Phung's Quest

A few weeks ago, one of my former students contacted me totally out of the blue. Phung asked whether I was still working at the private English school she had taken classes at for six months when she was in college, about eight years back. I remembered her class as a motley crew of, mostly, young people between 16 and 42; her being about 22 at the time.

Phung was about 5 foot tall and, at least back then, had an absolutely stunning figure: athletic yet feminine, with nimble, ever so slight bow-legs, and firm little breasts. Almost always, she had worn her shoulder-length hair open and parted on one side and sported blue jeans, although she also had a lot of photos on her Facebook page in which she was wearing lovely dresses.

Assuming that her lithe figure was still roughly the same, I was happy and eager to answer her innocent query where I was working these days. After that, a few short dialogs ensued, during which Phung praised my wife, our marriage, and our son. As kind as her words were, they kinda came out of nowhere, and I developed a suspicion that her initial question had just been a pretext.

I shared my hunch with a former colleague, who had asked Phung once, years ago, if she didn’t want to spend an hour at a cheap hotel with him, which she had to decline. Of course. Robert was also married to a Vietnamese lady here in town, just like me, and had a little daughter; funnily, he remembered asking Phung but had forgotten what she looked like.

After I had sent him some photos that I had downloaded from her Facebook page, we began to surmise what might be behind Phung’s original query, since she had been silent for a few days. Robert’s guess was either money or something with English, while I presumed money, too, or it could also be affairs of the heart, in the widest sense. Although, I couldn’t really imagine that Phung now, at 30, suddenly wanted to have an affair with me.

Phung was living in Ho Chi Minh City, as Saigon was officially called, and had been working there as an English teacher for six years. With that in mind, her English was somewhat lacking, and when I asked her if she didn’t want to go for coffee, she declined, as if she was afraid of speaking to me in person.

An hour later, Phung told me that she had to pack, as she would return to Saigon the following day, although it was just the end of July, and schools wouldn’t reopen until the end of August. Weird. I would have loved to check out her nimble figure – and find out why she asked me where I was working and why she had praised my marriage, about which she knew virtually nothing.

A few days later, I grabbed my phone and put the kettle on shortly after six in the morning to return to bed and read sports results – both, from Europe and the U.S. – before I would take a shower and fix breakfast. As I was wondering whether the Cubs would be able to make the playoffs this year, Phung suddenly wrote that she desperately needed my help.

When I asked, however, what exactly I could do for her, Phung remained silent again. Of course, I wondered which of three causes for help that Robert and I had identified – money, English, or romance – Phung’s slightly cryptic and erratic behavior was pointing at. But who would ask so emphatically for a loan or help with homework at 6:12 in the morning?!

Well, I decided to wait for her reply and not worry about it, in the meantime, which was easier said than done. No, her plea had stirred something inside me; not so much my heart, though, but a bit further down, and I have to admit that the thought of seeing her again and admiring her stunning young body occupied me for hours, later on the same day.

Oh, yeah: Phung’s firm, athletic ass had always looked hot in her light-blue denim jeans, although I had never seen her legs naked, in person. I only knew them from photos on social media, but that dividing line on the side, between the front and back muscles of her thighs, was the sharpest and hottest I knew.

The thing was: Phung was far from perfect. Her rhombic face with its squished, flat and wide nose and broad mouth looked a bit odd, although her teeth were immaculate. But those little bags under her eyes were also relatively large, which I didn’t like, either. Yet overall, Phung was graceful and poised; she radiated energy and was certainly also a good person.

Almost too good, as I was about to find out. Phung strung me along for another two days but then, she finally revealed what matter she needed help with: Finding a husband. Of course, I was instantly reminded of Robert, who she could have cultivated and then locked in next to her, in bed – or the other way ’round – but I was still wondering why she would enlist me in the project of finding a spouse.

To make a long story short: She wanted a foreigner. Basically, she was hoping that I would know young English teachers from abroad, I surmised, who were single, willing to settle in Vietnam, and start a family with her. Just like I had done eleven years back.

Since I knew a freshly-divorced Filipino, who was still here to be near his son, who he had had with a Vietnamese staff member at the school we used to work together at – incidentally, also the place where Phung and I had met – but, for my 35-year-old buddy, whose wife had cheated on him for years with the IT guy, Phung felt she was too good:

No, I don’t want a divorced man, she was certain.

As she was feeling blue, I didn’t want to brutally remind Phung that her uterus was ticking audibly. Could she still be choosy, at 30? I was reminded of that funny department store story, in which women always want to go one floor up, until they find out too late that the sixth floor was empty. But I still could relate: Filipinos were often effeminate and rather short – and they weren’t making too much money, either.

Mister Douglas: 40 years old, at the most, not divorced, with a proper career, faithful and kind, Phung added an hour later, so that I knew who I needed to look for.

To alleviate the suffering young woman’s woes and to find out more about her travails, I suggested she go where foreigners – not tourists, but residents – spend time in Saigon. If she eventually wanted to marry one, she needed to start by having access to them:

Find out where the foreigners go in the evening. Join a pickle ball club or something.

See, I’m just too stupid. I never thought about that. But I only play badminton. And football 😉

Well, find a badminton club, then! I told her.

Of course, I also promised that I would keep my eyes open and ask around if my foreign friends didn’t have a young colleague in his thirties, who was single and seemed ready to begin a family here, in Vietnam. Which was tad strange, however, since Phung purportedly was back in Saigon now. But overall, I liked her – and her stunning figure – and didn’t want to needlessly drop the conversation we had just started again, after six or even seven years.

Phung thanked me profusely for my help but finally got to the core of her predicament: She had had a boyfriend for years, but he decided to elope to Japan three years back, since he had financial problems. While Phung had been waiting faithfully, the dude kept making promises to return to Vietnam, which never materialized, though.

I can’t follow him to Japan; I don’t want to leave my country. So, we broke up recently, Phung wrote in another message later on the same day.

In passing, I noticed that her English had gotten much better, quasi overnight; perhaps, she was using some online translation program now. Obviously, that wasn’t the main issue but I felt bad for her: She had denied herself a wholesome sex-life, from what it sounded like – which most Vietnamese girls were still fine with, if they eventually got married and had two kids.

Yeah, the proverbial shit was hitting the fan for Phung, so I kept feeding her new ideas how to meet foreigners in Saigon. I also told her, truthfully, that I felt flattered that she had made me her wingman in the charming romantic project, but that was only to be followed by a truly crushing message a few days later:

Mister Douglas, I think I have decided not to love at all. I am heartbroken for no gain, and the search for a husband seems so frustrating and daunting that I might be better off and happier if I just stay single. I’m afraid not to be able to fall in love, but if it would happen, I know that there would be an even bigger fear.

Yes, suddenly her language was up to par, to say the least, but this last message left me now baffled and frustrated. Sure, I could comprehend the fear of not being able to find a spouse, but what else could be there – apart from existential worries that all people face, such as sickness, death, or financial concerns?

Since I was married and more than twenty years older than Phung, I didn’t want to exert myself too much in her quest and meddle with her love affairs. Thus, I decided to leave it at that, knowing that there was probably going to be some new twist, soon.

And yes, sure enough: Just a week later, Phung invited me to go for coffee, even though she had just returned to Saigon, hadn’t she? She had probably never left her village north of our nondescript town, I surmised, but had just been too sheepish to discuss such delicate matters with me in person.

While I was still wondering if she had been in Saigon for just a week and then been catapulted back to her parents’ house, about fourteen miles north of where I was located, like in a movie, Phung had yet another idea, instead of coffee:

You could also come for lunch to our house. You could bring your wife and son, but then, we want to discuss something difficult and piquant. Perhaps, you could come alone? And maybe, after my parents left the house for work, after 1:30? My younger brother is in the army, so we would be just the two of us.

Yeah, this surely was another plot twist, but then: Phung was no slut. And, I was sure, it had taken her quite some effort to suggest such a titillating situation. Of course, I didn’t even mention to my wife that we could go to Phung’s house together; if I had told her that I was involved in finding a husband for a quasi-virgin, she would have grown leery and told me outright not to go.

First, Phung described where her house was in excessive detail, until she also sent me a link to a map. Since I went to drink coffee every afternoon, anyway, my wife – who was baking savory rice cookies with a friend at her house these days – wouldn’t be suspicious. And now, on the fairly long, but enjoyable ride, I had time to wonder why Phung wanted me to come to her house by myself:

I could only think of conflicting scenarios, however: Did she want to conceive a baby, out of wedlock? That was unlikely, as I was much older. Did she want to seduce and eventually marry me? No, she had sincerely praised my marriage and wasn’t a reckless, ruthless character. But Phung did find our son super-handsome, she had told me once. Sure, she certainly wanted to have a beautiful child, but not out of wedlock.

And Phung hadn’t contacted me for about six years, at all. I couldn’t imagine she had a crush on me or found me overly attractive. Although, one never knew. And then, the distance in age between us was shrinking every day; of course, not in a purely mathematical but a cultural sense. Now that she was 30, clearly an adult, and a trained teacher, we spoke much more on eye level than it was the case when she still was a student in college.

Back then, she most certainly was still full of hope that she would fall in love, get married, and have two children. She probably knew, too, that she was a seven-and-a-half out of ten, with her stunning figure. But now, Phung was flustered that her fine midsection hadn’t been able to attract a handsome male member of the species to procreate with.

And the number of eligible bachelors was shrinking week by week, though there were new young foreigners every month. True. Such and similar thoughts were probably occupying Phung’s mind every morning when she got up. And they would follow her for the whole day. Every day.

But, yeah: What could she want from me this afternoon? I was asking myself once more, as I was riding along the quiet country roads. Some guidance how foreign men – or guys in general – view marriage and how she could make it work? Or some more tips where to find a foreigner, how to chat him up, and make him stay?

Fittingly, I took the wrong turn at some point but, in the end, I reached her house, of which I had already seen some photos on Facebook. I just loved the serenity and simplicity of Vietnamese villages. Yeah, one day, I wanted to move to some place like this, although our rented house on the outskirts of our small town was perhaps the perfect compromise.

When I pushed the side-stand of my Honda down to turn off the engine, the world was perfectly quiet. Apart from the cicadas’ buzzing, clicking, and rhythmic whining. I also noticed some chickens, and now, a small dog accosted me, which notified Phung once more that I had arrived.

She was wearing a simple white dress that ended just above her lovely knees. Phung’s shiny black hair was again – or still – parted on the right-hand side and still of shoulder-length. She looked happy to see me and overall seemed surprisingly chipper, although deep in her heart there was this one big nagging matter that she hadn’t been able to resolve.

Behind her, I noticed Phung’s black-and-orange Honda Airblade, which she had already had back in the day, when she was my student. The way she had handled the relatively large bike with aplomb, as small as she was, had always fascinated me; she had looked like an animal trainer treating lions or tigers in the circus. And yes, her tight butt in her jeans, with a matching denim jacket.

No, yes, Phung had good genes; she was hot. The little mutt was still barking from time to time, but Phung gently tried to talk him out of it. I noticed that her legs were tanned, which seemed to substantiate my suspicion that she had been here, in her village, all summer long. But, like I said before, she could have been too trepidatious to talk to me in person, because of her English.

By now, however, the frequent calls of her womb had grown too demanding and too strong. She had to come up with a plan to find a suitable guy to start a family with. Her face had matured over the years – or shall we say aged, as all of ours – but her skin and overall allure, including her fine figure, as far as I was able to tell, had not diminished. To the contrary.

“Well, have you found everything?” she began, which was a charming, welcoming beginning, but it sounded much sexier than I had expected our greeting to be.

Oh, yes: Phung was surprisingly chipper and didn’t give off vibes of a disgruntled, young middle-aged woman who was sore that she hadn’t scored yet. Which was nice to see and also made me hopeful that, perhaps, we would be able to discover that one fine gentleman that she could share her life with.

Yes, today we were going to set sail and breathe a fresh wind of optimism into Phung’s life, so that she would be in the right mindset in September, when she was going back to working at her school in Saigon. Looking for a young, handsome and faithful foreigner with a good career in the evening in the park. Or God knows where.

On the eastside of her parents’ house, now in the shade, were a table and two benches made of stone, where she invited me to sit down:

“Or do you want me to show you the house, first?” she then offered.

I didn’t even know what would have been proper, but I was kinda curious to see her room. So, Phung took me on a tour around the charming, modest abode. In the kitchen, she got ice from the freezer to drop it into a large jug with tea. Next, we turned toward the back of the house, where she let me peek into her bower.

Everything was pleasant and lovely; the family was certainly not rich, but they were far from being poor. On the walls in her room, there were several stichings of typical Vietnamese landscapes, which Phung had probably produced herself when she was young.

And yes, her bed looked inviting, too: It wasn’t overly narrow but had a nice, dark wooden frame. In the hall, there was a guitar on a curiously tall table, which kinda surprised me, but then I remembered that I had seen a photo of Phung once, sitting on a tile floor, playing the instrument.

“You could play something for me later,” I chuckled.

“If you want,” she smiled back, but then we stepped outside again to sit down on the two benches at the table, across from each other.

Before Phung sat down, she remembered to procure an ashtray, but I asked her how she knew that I smoked:

“I can see the cigarettes in your shirt pocket, of course. And, years ago, I saw you smoking between classes.”

“But you were always late,” I teased her a bit.

“Yeah, I know. Because I had evening class at university,” she explained, while she was pouring me a glass of tea.

“But yeah, now I remember watching you rolling into the courtyard at the school. Is that still the same?” I asked her, nodding over with my chin to where her older 125-cc Honda was parked.

For some reason, I didn’t feel it would befit the situation if I told her that I always thought she had looked sexy on her bike, as it was slightly too large for her.

“Yes, the Airblade is eleven years old now. Almost twelve,” she told me proudly, before she asked if I remembered the day when I ripped Hien’s phone away from her during class.

Her classmate had started to cry; Hien had probably been afraid that I wasn’t going to return the contraption to her.

“But that was truly too much that evening. Yeah, I knew that Hien wanted to use it to translate, but she also texted her friends all the time.”

“And once you yelled at me for taking a call during class,” Phung reminded me now, with an impish smile.

Was I supposed to feel bad about that?

“Phung, there are limits, really…” I defended myself half-heartedly, since I didn’t want to rehash those old stories.

Was she expecting me to apologize for screaming at her? Should I? Was she still sore, after eight years?

“No, you’re right. But, back then… well, I’ve been a teacher for six years myself, in Saigon, I understand now,” Phung nodded in a reconciliatory tone: “But I just learned that I can do the first semester of my Master’s course online. That’s why I’m back here, all of a sudden. I’ll be here all autumn,” she was positively beaming, as if she was exceedingly glad.

And had plans already. Well, the explanation why she had surprisingly returned, after being in Saigon only for a week or two, during the middle of the month, was plausible. Well, there were more foreigners in Saigon than here in our sleepy province but then, Phung hadn’t approached any of them in all those years, anyway.

Well, life was definitely more pleasant and much cheaper here. And she probably liked her parents a lot. Anyway, I was smoking happily, soaking in the beautiful view of the adjacent rice paddies and Phung’s presence. The tea, however, contained a lot of ginger, which is healthy and tasted good, but it didn’t go well with my ciggy, nor did it quench my thirst.

When I asked Phung if she had plain water, she gave me a look as if to say You sissy, the tea is too strong for you?! but got up to fetch me a bottle of water from inside the house. Yes, the cicadas were still buzzing and whining in cascades, but I really liked the long row of betelnut palm trees along the road leading up to Phung’s house. And the two young coconut trees at the entrance here looked lovely, too.

When Phung returned, the wind pressed her light white dress into her lap, which had been inactive for too long, from what she had told me. As warm as it was, she probably also smelled lovely between her legs. Should I bring up the topic of finding a husband now? Well, Phung asked me to drive fourteen miles to her house, so she could do it, I decided.

Yet Phung was probably embarrassed and would appreciate it if I built her a bridge, wouldn’t she? But I still didn’t know what we were going to discuss today. Why didn’t she just ask the questions she had, and we could go from there?!

Did she want me to introduce her to the foreigners I knew in town, so that she could get acquainted with Western culture a bit better? The thing was, though, that I avoided hanging out with expats, as they often bored me. Too often, people also lied about their past and were evasive about their conditions at work and other matters.

“So, what are we going to do?” I asked her, slightly avuncular, after I had lit a fresh ciggy.

“Well, I’ve come up with an idea. But I’m not sure if you’ll like it,” she murmured cryptically.

Perhaps as it was hot, Phung had fanned her skirt briefly, as if to air out her midsection; unfortunately, I still hadn’t been able to see her thighs, since she was sitting across from me, with the table blocking the view of her lower half.

“Spit it out!” I encouraged her, perhaps sounding a tad impatient: “Do you want to go to a bar in town with me, where foreigners hang out?” I was building her another bridge.

Of course, I instantly thought of Trang, the cute, hot petite waitress.

“Well, yes, maybe… we could do that. But I have another idea,” she replied, still opaque.

Would Phung tell me, or did I have to keep guessing?Or ask her again more forcefully, this time? Almost as if she wanted to postpone an answer, Phung got up and offered to fetch cookies from inside and a second bottle of water. Perhaps, her proposal would be so monumental that we had to fortify ourselves with food, first?

In the end, I got up, too, since Phung hadn’t returned yet. In the kitchen, I asked her if I could use the bathroom – to which she pointed, before offering that I could also take a leak behind the house, near the hedges that separated her home from the fields. Which I preferred.

Standing on the westside now, in the balmy afternoon sun, while relieving myself, I noticed again how tall the nearby mountains were. I had looked it up once: Ngoc Linh was about 2,600 meters high, but I wasn’t sure if I was able to see that particular peak in the haze.

When I returned to the table, Phung had sat down on the other bench, on which I had been sitting earlier, so I joined her there. It would have been outright silly and ludicrous to pick the other bench, opposite her. I sat down kinda sideways, with my upper body turned toward her, while my right arm was now resting on the back.

I could have touched Phung’s shoulder or hair, but didn’t. Of course, not. Instead, I looked at her modest chest and her more mature face: yes, her nose was three inches wide, close to her upper lip, a bit like a boxer’s, which was mitigated by the fact that her mouth was also wider than most. But Phung was good-looking, and her physique was close to divine.

Her fingertips were restlessly playing with the hem of her skirt, which was short enough to expose about the five inches of tender smooth skin above her knees, now that she was sitting. But, yes: Her knees, arms, and hands were lovely, too; elegant but also energetic.

“Do you find me attractive, Mister Douglas?” she finally asked me, kinda out of the blue.

But then, also, perfectly fitting the moment. She had turned her head toward me and was demanding an honest answer, I sensed. After I had nodded a few times and swallowed with my mouth closed, I took a deep breath and told her how I felt about her:

“You have a very pleasant face. And an absolutely stunning body,” I panted.

Now, I finally wanted to see that dividing line between the front and back muscles on the side on her thighs. But for that, she would have to get up, I knew. Yet I also wanted her to remain seated as she was.

“Can you pull your dress a bit back, so that I can see your legs?” I still requested, as a compromise, heaving and hoping I hadn’t gone too far.

What I hadn’t expected was that Phung only too gladly pulled her dress all the way back. And that she was wearing shiny purple sports shorts under her lovely white dress. Okay, if she had been wearing white lacy panties with a mesh front, she may not have done it, but her light, sorta silky sports shorts looked perfectly presentable.

She could have worn them at the beach or around the house. Or to play badminton. They covered the upper fifth of her thighs, which were the lighter, the further away the skin was from her knees. Yes, still kinda young and healthy, as Phung was, she looked spiffy. And hot.

No, there was no need to hide her legs. As athletic as she was, she probably knew that her thighs were gorgeous. And she had surely shown them on many occasions, wearing either shorts or a skirt, on many a hot day, here in the tropics. Somehow, our little stalemate seemed to amuse her, as impishly as she was smiling:

“I got my period,” she finally told me, sounding and looking almost proud, although she was probably just explaining why she was wearing purple sports shorts under her white dress.

“You don’t look like you’re having cramps,” I indirectly inquired, as puzzled as I still was: smitten and besotted by the beauty of her thighs, her figure, and person in general.

As well as the whole situation, which was turning more and more sensual by the minute. Jesus, Phung, my student from eight years back, had just pulled her dress all the way back to show me her legs, I thought to myself, relishing the rare moment.

“Yesterday, I had cramps, but today’s fine. And tomorrow, it’ll be over,” she sounded relieved, before she took a deep breath.

Now, did she want us to have sex? Well, she probably thought that I wasn’t going to do it with her during her period, although I really liked period sex, since the lubrication was simply divine. So, that wouldn’t be an issue, but I wasn’t going to tell her right away. But then, our whole encounter was somewhat erotic and sensual…

Not knowing how to proceed, I hesitatingly placed my hand on her left thigh, which electrified both of us.

“Phung, we shouldn’t… be doing this. You know…” I said quietly, fully aware that I would be unable to resist her.

“I know, Mister Douglas. I feel a bit bad, too,” she sighed and swallowed with her mouth closed, before she added: “I’m at the point, though, where I don’t see another solution.”

“But what exactly do you have in mind?” I inquired, imagining her menstruating snatch.

Was she hairy? Or still a virgin, perhaps?

“Well, I’ve told you about my fears… there’s the fear that I just won’t find a husband, but then there’s another: What if I meet someone who I like but then, I screw it up?!”

“Oh, so you want the two of us to do some kind of trial-run: We could pretend not to know each other, like in a role-play, and then we meet in town…” I thus sketched the beginning of – what I thought could be – a promising encounter.

“Well, th-that m-maybe, too… b-but I also th-thought that you c-could help me a… along a bit… with sex. You could come h-here, once a week, and then, we try dif-different things.”

Finally, Phung had said it.Phew!

“But you’ve always spoken of my marriage like a model for others. And now, you want an affair with me?!” I challenged her.

“Nonsense. Not an affair. I don’t want you to separate from your wife… and you’re too old for me, anyway.”

I let that slide.

“You want a baby?” I tried to make sure, while we were at it.

“No, not without a husband,” she appeared darn sure, looking at me for a long time.

Since I wasn’t saying anything, Phung took the opportunity to explain herself some more:

“Mister Douglas, I’ve hardly ever had sex in my life. Maybe ten times, if even. Wearing a night gown, under the blanket, in a dark room. I don’t even know how it all works. And I have no words for all these things, in English.”

Phung seemed more serious than ever, naturally, but there was also a wry, diffident smile on her face. Would she now remind me that I was her English teacher, anyway? Should I ask her to fetch paper and a pen and start a vocabulary list of sex-related terms?

“So, you want me to break you in a bit?” I flippantly blurted out.

Phung probably didn’t know where the metaphor was taken from, but I found it perfect for our situation.

“I want you to prepare me for what lies ahead: a proper sex-life as a girlfriend and wife,” she nodded, obviously proud of her quirky, mesmerizing ruse: Fucking 101, An Introduction to the Art of Love-Making.

To which I could hardly say no. I mean, who would teach the young woman if not me? Funnily, she was still sitting with her skirt folded up, so that I now began to tenderly caress the skin on her smooth, warm, soft, yet also firm thigh, less than ten inches away from her menstruating, hopefully hairy pussy.

Phung closed her eyes to enjoy the very first minutes of the first lesson, in some ways, but then I admitted that I found it a tad strange that she had called me to come over during her period, of all possible days.

“Well, tomorrow, I’m busy and, on weekends, my dad is here. He works for the city administration. But I also thought that today, we would just talk. Don’t you need time to think about my proposal and make a decision if you want to… help me?”

“Phung, sex and thinking are mutually exclusive,” the Satyr snorted.

“Well, if you want: I could blow you. I’ve done that several times,” Phung admitted: “But I’d need to go to the bathroom, first. You know…”

Well, her blowjob-offer seemed a nice compromise and wasn’t implausible at all, but:

“I would want you to be, at least, half-naked, so that my cock develops nicely. And I’m curious to see your body, finally. Which I always liked.”

Phung seemed a tad surprised that I had already found her attractive, back in the day, but then thanked me for the compliment:

“Well, Mister Douglas. I don’t know. I don’t think I’m prepared for all that, today… I thought we would just talk about everything…”

“When you’re done in the bathroom, just put on a simple dark dress. Or shirt. Something older, maybe a dress in which you’d play badminton. So, it doesn’t matter if a bit of blood or tissue gets on it. No bra,” I suggested, realizing how horny and how curious I was to see her naked and touch her athletic petite body.

“Well, let’s go inside!” Phung suggested quietly, knowing that we had passed the point of no return.

Some form of relief we needed to find now. In the kitchen, Phung pointed at a chair, before she disappeared into her room. When she came back out, scooting over to the bathroom, I saw that she was holding some dark item of clothing in one hand, as well as a fresh Kotex pad, while I had no patience to sit here, in the kitchen.

Back outside, I was traipsing back and forth, like a tiger in a cage, but refrained from smoking, since we would kiss in ten minutes, in all likelihood. At least, Phung couldn’t get pregnant today – in the unlikely event of my cock ending up her tight, underused sheath. No, a nice blowjob to release some steam and get to know each other better would be fine.

Phew, at least, I knew about her cycle; otherwise, she could lie and then perhaps try to surreptitiously conceive a child, while telling me that we’d be safe. In the end, I went inside and sat down in the kitchen, but I was unable to think clearly. My head felt dizzy, while my ears were buzzing and ringing, a lot like the cicadas outside:

Jesus, Phung had set her mind on spreading her awesome little legs over the next semester. It was still hard to believe, but that was what she had said. A Master’s course as a teacher, and a Bachelor in Fucking. Or a Master’s as well?

Just when I had begun to think about what we could do the following week, Phung finally stepped out of the bathroom. She was now wearing a stretchy black cotton dress with white seams, which wasn’t much more than a long undershirt.

As tight as the simple dress was, it underscored her lovely stunning form and really seemed ideal for whatever was about to happen. Which was wonderfully, excitingly unclear. I had gotten up in the meantime and, while she was coyly shuffling closer, Phung asked if I wanted to sit down outside again.

Well, that would have prolonged our foreplay nicely, but I didn’t think that either of us would have had the patience to suffer through the tantalizing, titillating agony. So, I suggested we go straight to her bedroom, where I asked her to place an older dark towel onto the bed, which made sense to her.

While I was watching Phung doing the preparations, I unceremoniously took off my clothes, which I then placed on the second chair; on the first, there was her white dress from earlier. Phung was flustered to see me naked, of course, but she couldn’t take her eyes off my dangling twitching cock. Perhaps undressing completely was a bit rash, but to just get my dick out and remain fully dressed, otherwise, didn’t seem fitting.

And, of course, I didn’t want her blood and tissue to soil my clothes in the process. Rather unexpectedly – perhaps, Phung felt she needed to offer more of her stunning young body as I was already completely naked – she quite lasciviously pulled both arms out of the straps of her dress, before she pushed it down to her hips, where the fabric came to rest.

Now, I was looking at her small firm breasts, which reminded me of old-fashioned door bells. Her areolas were bigger than medium-size; a bit darker and larger than expected. There were two circles of blisters around her stiffening nipples. Her areolas looked crunchy and crusty, as if added later, after they had been baked for a bit too long.

“Mister Douglas, t-this is… kinda s-sudden, now…” she stammered, right when I began to fondle her left boob with my thumb.

Instead of a reply, I simply kissed her, before I told Phung that I wanted to see how serious she was about the project of being broken-in. I realized that that may have sounded a tad ominous to her, but then I simply handed her my cock to play with, which would distract and entertain her.

Now, I was lending her a hand – and a cock – not just in the figurative sense we had agreed upon two weeks prior, but literally. While she was exploring my stiffening twitching noddle, I caressed her sides and belly, before I reached under her skirt to see if she was still wearing panties.

She was. They felt smooth, almost silky, and appeared really tight. But I could also feel the Kotex pad that Phung had glued in fifteen minutes earlier. Eventually, I leaned forward to suck her breasts, but then she reminded me that we also have to talk some more:

“But maybe not now, I know,” she whispered, while I was flickering over her pumping nipple.

I was wondering if it would be better if I pulled her panties down, or if I wanted to watch her doing it, rather. I decided to go for the latter, because of the Kotex pad but, before either of us would do it, I lifted up her dress in the front to see what her panties actually looked like.

Well, they were rather pleasing to the eye, although not too special: silverish-grey with just a little lace. They still looked spiffy, reservedly elegant, and fairly new. Knowing what I wanted, Phung now placed both thumbs into the waistband of her undies and pushed them down but, since I had let go of her skirt, it was covering her mid-section again.

Like a curtain. Hadn’t I seen her black bush for a split-second, though? Or had that just been a figment of my imagination? I mean, what could be there but a dark, hairy triangle?! Anyway, the way Phung had stepped out of her panties had been pretty nonchalant and lascivious again. Apparently, even inexperienced women instinctively knew how to do that.

I was certain, however, that I had seen her right light butt cheek in the process, which was another divine moment. Oh, her butt must have smelled lovely, too; although today, as she was menstruating, I wasn’t going to dive in too deeply.

“I want to touch your pussy, gently, but I don’t want to smear the blood all over your skin,” I murmured, asking her indirectly if it would be okay to touch her treasure.

On the other hand, she had eagerly exposed her chest and didn’t hesitate to remove her panties, which were now – with the Kotex pad still glued in – on the floor, next to our feet.

“No, yes, go ahead,” Phung nodded: “You can quickly go and wash your hands, in between.”

Well, thus invited, I let my hand crawl under her skirt, where we then could hear the sweet smacking of her guava jam, announcing and foreshadowing the pleasures to come.

“Ooh, this feels so nice, Mister Douglas. I don’t even remember the last time I felt this way,” she was cooing, with her mouth gaping and head thrown back, looking at the ceiling.

“My wife and I haven’t had sex for ages,” I explained my eagerness, while my fingers were wreaking havoc in her little vestibule, but Phung didn’t comment on what I had said.

Not now. Apart from her juices, I could also feel that she had quite a bit of pubic hair, which seemed relatively short, though. Since I would see the glorious triangle in a minute, and then again for weeks and months on end, I focused more on the succulent, furry, tropical flower further down, which was open now, so that I pushed my middle finger inside her dripping unctuous sheath.

The fact that her simple, soft, black badminton dress was still resting on her hips – with her chest exposed but her snatch hidden, although I was already fondling it – was revoltingly hot. While my finger was still looking for her G-spot, we kissed fleetingly, but then Phung sent me to the bathroom to wash my hands.

When I stepped back into her bedroom, I noticed two things: that her silverish panties were still on the floor, in the same spot she had dropped them earlier, and that she had pushed her arms back through the straps of her dress, so that her boobs were now hidden again. Perhaps, she thought that both, pussy and bosom at once, would have been too much.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Phung opened her mouth, inviting me to place my half-stiff cock between her lips, before it would end up, in all likelihood, between her nether lips. I noticed that the upper of the two was nicely curved upward in the middle, while I was caressing her face, which I found more and more attractive, the longer I looked at it.

With my fists akimbo, I began swinging my hips only languidly, so that Phung wouldn’t get overwhelmed. After a minute or two, I tried to push my cock further into her mouth, which she took with grace. Eventually, Phung applied more pressure onto my wet shaft, which caused me to pull out a bit again, so that she could focus on my glans.

Feeling her rough tongue flickering around my sensitive tip, I stroked her hair and cheeks once more, before I leaned forward to push my hand deep down her dress to massage her naked chest again:

“You’re doing really well,” I paid her a compliment, in passing, when she opened her eyes again, encouraging Phung to follow her inclinations.

“But it’s also a bit strange what we’re doing… I mean, I really thought that we would just talk today, because I have my period,” she reiterated her earlier point.

“But you seem in good spirits. And healthy… there’s no reason not to… hey, lie down on the bed,” I requested, using the little intermission to notch up our game.

“But then, you can see everything,” she chuckled bashfully, but clearly fine with the idea.

“Seeing everything is part of it.”

So, Phung lay down, perpendicular to the way she would sleep, after which I grabbed a pillow and kneeled down on the floor. With my elbows resting on her thighs, near her knees, I tried to pick up her scent, before I would push my head between her little thighs and kiss myself upward on her ravishing legs.

After I had folded her black soft dress back a bit, I could sense a heaving and breathing furry animal between her light thighs: all the way up there, under the fabric. Oh, man, yes: Her bush was an equilateral triangle, dense, but with relatively short hair. There were more and longer ones right above her clit, but everything seemed picture-book perfect.

Balanced: Wild, yet cultivated, aromatic but not revoltingly so, fitting her country-bumpkin personality as well as her city-lady sophistication. Mature, yet also still youthful. As her fur wasn’t overly dense on her labia, I could see that the outer pair was fairly light, like two small, peeled bananas, while her inner pair of lips was ever so slightly crinkled and darker.

Of course, today, the center of her beguiling opening was smeared auburn and maroon. Imagining how unctuous she must be, an almost nauseatingly strong urge to fuck her washed all over me. Man, her pussy looked like the most beautiful ruby I had ever seen: it was glistening, almost bubbling and burbling with unctuous goodness.

As we had already agreed to see each other once a week or so over the next several months, I decided not to lick her menstruating snatch but just kissed myself closer to it on Phung’s thighs, paying close attention to the fragrance and the noises. Phung was heaving above me, ruffling my hair, and then decided to open her legs a bit more.

I now noticed that awesome dividing line between the upper or front muscles of her thighs and the few underneath on my fingertips, but I wasn’t going to look at it, now that my head was between her glorious little legs. Next time. Or later, in the shower.

When my knees began to hurt, I lifted Phung’s legs and turned the whole young lady by 90 degrees. When she was properly positioned on the large dark bath towel, she pulled her feet closer to her butt, which caused her stretchy dress to snap back: yes, there was my former student’s 30-year-old pussy; barely used and ready to conceive. Oooaarrhh…

Because Phung felt she had to, maybe, she had whimpered and protested a bit, but nothing was pointing in the direction that she didn’t want to fuck. It was just her first period sex, which she may have thought would protect her from me throwing myself directly onto and into her, but a blowjob wouldn’t have been enough today.

No, yes: We had passed the point-of-no-return almost an hour ago, and now I would sink my throbbing noodle deep into her hungry sheath. For some reason, I really liked, though, that I hadn’t seen her completely naked yet, as she was still wearing her black badminton dress.

But that moment when it had snapped back, before I lay down on her, had been one for posterity already. Yeah, had she hoped this morning that we would have sex? Deep down inside herself, probably. Although she wasn’t quite ready to admit it. But yes, a minute ago, Phung had positioned my glans where we both wanted it and, in the meantime, I had made speedy progress.

Slowly but constantly, I was getting deeper up inside her, while she was languidly writhing underneath me. As short as she was, I could feel her hot breath in my chest hair, which gave me wings to speed up my thrusting. And the lubrication was truly divine. I could also feel how things were loosening up around my cock; no, Phung hadn’t faked her inexperience.

Nor the predicament that she had wasted her best years waiting for her beau to return from Japan. But she was also keen on having sex, like most healthy human beings. She may have already been slightly past her prime, but better late than never: With my cock thrusting in her unctuous sheath, our bodies found their rhythm and then almost began to dance.

Yes, her lap appeared way too hungry or thirsty to leave it at a coy blowjob; we could do that when she was ovulating in about two weeks. Still feeling her hot breathing in my chest hair, I could hear myself groaning but, as soon as I began to holler more loudly, Phung cautioned me:

“Douglas, the neighbors can hear us.”

Well, the next house was thirty or forty yards away but, in Vietnamese villages, people often went spontaneously to others’ houses for a chat. And so, I partly suppressed my expressions of lust, while Phung was whimpering and moaning quietly under my large hairy chest, which muffled the sounds.

“Oach, ooach, ooarr… this is insane,” I muttered as was I pumping more frantically now, which elicited some more cute cascades of subdued shrieks and squeals from her.

Phung did seem to be holding back, however, not just because of the neighbors but, also, because she had never been allowed to live and express her sexuality freely; a fact which would change over the next weeks, I was already certain. Overall, she did seem full of assentation, the joy of anticipation, and hope.

“Phung, you have no idea what you have unleashed today,” I moaned, when I felt the characteristic prickling in my loins, to which she replied with a long crescendo of A-has, before she added, sniveling and snorting:

“Ac-tually, I.didn’t.want.to. Today.”

After which she reared her head and bit my nipple. Which hurt wonderfully:

“You forgot to word fuck, before today,” I chuckled, as we were supposed to work on her vocabulary, too, while I kept banging her ferociously.

“Hey, Phung: Just yell once: Fuck me, fuck me harder!” I cheered her on, so that she would eventually lose her inhibitions, while our loins kept twirling.

A-ha… Doug… fuck me! Harder! she did utter now, which was the hottest thing ever, coming from one of my former students.

Who had forced herself for too long to ignore the strongest force inside her.

“But let’s finish it quietly, because of the neighbors,” she remined me a minute later, which was fine.

Yes, her house here was a nice spot; I didn’t feel like going to different small hotels every week. Although, we needed to try that at least once, too.

“Sure. But what you just said could become our new motto,” I laughed, as my balls kept hitting her ass cheeks.

Yes, the next time I’m here I’ll lick her till she comes, I had just thought to myself when I splashed my lavish load up against her cervix. Phung would also squirt and maybe even pee during sex, at some point. Of course, not here on her bed.

Rapturously, I kept pumping a bit, even though I was done, technically. But the sensation of pushing my cock through her most unctuous sheath was just too riveting. In my mind’s eyes, I saw my whitish flakes hitting her cervix but now, Phung squirted profusely. Possibly, for the very first time in her life. Ever.

Meanwhile, I had lain down on her and, yes: Our midsections were soaking wet, but Phung was breathing more normally now. Leaning sideways, I allowed her to get some fresh air, but then, she began to nibble on my earlobe, after my dick had slipped out of her and I had slid down ten inches, so that we could kiss.

I could feel that my wet glans was touching Phung’s skin, but then she wanted to get up relatively quickly, after she had caught her breath. And herself:

“You know, the neighbors are kinda nosey. When someone steps into our house, I don’t want them to find us naked,” she giggled, as she was getting up.

Phung’s whole lap was smeared with all kinds of heavenly liquids that made her bush look like an Impressionist painting. In the shower, she instantly rinsed her pussy, before she let me wash her properly with soap. She didn’t say anything but was clearly fascinated by the reddish veneer on my dangling cock; something I was sure she had never seen before:

“Now, tell me again what your plan is for the next few months!” I requested, but more for our entertainment, as the path seemed pretty clear already:

“To be honest, Mister Douglas: We need to review everything,” Phung replied, laughing greedily: “I want to try the whole program: blowjobs, sex, you come on my breasts or on my face, and in my mouth. I swallow. Different positions; maybe even somewhere else, not here at my house…”

“But do you want to do this slowly, or shall we try something really lewd and outrageous the next time?” I asked her, before I told her to turn around, so that I could admire and fondle her ravishing butt.

Which was quite something as well: firm, smooth, of perfect proportions. Her butt cheeks reminded me of ostrich eggs. As slim as Phung was, her butt wasn’t much more than twelve or thirteen inches wide; perfect for such a petite, tight woman.

As I was caressing her from behind, I noticed that her torso and butt together resembled her guitar, which was still lying on the tall but narrow wooden table in the hall. When I placed my flat hand between her butt cheeks to fondle her peach some more – for which I had to bend my knees – she turned her pretty head and then looked up at me:

“We’ll do a mix: slow things and then also something more crazy in between. But I need to know what normal Westerners would do during sex, of course. And: I’ve never really seen the stuff that comes out of your thing, for instance.”

Oookay. Instead of replying, I just hugged her from behind, before I fondled her firm wet breasts again.

“But, Phung: We gotta be careful. You know, I’m married…” I whispered in her ear.

“Yeah, people mustn’t know. But if someone sees us together, we’ll say that you’re teaching me English.”

“Which is true, in the widest of all senses.”

“But, Mister Douglas, one more thing: It took me a lot to undress in front of you and have sex. With you. We can’t stop now.”

Yeah, that was certainly true. And she had not only exposed her body, but also her soul. What a predicament it was: Yes, I was married, but my wife and I hadn’t had sex for years. But now, there was young Phung, who was hungry and eager. And our project even had a wholesome goal. Which she might not be able to achieve with my help.

Her plan to be introduced to the joys of sex over the next weeks and months was just too fascinating and beguiling to abandon it now; especially, since we hadn’t even started properly yet. As I was playing with her pussy entrance, I briefly thought of digging out some of the stuff Phung had never really seen, but refrained.

Perhaps, she would be embarrassed and didn’t want to look at the blood and tissue that was seeping from her ticking uterus. Next week, there would be another, fresh load. Or even two. Since we were in a hurry, we rinsed, but then she sent me back to her room to dry myself. I then dressed quickly and was already done when Phung entered her bedroom, wrapped in a large bath towel.

“You should take off. I’ll need some more time to get dressed,” she told me quietly, before she closed her eyes and tilted her head backward, so that we could kiss goodbye.

“I’ll need several days to digest this,” she smiled after our mouths had disentangled from our kiss, which seemed to have lasted for an eternity.

Outside, I lit a ciggy, before I sat on my Honda and put my helmet on:

“Take a bottle of water for the road! But the cookies, we’ll eat next time!” Phung smiled, pointing at the pack on the table, before she waived at me; standing inside her house, two feet away from the door frame, still wrapped in her large green towel.

Which she now opened once more for a split-second. Yes, there were her doorbell boobs and her midsection, with her relatively large, black, hairy triangle. Of which I would take good care over the following weeks and months.