by Mike Coony
Fran met me at Victoria Station in London and accompanied me to the interview at Brighton College. We travelled on the Brighton Belle Pullman train, and Lord Laurence Olivier, the Shakespearean actor, was in our carriage. He gave me a naughty leer when I slipped and almost poked his eye out with my left tit while carrying my tray of tea and toast. He quickly retrieved the toast I’d dropped in his lap, but while returning it to me he accidentally-on-purpose – and in no great haste – ran his hand lightly over my tits while giving me a delicious conspiratorial grin. Some people once tried to persuade me that he’s homosexual, but I could never be convinced. Then again, I know more than they do. Don’t I?
Anyway, I was offered a place at Brighton College of Art and Design on the Print and Graphic Design course. I accepted the place and moved into Fran’s grotty bedsit in Brighton.
After I finished my course Fran was offered a job with the Australiana newspaper. So we moved to Sydney, and that’s where we got married. But there were no relations at our wedding, only new friends.
I picked up graphic design work from printers and advertising agencies, and Fran travelled on assignments within Australasia and South-East Asia. I liked the Australians and the Australian lifestyle – beaches, barbies and booze. We easily fell into a routine of a heavy sessions in the pub on Friday nights and sunbathing on Bondi Beach on Saturday afternoons.
About eighteen months into our Australian odyssey, I was enjoying the Saturday rays when Fran suddenly jumped up off the sand and yelled at me. “You’ve GOT to get a boob job! No arguments…get them reduced by fifty per cent, at least!”
“Why for Gaud’s sake?” I yelled back. “You like playing with my breasts. If I get them reduced by that much you won’t be able to fit your thing in between them anymore.”
“I’m sick of seeing blokes gawping at you. The guys in the office can’t come to our house for a barbie ’cuz their sheilas won’t let them. They say it makes their women mad as hell when they catch them looking at your tits.”
“Fran, I’m a thirty-two double E…meaning I’ve a narrow back and everything’s out front, where it should be. Nothing has started drifting south yet. I’m not fixated on the size of my breasts, but it seems my husband is. Screw you! They’re natural, they’re healthy and they’re mine…so no way José!” I lifted up both my breasts until they almost fell out of my bikini. “These are staying right where they are. And from now on you can forget all about sticking your thing between them!”
The cheek of Fran, how dare he tell me to disfigure myself to please the wives of the wankers he worked with! It’s not like I shove my tits in anyone’s face. I don’t dress to draw attention to my figure – well, maybe my legs, sometimes. I like wearing miniskirts and no one complains about that. Screw him, I thought.
That Saturday was a turning point in our marriage. No other man had ever laid a finger on me, apart from Lord Olivier…and that didn’t count. But after Fran’s ultimatum I began thinking about other men. What would their cocks feel like? Would they feel better? I decided to get myself shagged by the first fellow I fancied next time Fran flew off on one of his round-Asia trips. That proved harder than expected….
I pulled in to fill the Hudson with petrol, and there was the coolest boy you could imagine coming out to serve me. I saw him taking sneaky peeks at my tits. Then, just when I was about to ask for his phone number, a harridan came out of the office and told him to get on with his work and keep his filthy eyes off the customers. The witch had the nerve to apologise to me!
The beach was my next stop, and there were plenty of reactions, but no one really turned me on. I was just about to give it up as a bad job when I saw a real looker hitchhiking on the coast road above the beach. I grabbed my towel, flew up to the car, pulled in to where he was and offered him a lift.
Driving along the beach road we talked a lot of nonsense, and he kept sneaking looks at my tits. When I saw a lump appear in his shorts I reached across and put my hand on it. I figured he’d make the next move, but he didn’t…in fact, I thought he was going to leap right out of the car. Anyway, in for a penny, in for a pound.
“Would you like to shag me?” I asked.
That did the trick. He reached over and grabbed hold of the nearest tit. It felt nice…a bit rough, but nice. It wasn’t like Fran’s touch, Fran strokes them, but this chap just grabbed a hold and squeezed.
I suddenly realised I didn’t plan this well at all. I had someone ready, willing and able to do me, but I’d no idea where to do it. Thankfully, he suggested driving back to the beach. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out the way it was supposed to.
He got my bra off, played around with my tits for a while and slipped off his shorts. I saw his cock and it was so unlike Fran’s that it frightened me. Fran’s cock is long, thin and pink, and it grows out of a little bed of fair hair. His was twice as thick as Fran’s, dark-skinned with a purplish head, and it stood up from a mass of coarse black hair. I just couldn’t imagine that big thing going up inside me. It was ugly, bent to one side, and it kept twitching.
“I’m awfully sorry about this and everything…but I’ve changed my mind about the shag.”
He was pretty pissed-off hearing that. “Strewth sheila! You can’t leave me with that!” he announced in a strangled kind of husky voice, pointing to his erection.
I could see what he meant. He definitely couldn’t fit it back in his shorts. I reached over to touch it and I liked the feel of it. It was much thicker than Fran’s, and I couldn’t get my hand all the way around it. Feeling sorry for him, I gave him a kiss. His lips were soft, he flicked my tongue with his and it almost made me change my mind. I stroked his cock and he moaned and groaned…but then the moment was gone – he splashed all over my hand and I thought it would never stop.
He slipped his shorts back on and we drove to the next town along the coast. He gave my tits a goodbye squeeze and I left him standing by the side of the road.
Within six months Fran and I were drifting apart, but we lingered on in Australia for another two and a half years. The sexual thrill was gone, replaced by a tiresome chore after a night in the pub – beer breath replaced sweet kisses. It was performance without passion.
I never did look for another man to shag me, even though there were plenty of opportunities with Fran’s so-called workmates – male and female alike. Fran’s boss at the Australiana was an ass-kickin’, Harley-riding New Zealander. She turned me on every time we met, but luckily, I had more sense than to have a lesbian affair with my husband’s boss.
I tried to tempt Fran into a ménage à trois with the dyke on the bike – to spice up our love life – but he isn’t in to threesomes. And of course I’d foolishly put the idea to her first, one drunken evening in the pub. But even after I informed her of Fran’s absolute, unequivocal refusal, her attempts at me didn’t stop.
If he’d caught me at it with her that probably would’ve been the end of our marriage. Anyway, that never happened, but not for her lack of trying. In fact, my silly indiscretion encouraged her, and her persistence became worrisome. I was fed up fending off her advances, and Fran was growing increasingly angry with his boss.
With my husband on the verge of professional suicide, I decided something had to be done. I took the liberty of searching – in earnest – for another job for Fran. I used all my familial and professional connections to look for something he might be interested in. I finally heard about the perfect thing, and Fran applied for the position with the South China Morning Times.
He got the job in Hong Kong and we waved goodbye to barbies, booze and beaches without looking back. We just upped sticks and hopped a Cathay Pacific flight to Hong Kong as soon as we could.
For the first twelve months things looked up sex-wise, and pretty much all around. Hong Kong is full of Brits, and none of them have ever expressed a problem with the size of my breasts – at least not to me or Fran.
After we’d been here a few years, and were well established in our soc
ial circles, I even learned that our friends at the FCC had given me the honourable nickname ‘Tits’. It’s not unlike the nickname of the new wife of the Lord Chief Justice. Apparently, she insists on everyone using her nickname, and she is to be addressed as ‘Lady Tits’. I’m just plain old ‘Tits’ – not exactly Cheltenham Ladies’ College standard, but accurate, and endearing in its own way.
Out of the blue one day I received a phone call from Brighton. I hadn’t spoken to Fran’s brother Gary for ages. Sarah, his wife, had been my closest friend at art college; I introduced her to Gary. Fran, Gary, Sarah and I went everywhere together during our Brighton years. We were at their wedding, and Fran stood as godfather at the baptism of their first child, but they thought I was a bit young and a touch too flighty to be a godmother.
After Gary and I got through the ‘how’s everyone?’ small talk, he asked me if Fran was still with the South China Morning Times. He’d told a mate of his who’s coming to Hong Kong to make contact with Fran. “I know you’ll like this bloke Susie. He’s definitely not the sort of chappy you’re used to meeting. I’ve given him your address, so let me know if he gets in touch and I’ll fill you in on the details.” He was gone before I could ask any questions – chat and run…that’s Gary for you.
When Fran phoned from Kuala Lumpur to inform me that I was meeting this mysterious stranger I immediately phoned Gary back for those details. Having finally met this Irish Finn Flynn for myself, I see he’s just as Gary described – enormous, hairy but not scary, and safe around other blokes’ wives, unfortunately!
12
LANTAU ISLAND, TAIPEI and HONG KONG
For a while now I’ve been feeling guilty about spending so much time with Earl and neglecting Nico. But Nico’s sort of been ditching our hustles himself, and I can’t rely on him like I used to. Anyway, it’s worked out pretty good for me and Earl; we’ve had time to plan our next business venture before we give the Irishman all the details.
Nico’s been hanging around the Russian Mafia and their hookers, and sometimes he’s real hard to find. Lucky for him, his boss, Dr. Lo, doesn’t seem to mind that he goes AWOL for weeks. I guess the Russian girls are handy to have around the casino; they’re a good way to comp the high rollers, and cheaper than a private jet or a week in a penthouse.
The Russian hookers are attracting more men to Macau, but forget about gambling for these Johns. These guys are here for sex – straight, kinky, or any way they can get it. The girls from Vladivostok look kind of Asian; they appeal to the gweilos. And the Asian men lap up the blue-eyed blondes and grey-eyed redheads from Moscow and Saint Petersburg. The Russian girls aren’t as shameless as the Thai girls, but they’re a lot better looking, and most of them aren’t hooked on heroin…not yet anyway.
I’ve already brought Nataliya Yelena, a six-footer from Moscow, here to Sea Ranch on Lantau Island for a few weekends. It should’ve cost me two thousand US a pop, but Nico gives the Russian Mafia guys a free run in his casino. So Nataliya comes to me complimentary, sort of as a grazie I guess.
I’m not usually interested in call girls, but Nataliya Yelena doesn’t behave like any hooker I ever met. When she first showed up at my place, wearing a pair of white tennis shorts and a T-shirt, she sure didn’t look like one either.
Things began to change between me and Nataliya Yelena last Sunday morning. I was propped up against a pile of pillows left over from Saturday night’s lovemaking – we’d been going at it like rabbits – and the sun was streaming in from my balcony overlooking the sea. Nataliya was whimpering in her sleep, and I studied the innocent face below me. Maybe she sensed me staring or whatever, but her arm reached up and she stroked my face. It was like she wanted to reassure herself that I was there, that our weekends together weren’t a dream. Maybe she hoped she had found a красивый мужчина, a handsome man, to care for her…maybe even to love her.
Stirring from her sleep, she smiled up at me and whispered something in Russian. I couldn’t understand it; it was a word she hadn’t used before. But I saw two tears form in the corners of her eyes and trickle down her face. Then, with a shudder, she reached out for my hand and squeezed it.
“Now, now, what troubles you моя Русская красавица?” I’m picking up some words from Nataliya, here and there, and was real impressed with myself – being able to call her ‘my Russian beauty’ in her own language and everything. The guys back home would skin me alive using such nice, such grazioso, words. But, non me ne frega un cazzo…I do not give a fuck! And anyways, fuck them, they’re not here!
“I was having a black dream…a bad memory,” she whispered, as she dried the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.
I knew what I was about to do was lunacy, pazzia – one for the cretino, the cretin, and the passionate fool, pazzo appassionato – but that didn’t stop me. “Tell me моя сладкая вещь, my sweet thing…what was your dream about? Tell Gerry,” I said, like a big sap.
She pushed herself up on the pillows and the crumpled bed sheet fell away from her breasts. I had an urge to reach across and fondle them, to arouse her pink nipples, but something in her manner stopped me. It seemed kind of inappropriate – not a word you’d usually get to use around a hooker – but like I said, Nataliya Yelena’s not like any hooker I ever met.
“Come on…you can tell me. What’s the matter…why are you crying?” I was begging her to tell me.
“Xорошо, well…all right Gerry. I was studying, you know, at the Institute of International Relations and Socio-Political Sciences at Moscow State Linguistics University.”
That sure sounded impressive, and I detected just a hint of pride returning as she stood up from the bed and walked towards the balcony. Nataliya Yelena’s not uncomfortable with her nakedness, and it gave me an opportunity to appreciate her figure.
“I was invited by my professor to his party, and I knew that there would be many people of influence there. So I wore my best dress, bought for me by my mother from GUM, the finest store in all of the Soviet Union. Most of the professor’s guests were old men, maybe forty or fifty years of age, but I enjoyed myself. But one small man, with very little hair on his head and crooked teeth, kept bothering me. You know…asking silly questions about my boyfriend and what we ‘get up to’ together. He would not believe I had no boyfriend, and that I was too busy with my studies to bother with such things. I tried to tell my professor that this little man was being too familiar with me. But my professor told me sharply, ‘Don’t be foolish Nataliya Yelena, that man could make life very difficult for me. You be friendly to him, you hear? Why do you think I invited you to this party…because of your brain? No! There are plenty of brainy girls in the university. With such a pretty dress on tonight, I thought you understood.’”
Shit, I could just about guess at the next chapter in Nataliya Yelena’s little saga. And I was right on the button.
“The little man offered me a lift home in his car, and my professor was listening, so I said ‘Yes please, that would be good.’ Good for him perhaps….He drove a little Zaporozhets, the cheapest Soviet car, and the most affordable to common people. So I couldn’t understand why he had such influence over my professor.”
She turned back from the balcony and I saw tears flooding down her face.
“Don’t worry Nataliya…if it upsets you to remember, then don’t. We’ll talk about something happy, or you could come back to bed and I’ll tickle your toes. You like that, eh?” I said, trying to get her to stop crying.
“Нет, нет…no, no. I’ll say it quickly. But you won’t be angry with me and throw me out will you, Gerry, before it’s really time for me to go? Oбещание Gerry, promise?”
“Of course I won’t,” I promised her. I’m Italian, and that guarantees I’m a sucker for a sob story.
She took a tissue, dried her eyes and blew her nose before continuing.
“When we reached the outskirts of the city the little man said he had to rel
ieve himself and needed to find рощу…a copse of trees. I waited and waited in the car. He was away so long that I became worried. I left the car and went to look for him. I found him behind a tree where he must have been able to see me sitting in the car. He had his пенис, his penis, in his hand. I was shocked. He grabbed me…he was very strong for such a little man, and I was an athlete, but he tore my lovely new dress and entered me. He thought it very funny when he saw blood on my panties and my leg, and my best dress torn.
“Mamma scolded me like a small child for tearing the expensive dress she had saved so hard to buy for me, so I could not tell her what had happened. When I told my professor he sneered, ‘Well, Nataliya Yelena, at least you have that nasty experience out of the way.’ I could not believe my ears. So I went to the полиция…the police, and they threw me out for making such an accusation against such a fine government official! Then my grant for university was withdrawn, and the professor said I had only myself to blame.
“When my менструальный цикл, my period, didn’t come I knew I was pregnant. Everyone said have an abortion Nataliya Yelena…get rid of it. I could not. Never! The little official, and father of my child, said he would help me. But he introduced me to a бабушка, a friendly grandmother, who sold me to the Mafia for a crate of vodka. They made me prostitute myself to many men in Saint Petersburg, then in Beijing, and now in Macau. But my precious daughter, my Nakita Sylvina, is safe with my mamma in Moscow.”
Her story had a ring of truth to it – so did the tears in her grey-blue eyes as she relived the memories. I’ve been around long enough to know hookers give schmucks their sob stories, to tug at their wallets and everything. But I believe Nataliya’s story about how she was raped and got pregnant – and how she wasn’t believed when she reported the rape to the Moscow police. Just like I believe she’d been studying languages at her university. She speaks English real good, with just a little accent, and no way was her vocabulary just picked up off the streets or in hotel rooms. Anyway, I believe her, and I don’t believe easy.