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CHAPTER 41 – MILK AND WINE
At our private English school here in rural Vietnam, there was quite a turnover of young assistants, who often worked for us only until they got a proper teaching position at a regular school. I often became Facebook friends with those young ladies, however, so after they left I would still occasionally ‘see’ them. Naturally, they would soon get engaged and then married, become pregnant, then show pictures of their kids – the whole nine yards.
One Monday morning, I saw a photo that touched me more than others, in several ways. It showed Miss Nga, one of our former assistants, who had disappeared from everyone’s radar about two or three years ago. Unlike most of the others, she had moved to Saigon and opened a clothing store, at least that was what I had gathered from her Facebook posts. It didn’t look like she was engaged yet, though.
Everyone knew that Nga hadn’t been the most competent employee; in fact, one of my colleagues from California had named her ‘dopey girl’. She had been as discombobulated as she’d been slow. Her ‘specialty’ was that she always forgot part of what we had asked her to do. If a teacher requested two sets of copies, she would show up with one stack first, and then go back down to the office and fetch the other.
I had often felt sorry for her, because she was nice and did seem fairly intelligent but, still, was shunned by her slightly younger—and prettier—female colleagues. When they were taking selfies in the hall or the stairwell, Nga was never part of it. Everyone else giggled and was bubbly, but she just walked back and forth, with her head tilted like a bird. Upon second thought, she did look a little like those old-fashioned bookend-owls that people had on their bookshelves in their homes. On the brighter side, things seemed to be going better now that she had her own store. I had also seen some photos of her going on little trips to the mountains or the sea with her friends. She, apparently, did had some fun.
And said photo of Nga in a pinkish summer outfit—with shorts or a miniskirt, one couldn’t really tell—was more than hot. It was outright stunning. It also triggered a long exchange between the two of us, and she told me that she was still in our town. She only cooperated with a larger clothing store in Saigon and sold most of the things online. She was renting a corner in a store here in town, too, and lived a room nearby. As she was still in town, we could meet if we wanted to, I thought.
Nga had never struck me as beautiful or attractive. But she wasn’t the opposite either. Sure, she was dopey, or a little out of it, but she did try to make something of herself. She wasn’t stupid; she had finished college and sported a nice figure. She was slim without being skinny, neither short nor tall. Her efforts to beautify herself went frequently a little wrong, however: Over the years, she had tried different hairstyles, for instance, but pretty much every time she tried something new, I caught myself thinking: ‘The last wasn’t that great either, but this is definitely worse.’
The photo I’m talking about was so hot, however, that I jerked off twice just looking at it, once the same day and another the following morning. Nga was wearing a light summer seersucker outfit that seemed pink but was actually checked, with thousands of tiny red and white squares. She was standing in front of a window, leaning against the edge of a table with her butt. She had pushed her glasses up on her head, while her eyes were closed. She was smiling with her head tilted, half sideways and half down. Her right upper arm was extended sideways, while her hand was holding a strand of hair. As the photo had been taking from below, with the photographer obviously kneeling in front of her, Nga’s naked thighs were rather prominent and looked most delicious.
The shirt of her summer suit was divided asymmetrically and had a column of four relatively large, brown buttons over the left chest, which were maybe just decorative. Around her hip was either a miniskirt and a pair of shorts underneath sewn together or a set of two miniskirts. One couldn’t clearly tell from the photo. Either way, the bottom part of her outfit was asymmetrical too; it exposed more of the left leg than her right.
In the photo I saw that Nga’s hair still looked like the ears of a wiener dog: it was dyed brown, wispy, and probably teetered every time she took a step. Otherwise, she looked drop-dead gorgeous. Her legs were perfectly shaped and radiated health and strength as well as soft mildness. The whole Monday and Tuesday I couldn’t think of anything but that picture. I downloaded it onto my computer, cropped it, and, as I have already said, was overcome with the urge to masturbate to it twice within 24 hours, which surprised me as I had never fantasized about her before. But now I desperately wanted to press my lips on her thighs. Soon.
Crazy. Nga was around 27 and probably hadn’t had a boyfriend yet. I could have sworn she was still a virgin, probably the last of her generation. She would wait with having escort dikmen sex until she’d get married – or at least engaged. She knew I was married, so I decided to lay low for a week or two and wait to see if my urge would disappear or perhaps there would be a good moment to carry our online conversation into a coffee shop. At least, Nga had told me that she appreciated that I had paid her a bunch of compliments regarding the picture and the way she looked.
When I finally asked her out two weeks later, she declined though, saying she didn’t drink coffee, which was such a dopey answer as, obviously, every coffee house offers an array of refreshments. A few days later, however, she suggested, I visit her shop to take a look at the clothes there. When she also mentioned again that she lived really close, my hopes rose that I would be able to see, touch, and kiss her thighs. Needless to say, that day I expected her to wear the outfit for which I had lavished so much praise on her for.
We arranged to meet on a street corner, near her shop, where there was a small bridge over the canal that flowed through town. I could already see her from the distance but, alas, Miss Dopey was wearing a white T-Shirt with two cats on the front and long jeans that seemed too big for her. I parked in front of the store and went in after her to not disappoint her. I guessed I could perhaps find something for my wife, who was very small, however. Store-bought clothes usually didn’t fit her right.
The store here actually sold toys and children’s clothes; like I said, Nga was renting only a corner in the back. I noticed she still had her wooden, awkward, ungainly gait. She walked a little like her legs were stiff. Otherwise, like I’ve said, she was fairly attractive: her body was of pleasing, harmonious proportions. But, again, apart from her thighs, there was nothing thoroughly enticing.
I looked at a few things here on the wall half-heartedly but, if at all, I’d have to come back with my wife so she could see for herself. Nevertheless, I took my time, as I wanted to show Nga, who was talking with the young doll-faced shop owner, that I was somewhat serious about the clothes. For some reason, I didn’t want her to think I was here just for her. However, I didn’t want to buy anything just to have an alibi either, as I could imagine she would hand me the item in a nice bag and say goodbye right after.
So, I promised to be back in a few days and we left the store together after we had said goodbye to the pretty little thing who owned the shop. On the sidewalk outside, I apologized for not buying anything but promised to come back with my wife. Nga didn’t say anything but just nodded, as was her habit. We were standing around somewhat awkwardly now, but then I told her that I was mildly disappointed.
“You don’t like the clothes? On Facebook, you kept saying you loved them … that you really like them,” Nga was befuddled.
“That’s not what I meant. The clothes are pretty,” I confirmed pointing at the store with my chin. “But I thought you’d wear the pinkish outfit that I like so much …”
Relieved, she pointed across the canal. “That’s in my room over there.”
As it would have been awkward to wait here, in the midday heat, for her to change into said outfit, she just nodded again, and we walked the 100 yards to her house, which was one of those old barn-houses that consisted of six or eight rooms to rent, one next to each other. Next to each wooden door was a window with no glass but bars, and in front of every door were three little stone steps. Nga removed the padlock and I followed her in, where it was warm but not stuffy, as there was another small window across the room, facing the back. I could feel a nice little draft.
On the left were a chest of drawers and a sofa with a coffee table, which was standing on a Flokati. To the right was a wardrobe, behind which was the cooker. All the way back to the left was a curtain, behind which I suspected the toilet plus a bucket and a scoop as the shower.
Nga turned on the wall fan and pointed at the sofa.
“Shall I make some coffee?” she offered.
“Sure. You have some, even though you don’t drink coffee?”
She seemed befuddled again; perhaps she had forgotten that she had turned me down when I had asked her to go for coffee a week earlier. Maybe she just didn’t want to be seen with me in public. Or perhaps she only had coffee for guests. Anyway, she strode back to the cooker and put the kettle on, and I looked around a little. Her den was humble, of course, but also cozy and pleasing to the eye. With her modest means, Nga had turned this living space into a snug little bachelorette pad.
“Why don’t you live with your parents?” I asked to make a little conversation, even though I was happy we weren’t at her parents’.
“I’m from a small village. There would be very few customers. I need a room near the store, so that I could go over when someone wants to buy something. The store owner then calls me …” she explained.
That escort elvankent made sense. Her little shop certainly didn’t garner enough profit to warrant renting a whole, separate store. And now, after the corona crisis, people had cut frivolous spending, even though Vietnam had sailed through the malaise rather smoothly. Nga got up and fixed my coffee, which she then brought over and put on the table. Then she said that she would get change.
“Do you want me to step outside?” I offered. “I could smoke a ciggie …”
“Either that or you just look the other way,” she giggled for the first time.
I liked that she approached the problem rather pragmatically. Obviously, she trusted me. So I turned a little and looked towards the door, even though she was still fully dressed, as she was rummaging through her wardrobe. When she had found the outfit, she briefly held it in front of her and then strode away in the opposite direction. I could hear her change and put on the lovely little beach outfit that had triggered so much in me already. In Europe or the States, girls or young women would only wear something like that around the house or the beach but, as slim and graceful as most young Vietnamese women were, they could get away with wearing it in town. Or at a coffee shop, too.
When she was done, she plopped herself next to me on the couch and knocked on my thighs with her knuckles, like one would knock on a door. I turned towards her and was immediately aroused.
“Nga, is this tailored or does it just fit perfectly?” I asked her.
“Well, it actually doesn’t fit perfectly,” she said pulling the fabric away from her belly. “It’s a little too wide here, as you can see. A tailor would have made it tighter.”
“But it’s more comfortable that way, isn’t it?” I asked. “Anyway, you look devastatingly ravishing.”
She blushed and probably didn’t know exactly what I meant. But, sure, she could tell that it was a compliment. She was looking down on herself now, and I followed suit. The sheer sight of her firm, youthful thighs triggered my dick’s pumping mechanism, but Nga couldn’t see it, as I was wearing a fairly long shirt, which covered my lap. While at it, I looked in Nga’s lap and then chest and face. I would have kissed her right then if she had shown the slightest inclination.
But, for now, she was just sitting here next to me. I took a sip of my coffee, and her hair caught my attention. One day I would tell her to just leave it naturally black, as the frequent dyeing had already taken its toll. And I simply didn’t like dyed hair. But her collar bones looked endearing. Nga was still looking down on herself, playing with the hemline of her shirt in her lap and breathing relaxed. Since I couldn’t expect her to initiate anything, I took matters in my own hands now. Literally.
I turned towards her and put my right hand gently on her thigh. I caressed her smooth skin with my thumb, which didn’t seem to make her uncomfortable at all. My dick kept pumping, and she moved her legs apart ever so slightly, so that I could caress the insides of her legs as well. Most young Vietnamese women had beautiful thighs: firm yet soft, muscular but then also incredibly feminine. Nga’s legs here were no exception.
“Nga, when I saw the picture of you on Facebook, I immediately wanted to touch your thighs,” I admitted.
“N-no one h-has ever s-said that to me,” she stammered and blushed a little.
I smiled and put some strands of hair behind her ears, asking myself if I should kiss her now. As I wasn’t sure, though, I kept caressing her legs, which was better anyway.
“Where was the photo actually taken?” I asked her, as I knew it couldn’t have been in this room here. I also felt we could make some conversation before I would try to kiss her thighs.
“At a friend’s house,” she only said.
“Your friend has a good eye. And you’re a good model. Your posture is pretty much perfect, as is the light …”
“Yeah, I also liked it immediately,” Nga agreed.
Now I just kissed her. Fuck it. If that was too much for her, she’d let me know and we could go from there. I still had my hands on her thighs, which didn’t seem to bother her at all. The same seemed true for the kissing. She just closed her eyes and our lips touched for a few seconds. Since she kept her mouth closed, I didn’t try to push my tongue inside her.
„Hey, do you wanna pose like in the photo? You could lean against the chest of drawers here,” I said, pointing behind my back.
I wanted to kiss her thighs, but the way we were seated, I would have had to lift the coffee table away first, so that I could kneel between her legs. However, without hesitation, she pushed herself off the couch with both fists, as if she had only been waiting for the cue. As she was pushing herself through between me and the coffee table, I couldn’t resist and touched her butt, which was only six or eight inches away from my face. I actually held one of her butt cheeks for a few seconds, but I didn’t squeeze it.
Of escort emek course, I got up too and admired her body from four or five feet away. She seemed to have remembered her posture perfectly, as she put her glasses back up in her hair now and then extended her right elbow again when touching her hair. She looked like a modern Virgin Mary, who was completely oblivious of her feminine charms, allure, and power. Now, I stepped closer to touch her thighs. I was so happy and aroused that we also kissed again. I looked down on her body and was squeezing her flesh more passionately now.
I still hadn’t dared to touch her pussy. Seeing her like this was titillating enough. As inexperienced as she was, I really wanted to make sure that I had her consent for every move. I wanted her to be thoroughly comfortable. So far, she seemed fully relaxed and enjoying herself, though. She had her eyes closed, and her smile was as beautiful as the one in the photo.
As I still hadn’t kissed her thighs, I got down on my knees now. The flokati was perfectly placed, as it allowed prolonged periods of otherwise uncomfortable kneeling. When I had taken my hands off her legs, she had opened her eyes briefly, but now she had closed them again, as if she thoroughly approved of or even liked every move.
I leaned forward and fulfilled my week-long dream: I pressed my lips on her delicious, cool yet warm flesh between her crotch and knees. Her thighs smelled of soap and young woman. Her skin was slightly yellowish and smooth, and I graced her thighs in a row of gentle pecks from close to her lap down to her knee caps. She giggled quietly, as my whiskers tickled her. I was holding her legs in the back as I was kissing them, and then massaged them some more when the kissing had subsided.
When I looked up at her face, she still had her eyes closed, and I couldn’t tell how far she would be willing to go. She probably didn’t know it herself. As my dick was hurting in my pants, I stood up again. She didn’t open her eyes when I quietly opened my pants, which then dropped to the floor. I relieved myself of my underwear as well, which she must have heard, as she was looking at me again.
“Nga, is that ok?” I asked abashedly.
I didn’t think she would tell me to put the piece away again (‘Quickly!’). Would she? No, she nodded amusedly, but immediately put one ankle over the other, as if to say: ‘As long as you don’t put it between my legs.’ But, at least, she didn’t take offense that my dick was pointing at her. I couldn’t help it: I started masturbating in front of her now. Just a little.
Basically, I had already achieved what I had come here for. I had seen her in her rakish outfit, touched and kissed her thighs. Masturbating in front of her was already the proverbial icing on the cake. Or the victory lap. I probably would come in a few minutes and I began to think about, where. Not on her clothes, of course. But we still had time. For now, I just stroked my dick some more and conceived the idea of going intercrural.
Nga seemed fascinated. She was watching my glans disappear and resurface from under my foreskin. My dick had produced some nectar of its own, which made the little session picture-perfect. Outside it was perfectly still, so I could hear her breathing more heavily than before. When I kissed her again and interrupted the masturbating to hold her head, she reached for my cock and continued what I had begun. I laughed encouragingly and was exceedingly pleased how this morning had developed.
“Do you want to take off your shorts? The ones under your skirt …” I asked her. “Just the pants, you can leave everything else on. That would be so beautiful …” I begged.
I just couldn’t imagine she would undress completely. At least not now. But somehow she looked confused. ‘Oh, shit’, I thought. ‘Maybe I went too far.’
“What shorts?” Nga asked, still baffled.
“Well, these here,” I laughed, lifting up the seam with both middle fingers.
“That’s a skirt, actually,” she said and lifted it all the way up.
Her outfit had two skirts, the outer one was slightly off center and a tip of material was right between her legs. Seeing her holding her skirt up was an image I would never forget. I was surprised how powerfully my lust came over me, like a huge wave. I pulled her skirt further up and made it stick on her hipbones, as I had both hands free. Nga was still masturbating me.
Nga’s panties were basically white with an ever so slight pink tinge, like a cup of milk in which a drop of blood had fallen. I could sense her pussy lips pretty nicely, as they seemed plump and her panties were tight. Her pubic mound seemed rather formidable as well: There were only a few hairs sticking out, but her curls seemed thick and formed quite a bulge underneath the fabric. Even the blackness of her roundish bush pressed itself through the thin cloth.
My dick was pumping at an alarming rate now. Nga’s pulling and pushing wasn’t very sophisticated but seeing her in her underwear made my glans throb. Apparently, she was fine with her skirt up on her hips and didn’t mind showing me her crotch covered by her panties. She probably had an intuitive understanding of what it meant for me. I was mesmerized by the sight and discovered a longish, darker, wet spot down on the front of her underwear, down at the keel.
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