are interesting to talk to ... I'm old enough to be your ..."

She gently interrupted me.

"David, don't look so worried, you won't get thrown out for not wanting 'company' as you politely put it and I'm not going to run away this instant. I'm enjoying talking with you and I'm sure we could have had a good time together. However, I do need to earn something so when you've finished your drink I'll go and talk to someone else. It's good to see you're being loyal to your wife, many guys aren't"

I looked at her in confusion. What did my wife have to do with this? She saw my puzzlement and nodded at my ring and the way I was maniacally twisting it around my finger. I looked at it in surprise and then smiled grimly at her.

"Loyalty to my wife has absolutely nothing to do with this. If anything I should be taking you and half a dozen of the other girls up to my room and partying like there is no tomorrow."

She saw the anger in my face and heard the vehemence in my voice and sussed the situation. She gave me a smile of understanding and touched my forearm again in that comforting gesture.

"Then why aren't you? You are showing her loyalty, despite her disloyalty to you. You are trying to be a good man and I admire that. You are still wearing the ring; do you still love her and want her back?"

I looked at her blankly. This was the same question I'd been asking myself. She saw my inability to answer as reluctance and quickly hurried on in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry; I'm asking too many personal questions. It's none of my business."

It was my turn to touch her hand in an apologetic gesture and smiled gently at her.

"No, it's a valid question and one I don't have the answer to."

I was silent for a moment and wondered if this was a sensible thing to be keeping it in the forefront of my mind by talking about it. I decided to change the subject.

"You mentioned you had a daughter, how old is she, who looks after her when you're up here, her father?"

"She's 13 and my mother looks after her like my grandmother looked after me when Momma was away."

"Whaat ... 13 ... you must have had her when you were about 10!"

She smiled cheekily.

"Well that's two of us who don't look our real ages then!"

I grinned back at her and raised an eyebrow in mock anger.

"Naughty! I was being a gentleman and you were just being rude."

She grinned back and touched my arm with that friendly intimate gesture again.

"Yes, I was so out of order and you were being a gentleman. I had her when I was 18 and the father disappeared soon after I told him I was pregnant, we've not seen him since. There's a joke in the Philippines ... how do you know if a girl is single ... she's pregnant! That's why I do this, to earn enough to get her through school and pay for health care. I earn 5 times what I could in Manila even as an escort and that's despite the tax we pay here."

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