Chapter 203 - Shouldn't I, maybe?
Ten days ago, my muse Nguyet and I had forged plans for the next few months – until she would marry her new boss and fiancé, Hiroshi Nakamura, in April next year. The two of them also wanted another child – in addition to Nguyet’s son, Minh – but then retreat from zesty fornication in small groups.
I wasn’t convinced that that was going to happen, though, as Hiroshi’s kinky proclivities and inclinations wouldn’t miraculously go away, overnight. And he knew that there were a dozen people around him who liked sensual debauchery just as much as he did.
Among his kinks were, for instance, cuckolding: Hiroshi purportedly fantasized about how I, or some other guy, would bang Nguyet at their new home, during or after lunch, while she would force him to do the dishes. Well, as they were still in the process of furnishing their house, we could put that on the proverbial backburner, anyway.
This week, Nguyet was really busy at work, she had told me. My ravishing young ex-colleague Mira, from the Philippines couldn’t meet with me either, as she was menstruating. Even though we had had period-sex in the recent past, this time, she really wasn’t feeling well.
Mira had slipped into the role of my 18-year-old student Sachiko about two months back. And the last time she had been menstruating, she had even brought her blind girlfriend, Hanh – who was now Yuki – to my purported apartment at the old, vacant hotel, where our orgy troupe had been meeting for two-and-a-half years.
Well, as wild as the last six months had been, we probably needed a break from each other – and perhaps from sex, in general. And so, I took myself on another round of visits to private English schools around town, as I couldn’t imagine spending all day in front of the computer, teaching online.
Technically, I had saved enough money to mostly live off interest, but I was also curious about the many so-called English Centers that had sprung up in our nondescript town in Central Vietnam during the last ten years. Throwing my hat into the proverbial ring couldn’t harm; especially, since I didn’t need to accept a position that I didn’t like.
Ideally, I would find two or even three small private schools, between which I could then choose, after I had tried to drive up the hourly rate a bit as well. Basically, I was curious to see places and how they operated – knowing that I would also meet new people.
Nowadays, English was required from first grade on, in Vietnam, and students who wanted to continue at university were encouraged to take an IELTS test in eleventh or twelfth grade to avoid another long, tough English test when they were taking their national exams, after they had graduated high school.
Overall, students liked English, as a subject, but many Vietnamese English teachers had difficulties pronouncing words and lacked practice in Speaking and Writing. Sure, they were pretty good at grammar and vocab, but they couldn’t really speak English, as strange as it might sound.
To alleviate this predicament, thousands of so-called English Centers had opened up all over the country, which were keen on hiring foreigners. Ideally Filipinas, such as my lovely ex-colleague Mira, as they were pliable, more adaptable, and could be paid less than teachers from the U.S., Europe, or Australia.
That business model had been selling like hot cakes for years, but then Corona came, in 2020, and now, those English Centers didn’t give a flying fuck about education any longer; all they wanted was to make money. More of it. Or survive.
Raking in as much dough from the parents as possible, while keeping up some pretenses in regard to education appeared to be the preferred business model. For teachers, this meant much more outside control as well as long, inconvenient hours during evenings and weekends.
Many owners of such language schools had probably bought houses and other property during the boom and now, they were encumbered with mortgages, desperately struggling to pay back bank loans. Partially, to save face. Of course, there were some exceptions to this general rule, too, as the Vietnamese valued education, on the whole.
One of the worst offenders, however – one of the worst We’re taking as much money from the parents as possible, but just offer a show of education – was the relatively new, enormous International School on the south side of town.
The whole place was ridiculous: fortified like Fort Knox and way too large for our small, sleepy, nondescript town. The student body, I had been told on multiple occasions, consisted of ten per cent nice, lovely kids, who wanted to learn – but the rest was spoiled rotten, as their parents were filthy rich.
Of course, the place paid their foreign teachers well but, with so many powerful parents and their spoiled-rotten offspring, the money wasn’t worth getting involved, I had always felt; partially, as I never liked the idea of wearing a suit and tie to greet the bunch at 6:45 in the morning, bowing toward an open SUV door.
Then, instructors were not allowed to leave the campus, even if they weren’t teaching. There were also rumors about pot-smoking, blowing the smoke in the teacher’s face, incompetent supervisors, who barely spoke English, and the inability to even tweak the students’ behavior in the slightest, as that may incur the wrath of the powerful parents.
Of course, I still had applied there recently, as I was curious to see what it looked like inside, although I was well aware of all the shit I knew I wouldn’t want to deal with. Over the years, I had met countless foreign teachers, as they were easy to spot around town and since there was only one bar here that sold beer on tap.
At my very first visit to said International School – simply to get an email address to which I could send my application – I had been passed from one entrance gate to the next with hand, arm, and facial gestures, since the guards, naturally, assumed that I couldn’t communicate in Vietnamese.
Tired of this nonsense, I had insisted at the third stop, on the west side, until a young Vietnamese chap had come down, in person, so that we could exchange our contact information on Zalo, which was a social network site. Which had been in the glistening, extremely bright sun. I still don’t know how we managed. Oh, well.
The funny thing was that, next, a young woman who owned one of those English Centers arranged for an interview for me with said huge International School, as she apparently had connections. Finally, I would be able to enter the monstrous, 250 by 350 yard campus and, perhaps, even get to see a classroom.
The guard on the south side showed me where to park my motorcycle and go next. I ended up in the lobby of some main conference building, where no one was waiting for me. Of course, not. I asked for the Wi-Fi password at the reception and then stretched in one big, fat, brown armchair to amuse myself on Twitter.
The cold and the silence were almost eerie, like in space. Odd. Hearing Bowie in my head, I felt like in a science fiction movie, although the architecture wasn’t unpleasant. Of course, the nippy air was just the result of a large, modern A/C system, but it was also symbolic: the atmosphere was lifeless and far from welcoming.
After about 15 minutes, a young woman was approaching me. She was sporting a knee-length, pleated grey skirt and a purple polo with the school-logo on her left chest. The girl was maybe 22 or 23 and neither attractive nor the opposite. She was pleasant, fuss-free, somewhat warm, and friendly.
She also spoke decent English, but then she led me into an even colder room, where the tables were arranged in a burgundy oval. Which looked like a huge pussy. Some young dude, in a white shirt and tie, was sitting on the left, close to the clit, behind his large laptop, and asked me to take seat across from him, about four, five yards away.
The young woman disappeared but then returned once more to bring me a half-full glass with lukewarm water. Odd. Unfortunately, she took off again, leaving me alone in this cold, unwelcoming arrangement, which felt as if we were in a sound-proof room; like in a gangster movie.
If I hadn’t been twenty years older, 100 pounds heavier and eight inches taller than the young chap across from me, I would probably have been intimidated or felt queasy. But no, I just readied myself to the job interview, which was about to ensue. Knowing that I wouldn’t be offered the position – which I didn’t really want, anyway.
Since I wasn’t a trained professional with a degree in teaching – but ‘only’ had a PhD in Education – the International School couldn’t directly hire me and had to go through that small English school that I have mentioned briefly. Which would formally hire me – to then pimp me out to the place where I was currently interviewing.
Which wouldn’t have bothered me too much, but now, the young Vice Director began to list all the unpleasant things that would come with the position: the long hours, the confinement, and the clownish, sycophantic greeting routine in the morning.
In addition, I would have to prepare Power Point presentations for every single class, which were to be uploaded to some website before class. A friend of mine from India had already told me that the system was bound to crash every other day, at least.
And yes, no: one wasn’t to criticize the students, ever. Mister Long didn’t explicitly state why, but probably to mollify the ultra-rich parents. And, as if that wasn’t enough: once in a while, I would have to partake in Saturday-morning leisure activities. Physical ones, from what it sounded like.
When he explained that the small school would keep some of my salary, too, as they had been so kind to arrange our relationship, I knew we could basically stop there, but still asked him how much they would deduct. For shit and giggles.
Typically, Mister Long said, that the International Schoolwould pay around 2,400 dollars per month, but I shouldn’t expect more than 1,700 in my checking account. Well, 1,700 bucks were still eight or nine times the average salary, here in Vietnam but, of course, I didn’t feel like relinquishing 700 bucks every month to that one small school.
Because I didn’t have a proper teaching degree; ‘only’ a PhD in Education. Well, I had taught future teachers for eleven years, at four universities, on three continents. I felt like getting up, but I didn’t want to be rude, as he wasn’t done yet. Now, Mister Long – which was pronounced like Lomm – probed me a bit about technology.
Was I familiar a with computers, Excel, Power Point, and PDFs? I don’t recall exactly what I replied, but it must have been something along the lines of I started using computers around the time you were born. He was still looking at me in disbelief, like he doubted that I could use modern devices.
When I added that I was, indeed, aware of the benefits of modern technology but reminded him that the students should perhaps pick my actual brain during class, he nodded, for the first time. But we both knew that we wouldn’t come to an agreement.
So, after perhaps 45 minutes, the interview was over, and I got up: I thanked him for his time, knowing that I would never hear from Mister Long again. I sauntered back to through the cold, unwelcoming building, with its tiled walls, all by myself, regretting that I didn’t see the young damsel again, whose name I didn’t even know.
I noticed that there were no students, at 3:30 in the afternoon; no voices, no laughter, no frolicking, no sign of vitality. Nothing reminded me of learning, education, a school – nor life in general.
Since I was wearing snazzy dress pants, for a change, I cruised through town a bit, thinking about where else I could go to introduce myself; now that I was already dressed up. I had two coffees but then ended up at the only bar in town that sold beer on tap.
Unfortunately, the cool, hot little waitress wasn’t working. Yet. Eventually I left, as it seemed her day off. This all had been in early October and, sure enough, the ludicrous International School didn’t even have the decency to turn me down properly.
Now, almost two months later, the owner of the small English Center contacted me about a part-time position at the much-dreaded place. Again: She would be the pimp – and I, the hooker/teacher.
They were offering 16 bucks per hour, which wasn’t bad but, of course, I still declined. Thinking that this might solely be about the money, they added three more bucks per hour, which still wasn’t enough, with all the prep-time and the marking I would have to do.
And all the other bullshit, of course: wearing a tie, being confined during off-hours, and the entitled kids and parents, who were used to having things their way. When the young center owner insisted again, in the evening, I made it clear that I didn’t want to have anything to do with the institution. And I seriously thought that would be it.
But no, the next morning, the young chick who had guided me into the freezing interview room with the large, pussy-shaped table – and brought me the glass with tepid water – had written to me directly on Zalo.
I didn’t know if she was just curious or if Mister Long had asked her to do so, as everyone knew that most men are suckers for young Asian women. Why are you so adamantly opposed to working for us? Quyen had asked, but then added: The money is the most we ever offered per hour to anyone.
Since I liked her, I told her that, frankly, she was the only positive recollection I had of my visit to the school. To not sound too cheesy, I added a few points of criticism, listing all the things I didn’t want to do, toward the final years of my teaching career.
In the end, I just didn’t want to support the bullshit system that pretended to educate but couldn’t even provide textbooks to students. No even copies. Which I knew from my Indian buddy Ajay, but didn’t include in my list to Quyen.
Curious, if they would add another buck or two on top of what they were offering, I kept the whole conversation friendly, as I believed in not needlessly burning bridges. Although I didn’t want to work there, not even part-time. Even though 25 bucks per day was easily enough for a family of three.
To twist my arm further, Quyen told me that I could scrap the tie, as a part-time teacher, and also leave campus if I wasn’t teaching. And no, no dress shoes, either; nice sandals would be enough. Which were two or three baby steps in the right direction, of course.
However, when I described the cold, unwelcoming atmosphere to her once more, Quyen seemed to take it personally but then, we got distracted by another issue: When I reminded her that the students who had textbooks didn’t bring them to class – which I, again, knew from Ajay, the Indian dude – Quyen claimed that that would be normal.
To which I replied that where I used to work for nine-and-a-half years, with Mira, that rarely happened and that her pretentious, expensive private school could and should do something about it.
Quyen probably felt a bit uneasy as she was reading through my lines of criticism, but thanked me profusely for my openness, as she hadn’t considered some of the issues as potentially detrimental. After she had thanked me for my time, she expressed her gratitude once more for my frankness. And I thought that would be it.
Until Quyen began again, two days later. But this time, she wanted to meet me, in person. Just her and me, at a coffee shop. Perhaps, she wanted to learn more about how her school appeared to an outsider and ask me for more details regarding my rejection. Maybe, she also had another, marginal increase in pay up her polo sleeve.
Of course, I also conceived the idea that she could offer herself, on top of the 19 bucks per hour, as she would probably get a nice bonus if she could convince me to work for them. In the end, I dismissed the thought, of course, as we had never flirted. Quyen didn’t strike me as particularly sexy or wanton, either.
Not that she wasn’t attractive; most young Vietnamese women were, more or less. She was of medium height, neither slim nor chubby, with pleasant features. But she didn’t seem convinced enough of her own allure to toss herself into the mix. Maybe Mister Long had forced her to meet me in person?
Sure, Quyen probably experienced a lot of pressure at work. And yes, there might be a bonus and some promotion if she would be able to change my mind. Well, I was definitely curious enough to meet her again. And she knew, I had a lot of time on my hands, as I wasn’t working at the moment.
After I had agreed to meet her, however, Quyen suggested the café right across the school, which I found a bit odd, as students might hang out there, too. If she wanted to turn our meeting into a somewhat sensual rendezvous, I would have expected a different location.
I had been to said coffee house multiple times and sat down inside, near the wall facing the school. Which was just two feet high, so I had a nice view of the street in between and the gate, where I had received the contact information in the glistening sun, the first time I had made a step to an interview here.
As I was smoking a ciggy, I saw Quyen moseying across the street, in her grey, knee-length, pleated skirt, purple polo-shirt, white socks, and blue sneakers. The first thing she said was that she would prefer to sit upstairs, where I had never been. Interestingly, she was holding her motorcycle helmet in her left hand.
Well, apparently, we were going somewhere else, afterwards, weren’t we? Well, subtly, this began to feel like a small adventure that would go beyond our relationship as HR chick and job applicant, although I had to admit that I wasn’t exactly enamored with her.
But then, again, there was nothing wrong with Quyen, either: She was like ten or eleven inches shorter than me, had nice, dense, pitch-black hair, a cute womanly figure with harmonious proportions, without any truly superfluous fat. She was a young woman in her physical prime and had just shaved her legs.
Quyen’s relatively large bosom was heaving nicely, as she was now sitting across from me, around the corner of the small table upstairs. I could even make out the contours of her bra, under her polo, which was a nice touch. Of course.
Her face was perfectly oval but seemed wider at the bottom than at the top, which could have had to do with her hairdo. Apparently, she hadn’t bothered to go to the hairdresser for a while, as her bangs’ length was approaching that of the rest of her hair, which she had casually parted in the middle. Not too sharply.
Quyen also had a small wart, close to her lower lip, a bit to the left, which I almost found pretty or endearing. Anyway, when she smiled at me for the first time, I felt that the ice was already broken, and I also had a hunch that we wouldn’t talk much about why I refused to work at her school.
The waitress had long brought her milk tea, which she was sipping now. Actually, gulping would have been more correct. If she wasn’t drinking, Quyen kept stirring her beverage, like she was nervous but, after she had taken another gulp, she asked if we would go for lunch together, later.
“My motorcycle is still on campus, but… I could ride with you, couldn’t I?”
I was a bit perplexed, as Quyen didn’t know how pleasant or entertaining the time with me would be, but she was a no child and perhaps sensed that we could have a good time together. The only thing was that I had had breakfast just before ten, but sure, I wasn’t going to say No.
I knew she had two hours for lunch, which she confirmed when I asked her. And Quyen offered another reason why she wanted to have lunch outside the school, today: It was soup day in the cafeteria, which was never enough, she told me:
“I’m also a bit tired of the same food, every week… I mean, it’s decent, but… I’ve been working here for a-year-and-a-half.”
“But, generally, is it enough food, at least?” I was curious, kinda avuncular, though.
“Normally, yes… but the soup’s kinda thin,” she giggled and blushed, which was cute; particularly, as she was smiling again now.
“Sure, we’ll go somewhere else, whatever you like. And it’s on me,” I instantly offered.
Quyen thanked me, and I waited for her to say something but, when she didn’t, I asked her frankly if she was here with me to try to convince me one more time. For some reason, she looked up and down on me, like she needed a bit of time to think, but then said:
“No, not really. I mean, you’ve said already that you don’t want to… you’ve said it several times.”
Well, technically, she could still try, but I didn’t want to unravel the history of our failure again. Yet I definitely wanted Quyen to know that it hadn’t been her fault:
“You know, like I said once before, you are the only positive memory I have of the whole place…”
Which had probably sounded a tad more melodramatic than I had meant it. But it was true. And it was a compliment – although my happiness with her partially arose out of the rest being so cold, callous, and inhospitable.
“Well, Mister van Wyck, I’ve thought about the whole thing again… and I think… I think, you’re right: Many children don’t like going to the school, especially older ones… and the teachers never stay long, although the money is really good.”
“Just call me Ben now, Quyen,” I offered, as I had long scrapped Douglas, since that had proven to be too difficult to pronounce for the Vietnamese.
And yes, it was true: A friend of mine, Rob, had quit there, but then decided to do one more year when his Vietnamese wife wanted a car. But sure, he had shared some of his experiences, which weren’t too pretty. I simply didn’t want to get up at five and then work until five in the afternoon.
Should I ask Quyen if she was making a bit more than Vietnamese assistants at other schools? Well, maybe not. That wasn’t relevant at that moment.
“How did you end up working there?” I asked her, instead, nodding across the street with my chin.
“A friend of mine was here right from the beginning, when they opened… she told me that they were looking for someone…”
“Your English is pretty good; better than most receptionists’,” I told her, truthfully.
During my rounds in town, I had often encountered young ladies who didn’t speak English at all. So, if a foreigner showed up, asking for something simple, such as an email address, they wouldn’t be able to help. At least, I knew by now how to ask such things in Vietnamese.
“I was in the class for gifted students at Vo Nguyen Giap,” she told me.
That was a decent high school, named after one of Uncle Ho’s close friends and comrades during the war. He had just died when I arrived in Vietnam, at the age of 102.
I knew roughly where the school was, across the river; not too far, as the crow flies, from the old, vacant hotel, where our orgy posse had been meeting for debauchery for the last three years. Like a mile. If at all.
“I also took some English classes at university, in Saigon,” Quyen added.
She had her hands in her lap, and I still couldn’t be sure what had motivated her to meet me for coffee today. Perhaps, she just liked practicing her English. Although: She could do that with the foreigners at work. Or was she hoping to learn more about my views on education? Or her school, and why I didn’t want to work there?
Since Quyen had finished her milk tea, she now asked if we didn’t want to take off:
“Are you hungry? Sure,” I nodded, reaching for my keys and taking the last sip of my coffee, after I had extinguished my ciggy.
On the way down the stairs, her calves caught my eye, as well as her white socks and blue sneakers, since I had to pay attention to the steps in the semi-darkness. Yes, her lower legs were nice: firm, yet soft. Roundish. Womanly. As I was paying, I asked Quyen if she came here often, but she declined:
“No, there are too many students… that’d be too close to work to enjoy it,” she added.
Her smile was nice, again. As I was standing at the urinal, I kinda regretted that I hadn’t flirted with her or started some sort of fore-play; particularly, since we had been alone upstairs, for the whole time.
But then, she wasn’t entirely my type, and I didn’t want her to feel uneasy. I was more than twice her age, and she still didn’t radiate sensuality, in her grey skirt and sneakers. On the other hand, she was young, a good person, intelligent, and healthy – for the lack of a better word.
Was she still a virgin, perhaps? As the café was on a corner but one could see my Honda well from the school, she turned into the side street and said she would walk a bit, first, so that people wouldn’t see her getting onto my bike.
To give her a bit of time, I quickly smoked one of my Slims, before I got on and followed her. When she finally was sitting behind my back, she didn’t hold on to me but leaned forward, at least, so we could talk a bit, as we were rolling through the lunch traffic.
“Mi Quang?“ I asked Quyen, at some point, which was a popular dish in Central Vietnam: thick noodles with different meats, hard-boiled egg halves, and greens.
There were several places I knew that offered decent Mi Quang. Quyen thought about it for a few seconds, but then suggested we buy something that we could eat with our hands, perhaps sitting on a park bench. So, soup wasn’t an option, then, as we didn’t have bowls or chop sticks.
“I don’t really want people to see us together,” she added quietly.
Well, that was understandable.
“What about goi cuon, then?”
Those were summer rolls, sort of non-fried spring rolls, with greens, tofu, and cold meat, wrapped in rice paper. Yes, we could drive to the park across from ‘our’ vacant hotel and sit on the bench, where Mira had peed onto the stone tiles, out from under her skirt, about a month back – the day we had bumped into Ly and Khoa, Hiroshi’s driver.
We had even filmed Mira’s sweet little depravity. I will never be able to forget her stunning light thighs, with the sparse brown bush and her glistening little boat-hull pussy in between. Well, one day, I might be able to watch Quyen piss. But probably not today. I couldn’t imagine her being into such shenanigans.
Although… Stimulated by my recollections of Mira and to get into the mood, I tried to imagine what Quyen looked like under her skirt. And smelled like. Would she lift up her skirt, on the park bench and let me look at her thighs? And panties? Maybe next time.
C’mon, Quyen hadn’t asked me to meet for coffee to eat summer rolls, afterwards, and that would be it, had she? Well, perhaps, she hated the girls in the office, or she was just bored and needed a break from her lunch routine, the soup, as well as all the gossip and bullshit problems, at work. And Mr. Long.
If the last bit was true, however, I would have found it a tad strange, though, if she had picked me for sheer escapism. But she hadn’t dressed up or prettified herself, apart from shaving her shins. Which ran counter to the theory that we were on a date here, together.
But then, again, if she had dolled up at work, just before lunch, her colleagues would have become curious and, perhaps, teased her. Which Quyen, obviously, wouldn’t want. And they certainly would have asked her where she was going. And with whom, of course.
Anyway, by now, Quyen had directed me to a little joint she knew that sold summer rolls, and we were waiting in line. When she told me she wanted to eat only one or two, though, she enlightened me that her lunch would still be waiting for her in the fridge, at her office:
“We always heat up the soup at three in the afternoon… we got like a little canteen for that,” she giggled, for some reason.
I wasn’t sure if she meant a mess kit or a small cafeteria, somewhere near her office, but it didn’t matter, and so I only remarked that, yes, it would be a waste not to get the food that was part of her salary.
In the end, we bought five rolls, as I didn’t know whether I wanted two or three. Four wouldn’t have been enough maybe but, as they were fairly large, six seemed a little excessive, even though they were only vegetarian, it said. But they looked good and would be pretty filling, I was sure.
The lady had given us a large cup with a generous amount of peanut sauce, which might be the best part of it all. Outside, I suggested to Quyen we drive to the park across from the vacant hotel, without mentioning the latter, though. Once we were there, I could still nonchalantly toss it into the conversation. And mention that I had the keys to it.
Quyen knew, of course, that there wouldn’t be anyone at the park, this time of the day, on a regular Wednesday. I also liked the idea of eating in the park; partially, because I had such fond and rousing recent memories of the place.
As we were approaching on the side of the hotel – and since the large, wide street had an elevated median, with bushes, flowers, and palm trees – I decided to park outside the hotel.
Quyen didn’t seem surprised and, when I extended my hand to lift her up on the median, which was about 15 inches high, I mentioned in passing that I had the keys to the hotel in my pocket.
Still standing on the median, Quyen looked at me completely flabbergasted. Like she was thunderstruck. I liked that she was still holding my hand, but I could see the cogs turning behind her forehead:
“Mister Ben, I was in there once, when I was still a child… can we go inside?! Oh, please… pleaeazze!” she was whimpering, as she was jumping up and down in excitement.
So, we turned around and hopped back across the street, toward the entrance door. I asked her to hold the bags with the food and the drinks, which we had bought five minutes earlier, and then opened the padlock. I pushed the screeching door open and then my Honda inside, before I put the padlock through the latch.
The click had something ominous. And final. Quyen didn’t seem queasy, however, and so I didn’t even ask if she was feeling uncomfortable. Yes, I was a guy: taller and physically stronger, but she knew who I was, where I used to work, and that I had been living in this town for ten years.
“Why were you here, back then? Did you know someone who used to work here, at the hotel?” I asked her one of the two obvious questions.
“No, but we had relatives visiting, from Hanoi… my uncle, aunt, and cousins… they were too many to stay at our house. So, they stayed here, at this hotel,” Quyen added quickly, before she almost ran toward the atrium to look up and see if the beautiful, classy, large chandelier was still up there.
“Oh, Mister Ben, you have no idea how happy I am now, to see it again!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
Like a child. A beautiful child. Yes, that was an awesome moment, which by itself was already worth our lunch date.
“But, Mister Ben, now, tell me: Why do you have the keys to the building?” Quyen was curious, asking the other obvious question.
Naturally.
“I know a woman who I used to work with. She now works at the large real-estate company which is in charge of the hotel here,” a replied truthfully, before I took her hand again to build trust.
I thought about telling Quyen more, the truth, and then decided to go for it:
“Well, yes, we meet here for… for an hour of love, like twice a month… it’s our little love nest,” I added, as all the other terms I could think of – rendezvous, tryst, sensual encounter – Quyen would perhaps not have understood.
Did I tell her too much, though? Well, I would have found it lame, for the lack of a better word, to lie to Quyen. And, in the only semi-furnished room on the fourth floor, there were condoms and a bottle of lube, right within sight. And towels and two beds. The bottle with the gel had a bright orange and yellow label.
Quyen wasn’t stupid and would be able to put two and two together. So that the whole thing wasn’t just between my muse Nguyet and me, I added that there were also several others meeting here, as they were still living with their parents. Which was true. Quyen didn’t need to know about our orgies, though, I felt. At least, not at this point.
“You know, they can’t really have sex at their respective parents’ house.”
“Yeah, I know. I used to go to small hotels with my boyfriend,” Quyen sighed, sounding a tad melancholic, as we were going up the stairs.
At least, we were still holding hands, which was a nice touch, and I felt the onset of an erection. Since Quyen seemed to be going through her memories again, looking at the chandelier, I didn’t follow up on the boyfriend, but stuck to the imposing building:
“Yeah, I can only imagine what it looked like, back in the day. We’ve been coming here for more than two years. There used to be nice paintings on the walls…”
“Well, back then I was only down in the lobby, two or three times. I don’t know about the rooms,” she told me.
“One is still furnished… do you want to eat in the kitchen or inthe room, which is one more floor up? The room is nice, with plants and a table.”
Quyen thought about it for a moment:
“Couldn’t we also go up to the roof?” she suddenly asked.
Which, of course, was a striking, fulminant idea. Oh man, we had never thought about that. Not Nguyet, nor Mira, nor Anna. Nor Hoang or Charlie. Nor me. No one.
“I don’t know if there’s a hatch. But sure, we can try,” I nodded, intrigued by the option.
Of course, it would have been ultra-lame – and counterproductive – to deny Quyen her desire. I would have forever remained the lame older dude, in her book, if I didn’t, at least, try everything in my power to fulfil her wish.
Up on the sixth floor, we peeked inside the one maid’s chamber that still had a bed and a wardrobe in it, but I didn’t see any chains, belts, dildos, handcuffs, or other signs of the BDSM shenanigans that butch Emily had done with Mira here. Thank God.
Mira’s ex, Emily, had probably taken all paraphernalia home with her. There were some clothes, however, which appeared to be Mira’s or Nguyet’s. I recognized the latter’s black cardigan, the greenish denim skirt, as well as her lacy burgundy top.
Interestingly, Quyen didn’t comment on the clothes but very pragmatically grabbed two thick blankets that I had never noticed before. They were thick and grey, reminding me of those we had used in the army. She sniffed them and made a face, before she chuckled:
“We could sit on them, like at the beach… and eat. They seem clean enough,” she rejoiced, like she had absolutely no doubt that we would be able to get access to the roof.
Of course, I liked her cheerful, chipper teenage optimism and noticed that this hotel-plus-chandelier thing had brightened her mood immensely, although it hadn’t been bad before. When she had pressed the two blankets against her bosom, she kinda looked like I could have kissed her, but I was still holding the two bags with the picnic.
And then, the thick blankets were like buffers or bumpers between us. So, we just smiled at each other, making a tacit contract, which was also super-nice, before we left the room and continued toward the front of the building.
I was tempted to bring up her boyfriend again, but we could also talk about him while we would be eating. As we were walking along on the creaking floor boards, we kept looking up but, so far, we hadn’t seen a roof hatch. I had never been in this part of the building but, just when I was looking at her calves again, Quyen remarked:
“Do you know what: I like the smell, Mister Ben…”
“Yeah, it’s a bit musty… but kinda subtle… not bad… wood, dust… it’s definitely more interesting than the new buildings at your school,” I chuckled, eventually.
She let that snide remark slide but kept walking and looking upward, instead. I just loved her sense of adventure as well as her determination. And again, she didn’t seem afraid at all: just curious to add to her memories that she already had of the building. And her childhood.
Even though it was a slightly absurd situation. I mean, we didn’t really know each other and, until today, our relationship had developed and been fueled along the lines of refusal and criticism. Not so much of us, as persons, but her weird, unpleasant workplace, which – oddly enough – was our only connection.
Finally, we saw a somewhat flimsy metal ladder that was hanging from a latch to the roof. Luckily, the opening seemed big enough for me and, yes, sure: somehow, maintenance workers had to have access to the roof. And the hatch also needed to be big enough to pass a tool box through it.
At the old hotel where I used to live, downtown, there was even a spiral staircase up to the roof, where we had had a rousing photo session once, with Tina and Linh, my former students, wearing beautiful dresses.
“Mister Ben, imagine the view!” Quyen grew excited, now that we were so close.
She stepped aside to let me go up, first. Perhaps, because I was a guy, but she probably didn’t want me to look under her skirt, either. Which, at that point, wasn’t particularly important to me. I was concerned if the hatch would open and keener – just like Quyen – to get onto the roof and enjoy the view we would have, in a minute.
And so, I went up the ladder, which wasn’t made for big, heavy people like me, while Quyen – who weighed about half – was watching me, with the two blankets still pressed against her chest and belly. Now, together with the two bags.
When I reached for the hatch, I had to press a bit, but then I saw the light. The thing wasn’t particularly heavy, so I easily propped it open and then let it fall backwards, so to speak. I went back down, half-way, to fetch the blankets and the bags and went up again.
A minute earlier, when the hatch had fully opened, Quyen let out a cute little squeal – and perhaps wetted her panties. She seemed exceedingly chipper. Luckily, I wasn’t wearing my best clothes, as everything was somewhat filthy and slightly wet but eventually, we were standing on the roof. Together.
Finally. Fortunately, we had some napkins, but I noticed that we had forgotten to fetch glasses from the kitchen. Well, we could bury the cans under the ice and then drink straight from them. It was late November and only warm, not hot. The beer would taste fine.
Of course, we looked around a bit, first: in the middle of the roof was a large puddle, and there were some vents. The rest of the concrete was dry and somewhat clean. Naturally, it was windy but, since there wasn’t much to see, we slowly sauntered closer to the edge.
We put the bags and blankets down near the low wall around the edges to admire the view. Up here, about 35 yards above the street, it was a bit cooler, of course, but perhaps the wind would subside. And it was still about 80 degrees Fahrenheit.
“My cousins went up to the roof here, back then, if I remember right. They’re a bit older than me…”
Aaah. So, Quyen had known that getting up on the roof was a possibility.
“My house is in this direction,” she was pointing northward, across the park and the river, into the haze.
“How old were you when you were down here, in the lobby?” I was curious.
“I don’t know… maybe nine, or ten,” Quyen replied quietly, before she slowly stepped back a foot or two, like she had vertigo.
As she had also turned toward me, I stepped closer and looked at her face. Our pairs of eyes were tracing each other, and I surreptitiously placed my hands on her hips. She didn’t seem opposed and then, we finally kissed tenderly. Fleetingly. Quickly. Perhaps, as she wanted to eat.
Quyen spread the blankets on the floor; both of which she folded once, so that there were four thick layers. We sat down, kinda at the same time, which was a bit awkward, as we bumped into each other, and I thought that we could also have sat down on the low wall.
But that would have been too close to the edge, for Quyen, to be comfortable. Perhaps. I cracked two cans of beer open, and then we toasted, after we both had taken a large bite from our summer rolls, which were pretty delicious. The sauce was close to divine.
Quyen was sitting like a tailor, while I – like the Little Mermaid – had placed most of my weight onto one thigh and butt cheek. I had propped my torso on one arm, kinda next to and behind me. After our tentative kiss five minutes earlier, I found it legitimate to ask Quyen about her love-life:
“You said you went to hotels with your boyfriend, for sex… are you still together? Is he in the army now?”
Well, she wouldn’t be here with me if they were… still… together, would she? Apparently, she wasn’t a virgin anymore, which was good to know.
“That was in Saigon, Mister Ben, at university… no, he really wanted to do a Master’s in Australia… I think he’s still there,” she added, before she pushed the rest of her roll into her mouth and laughed; somehow, sounding relieved.
Like she wasn’t unhappy at all that they weren’t together anymore. Or that she was single and free, back in her hometown, near her family. I remembered that her legs had been a bit hairy on the day of the interview, back in early October but, like I said, she had shaved them the day before.
So, today, they were super smooth and delicious. Her skin looked like milk. I could make out some blueish blood vessels. Had she shaved her thighs, too? Those were still covered by her skirt but, of course, I didn’t want to be brash and blatantly ask her to show me her legs.
She would have done it, though, I was pretty certain. We kept eating and looked around, from time to time, but we also kept glancing at each other. Of course. I was still puzzled that no one in our orgy troupe had ever suggested checking out the roof here.
But then, perhaps they just hadn’t told me. I wouldn’t put it past Emily and Mira, for instance, that they had checked out every nook and cranny, while they had been here for their nookies.
Well, yes, we also had been fixated on the beds in the room on the fourth floor or the cozy maid’s chamber on the sixth, where we had gotten the blankets from, on which we were sitting. Oh, one day, we needed to have an orgy up here, out in the open. With Quyen, since she liked everything so much?
“Your colleagues are nice?” I decided to make some smalltalk.
Somehow, it didn’t feel like we could talk about sex. However, inadvertently, I had asked the perfect question:
“Ooch… yeah, they are nice enough,” Quyen was hemming and hawing a bit: “But, do you know what? First, Ngoc started to meet with her boyfriend over lunch… and now, Trinh is doing the same…”
“And then, there’s only one topic in the afternoon,” I chuckled.
“Kind of. Ngoc isn’t every experienced, it seems, so she keeps asking questions… what the other two did over lunch… and sometimes, it’s like a competition… and I’m sitting in between, trying to focus on my work… some boring papers,” Quyen giggled.
And blushed. Which was the cutest thing. Of course. Naturally, I didn’t know either of the two young damsels, Ngoc or Trinh, but I instantly grew curious what exactly they were doing over their lunch breaks. Should I ask Quyen? I probably could have. She would have told me.
But then I had another thought: Was she here today, with me, to create her own stories? Did she want to fuck during her lunch break now, so that she didn’t feel left behind? She had broken up with her boyfriend more than a year ago, so she was probably kinda horny.
Should I ask her? Oh no, that would only ruin our lovely game, perhaps. And so, I just grabbed the fifth – my third – roll, after I had offered it to Quyen. When she shook her head, saying that she was full, I took a large bite, almost half, but then fed her another bit, which she gladly took.
So, I handed her the rest to be able to light a ciggy and crack another can of beer open, which we would share, so it wouldn’t get warm. At some point, we got up to walk around a bit more. We enjoyed the view in every direction, and Quyen pointed at several taller buildings to explain what they were.
In most cases, I already knew, but I didn’t say anything to let her have the fun. Of course. But yes, as were standing close to the street again, Quyen admitted she had vertigo and asked to sit down again. This time, she actually lay down on her right side, but stuck her left, sneaker-clad foot behind her other knee.
She was supporting her head with one hand – like a teenager at the beach – and absent-mindedly playing with the hem of her skirt, which had fallen into her lap, so that I could see her left thigh almost completely. Nice.
Quyen was bashfully smiling at me, and I felt my cock twitch, for the second time that day. As I was admiring the lovely arch of her hips and butt, Quyen suddenly uttered the revoltingly hot, immortal line:
“Mister Ben, are we going to do it quickly, before we go back down?”
Not knowing what I could reply, I just nodded, flicked my cigarette butt away, and got up to relieve myself of my pants and underpants, as that wouldn’t have looked swift and smooth if I had bashfully done it, sitting on the blanket.
Quyen had piously turned her head away but now, she was looking excitedly at my half-stiff, pumping cock, which was peeking out from between my shirt tails. I briefly wondered if she had meant actual sex – or, maybe, just a hand- or blowjob? – but, the way the healthy young woman was lolling, she looked pretty much ready.
When I had sat down again, near her head, she tentatively grabbed my noodle but then, she sat up to reach under her polo to open her bra on the back. I slid a bit closer to caress her soft, warm belly, under her shirt, before we kissed again.
Eager to continue the treatment of my dick, she clamped her tongue between her teeth and focused on getting my rod stiff enough to enter her. If I wasn’t completely misreading the signs. She was using both hands, for some reason, and seemed pretty determined.
We were still looking at each other’s faces, from time to time, but neither of us had said anything after her fulminant question. At some point, though, Quyen giggled and said:
“It’s so big… nice…”
“Yes, this afternoon, you can tell Trinh and Ngoc a story, too,” I chuckled, but she only shook her head:
“They aren’t meeting their boyfriends today. Trinh has her period, I believe, but I will keep what we are doing to myself, I think,” she assured me, with an impish smile.
“Sure, but take a bit of spit, will ya?” I requested, before I reached further up under her polo, under her loose bra.
Oh yes, her boobs were firm and heavy. And yes, fairly large. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought they belonged to a more mature woman. I could feel her nipples pumping, while her areolas seemed large, with lots of little blisters.
“How old are you, actually?” I finally asked her, panting.
“23… almost 24,” Quyen replied, also slightly wheezing.
Meanwhile, my cock had grown almost fully stiff but now, I was curious what her boobs looked like. And so, I massaged and kneaded her chest only for another thirty seconds, before I pushed her polo up on the front – which offered my dick a much appreciated boost.
“Mister Ben, this is really nice… today, I just wanted to see if we… perhaps… at some point, but… I find everything so… here, on the roof… so… awesome… hey, c’mon!” she finally said, before she lay down on her back and pulled her skirt out from under her butt, toward her back.
“When did you have your last period?” I asked her quickly, before we would completely lose ourselves.
“This… last weekend,” Quyen was panting.
Her answer had come quickly, like she had been waiting for the question for at least an hour. Finally, she pulled up her skirt in the front and let me look at her legs, which were very light and harmonious: Womanly round, without superfluous fat. Smooth. Warm and inviting. The complete opposite of her workplace.
Man, was her skin smooth! But her panties were also kinda nice: They were divided into two halves, black and white, but asymmetrically. Sort of. There were some black bars on the white side, which reminded me of Tuyet’s black dress with the white parallel bars on the shoulders.
Like a children’s piano. Under the fabric, there seemed to be a nice boat hull, just the way I liked it. The way it was proper. After I had nodded at her, like I had seen enough, Quyen pushed both thumbs inside the waistband of her undies – and we knew that the moment had arrived.
“Mister Ben, I’ll keep my clothes on, today… it isn’t very warm,” she apologized but then, she nonchalantly pushed her panties down her young legs.
She fiddled them off one shoe but pulled them back up on her other thigh, like most Asian girls do during sex, like they are afraid to lose their underwear in the fracas. What I was looking at now, however, was one of the most enthralling pussies I had ever lain my eyes upon:
Quyen’s brown outer labia were elegant, like painted, and only half-covered by hair, which was perhaps the best of both, of all worlds. What was even better, though, were her inner lips, which were thick but not crinkled.
No, they were smooth but protruding by half-an-inch. Yes, she did seem aroused, although I couldn’t immediately spot any translucent nectar. But yes, that pink vertical strip of tender flesh was absolutely captivating – and arousing to the utmost.
Before I would lie down on her and cover this most alluring sight with my body, I took another eyeful; partially, as it was unusual to see a fully dressed woman exposing herself like that. Quyen was still holding up her polo, so that I could also marvel at her tits, but then, her pussy caught my eye again.
Man, that vertical strip of pink flesh between her pitch-black hair was the sight of the year. Her legs looked absolutely delish – and, hadn’t she said she would leave on her clothes TODAY?! Like she knew already we would do it again?! Man, her sneakers and her panties wrapping her thigh were super cool, too!
That vertical pink strip was like four inches long. Jesus! And then, her pubic mound. Her mons veneris: It was at least six inches wide across, at the top, but reached all the way down to her perineum, another eight inches or so.
Or even nine. Man, I couldn’t get over it. Awesome. Enthralling. Bewitching. Quyen’s pussy was more beautiful than her face, almost. Which I wouldn’t tell to her face, though. But maybe, to her pussy.
“Ben, stop looking at me like that,” she laughed, with some mock-indignation.
Which was super sweet. Of course. Deep inside herself, she must have relished that I was so fascinated by the details of her young, mature body. And fittingly, she had finally scrapped the Mister. Which would have been ludicrous to use, during intercourse. Or thereafter.
I was kinda waiting for a Well, just come on top of me, as my muse Nguyet tended to put it, but Quyen just opened her legs further, inviting me on top of and inside her. Oh man, what a lascivious, nonchalant gesture that had been.
Since she did seem a tad embarrassed that I was so shamelessly checking out her snatch, I did us the favor and just mounted her. Tenderly. In the end, everything went surprisingly quickly, like we both were afraid that the other could change his or her mind.
As soon as I had found my position on top of her and begun to thrust, Quyen quick-wittedly pulled up her polo and her lovely blue bra again, close to her collarbones, so that I could see and fondle her breasts, while I was already happily pumping, writhing, and hollering on top of her.
Oh yes, although I hadn’t seen any nectar outside, on her labia earlier, inside she was splendidly greased. My glans was polishing her G-spot nicely, which was probably glowing by now. With every fifth thrust, I was gaining another half-an-inch. Eventually, I let go of her breasts, though, to take her head between my forearms, instead.
Oh, man, Quyen was a lovely young woman, who had taken up her courage, which had led us all the way up to the hotel roof here. Yes, this was truly the bee’s knees. In hindsight, yes, we both had been aroused during the hour-and-a-half that we had spent together, and now, we were grinding off the peaks of our arousal.
As I was still thrusting inside her, Quyen opened the buttons on my shirt to be able to caress my back, before she buried her nose in my chest hair. I let her suck messenger substances off my skin, but then propped my torso onto my outstretched arms to better be able to watch her boobs bobbing.
Oh, sweet Jesus, we had gathered steam over the last five minutes and now, our act had developed into a proper, infernal St. Vitus dance. Oh, her tits were awesome, too. Their areolas were dark-red, almost brown, with lots of whitish little blisters. The way we were positioned, I unfortunately couldn’t kiss or lick them. Next time.
When I felt a nippy breeze going through my butt crack, I lay down directly on her, to provide warmth and comfort. Feeling her divine breasts on my skin, I sniffed her hair and felt that my cock had completely disappeared inside her young sheath.
As comfortable as she was pressed underneath my 235 pounds, Quyen was purring, with her eyes closed. As womanly as she was, by Vietnamese standards, her snatch was pretty roomy. It felt similar to Ly’s, who was 15 years older, though. And the two of them had a similar figure, too. Maybe one day soon, they would meet.
Anyway, Quyen was sweating profusely, but her face seemed to be saying that I could have banged her forever. She was in bliss, mirthfully cooing in little cascades. Yes, it felt like she hadn’t had sex for a while. But, finally… Although it wasn’t exactly erotic art what we were doing to and with each other.
As cool as the location was, we did receive musty whiffs from the blankets, from time to time but, the way things were looking, we would do it again soon. Probably downstairs on the bed that had already seen so much debauchery, over the last two-and-a-half years.
Yes, the next time, I would take good care of her boobs, first. And lick her pussy. Profusely. And, yes: Quyen also needed to pee on me, at some point. Would she do that? Sure, why not?! I mean, if I asked her… she wouldn’t be affected. If she didn’t want to be.
Yes, we would do it naked, and really slowly, the next time. The whole nine yards. But then, doing it up here, on the roof, was stinking cool. The coolest thing ever: Above the roofs of the city, in the great outdoors, within sight of her parents’ house. Kind of. Almost.
The way we both were wheezing and panting, moaning andgroaning, the eruption was imminent. I kept thrusting for perhaps two dozen more times. Adding to my hoarse hollering, Quyen was squirming under me and had started to let out cute, excited, little squeaks.
I briefly had the silly vision that some maintenance worker or security guard would show up now, or just pop his head through the hatch – which was like six or seven yards away – and holler something, but then I exploded inside Quyen, hollering up at the friendly, grayish sky.
For the final throes, I had propped my torso onto my forearms again – to protect her, but also to be close to her face. Which I had grown to like, over the last hour. Immensely. I could feel her sneakers on my back, since she had wrapped her legs around my torso, and now she was squirting uncontrollably.
Did she have another skirt at work? And another pair of panties? It didn’t matter, at that point. My cum was flowing out of me, not in splashes but it felt more like a continuous stream. Which was nice. Relieving. Heartwarming. After all we had been through.
Quyen had opened her eyes again and was smiling at me, as she was playing with my nipples and ruffling my chest hair. She smiled impishly, before she let out another cute squeak. Jesus, how exciting those existential moments always were:
One had to make a move, toward the inevitable. Her question if we wouldn’t do it quickly, before we would go back down had been the best ever. It had armed and disarmed me, at the same time. Unmitigated, with no second thoughts. Just like that. Like an avalanche.
Kinda surprising. At the café, earlier, nothing had reeked of sex. Nothing whatsoever. Perhaps the hotel, the chandelier, and the rooftop had overwhelmed and convinced her. And she had been right: if we had eaten and then gone down again, without touching each other, that would have been kinda lame, for the lack of a better word.
I couldn’t remember if a location had tipped a lady’s stance toward sex with me, ever. I needed to think about it more, but now, she let her Boa constrictor legs fall to our sides again. She asked me, though, to stay where I was, so that it wouldn’t leak out and soil her skirt.
“This was a lot,” she finally said, sniveling, looking happy: “But I don’t have another pair of panties,” she remarked.
Which was super cute, again. Of course, I was reminded of my second time with Nguyet, when her mother had found Nguyet’s soaked panties in the hamper and had thought it was some malign discharge.
After Quyen and I had come down together for perhaps five more minutes, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears, she announced that she had to pee. Finally. So, we got up, as the blankets weren’t exactly comfortable, anyway.
“Just go right here. The rain will wash it away,” I suggested.
In the end, Quyen was a country bumpkin. I was sure she had peed outside. And she didn’t seem sheepish when it came to sex and bodily functions. She thought about it for a bit, but then sauntered over to the east side of the hotel, still holding up her skirt. And with her panties around her left thigh.
She sat down on the low wall, facing me, carefully holding up her skirt in the front. She laughed and hollered, asking me not to watch her so cheekily, but we both knew that that was impossible. After what we had just done together.
Ok, I turned away for three tenths of a second, but then shamelessly looked at her mesmerizing midsection again. Man, perhaps her pussy was more beautiful than her face, yes. Of course, I remembered how Mira had peed out from under her school-uniform skirt, but this here was even hotter. Perhaps.
Partially, because Quyen’s cunt was new to me but also more powerful, more potent, more efficacious. For the lack of a better word. And her thighs, man! They were almost a bit too thick and not particularly elegant. But, man, was this whole scene turning me on: the light skin, the thighs, and then the furry animal between them.
“Do you know how beautiful you are, when you’re peeing? Do you know how hot you are?” I chuckled, as I was bringing her some napkins, which we had received with the rolls earlier.
I watched her gladly, as she was dabbing her wet toy-boat hull and then, how she put her panties back on. Of course, I took a whiff off the soiled, wet napkins, before I tossed them into the bag with the empty beer cans, after I had poured the water out.
I dressed, and then we checked if we hadn’t forgotten anything, after we had smooched and kissed some more. For which she had opened her bra again. Quick-wittedly. In the end, I decided to pee as well, while we were up here. It looked like it would rain later that day.
And it wouldn’t bother anyone. Quyen didn’t watch me; instead, she was looking over and across the canopy and the river, toward her parents’ house. She seemed a tad melancholic; well, she certainly had to process what had just happened.
After we had descended down the ladder and were standing in the semi-dark, musty atmosphere of the six floor again, Quyen asked me if we would do it again:
“Now?” I teased her.
“Well, I would, but I can’t… I need to go back to work. Can you drive me back?”
“Of course… and, next time, yes, we’ll do it nice and slow?” I asked her, more or less rhetorically.
On the way down, we looked at the chandelier together and, on the fourth floor, I showed her the only furnished room of the whole hotel, so that she could mentally prepare herself.
“The roof is cooler, somehow… or that small room on the sixth floor…” she said.
“Ok, sure… but, for the roof, we need the perfect weather: not too hot or too cold… and no rain, of course…”
“If the weather isn’t nice, we’ll do it in that small room, upstairs,” Quyen was resolute, but then giggled and blushed.
Before I would push my Honda back outside, I dropped the two blankets in the washing machine. I would come back later to hang them up to dry. When I was back from the work room, we kissed again, and I was tempted to propose that she could pee on me, the next time.
I didn’t say anything, in the end, since I wanted to see her reaction, before she would do it. Would she, though? Why wouldn’t she? To round everything off, I did ask her – half jokingly and half seriously – if I had to work for the International School now, part-time.
Quyen giggled, shaking her head: “Nope, Mister Ben, that is no longer possible. And, if you were working for us, we wouldn’t have done it today.”
