A Soap Opera: My Year of Living Dangerously (With Asian Women)
Copyright© 2025 by Asiansexfight uncensored
Chapter 12: Iku Sexfights Vietnamese Women
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 12: Iku Sexfights Vietnamese Women - Those long-running TV afternoon time fillers. They consist of implausible plots, caricatures of perfect people wearing designer clothes, are filled with ever-changing feuds, backstabbing, shifting relationships, and characters who appear briefly when needed but then disappear without reason, and poor acting. But even though we know all this, we become hooked and go along for the ride. Here is a Soapie of my year living dangerously with sexfighting Asian females.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Coercion Consensual NonConsensual Slavery BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Workplace Cheating Slut Wife Incest Mother Daughter Humiliation Group Sex Interracial White Male Oriental Female Anal Sex Double Penetration Exhibitionism Fisting Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting Voyeurism Big Breasts Body Modification Cat-Fighting Revenge
This can be read and enjoyed as a stand-alone story, but deeper character depth and the effects of the plots, rivalries, twists and turns will be found by reading the chapters in order.
The first indication was auditory. Before I even fully entered, I heard the rhythmic, wet-flesh squelching from upstairs, accompanied by Iku’s unmistakable voice moaning in Japanese and English jumbled together. “YES! MORE! DEEPER! FUCK!”
I climbed the stairs and found Iku in what used to be Mai’s office, but now clearly Iku’s domain. She was completely naked, sprawled across the desk with her small 5’3” frame barely covering half its width as her massive 36EE fake tits heaved with each deep breath she took.
Between her legs, and doing a great job of stretching and filling her pussy, was a dildo that could only be described as monstrous. It was at least ten inches long, made of intimidatingly thick, black silicone and gleaming with the juices of her arousal. She was working it in and out of herself with desperate concentration, bucking her hips up to meet each thrust. Her face showed genuine pleasure, almost bordering on addiction to the arousal the self fucking was giving her.
“Third session today!” she gasped when she noticed me, without stopping. “Used it twice this morning already: once in the shower, then again on the bed before I fucked Mai, and now again because I can’t stop thinking about your cock”
Her third session, and it wasn’t even 1.30 pm. As for Mai, the re-challenge had come weeks later. It had been close, but Iku had won, and every rematch since had become easier, until Mai was now merely a toy to be used by Iku. Her only use these days was to be fucked by Iku and humiliated, which suited Iku fine. I feared that The Plan was going off the rails, and I was becoming a toy, not the master puppeteer controlling the action.
She increased her pace, the extra-large dildo stretching her prominent labia with each thrust, her slender body with its pornographic bolt-ons trembling as she approached climax. “This thing is huge, even bigger than you, but it’s not the same! It doesn’t...” Her words cut off as orgasm hit, and I watched her cunt clench around the toy, her body convulse, as a scream echoed through the office.
When she finally came down, she eased the dildo out, soaked with her arousal, and tossed it aside carelessly. “You’re back,” she said, as if we were discussing the weather. “Good. I need your real cock. Your cock specifically. I’ve been masturbating constantly since you visited those interstate clients, five, six, seven times a day, and it’s not enough. I need you inside me.”
She climbed off the desk, cum dripping down her thighs, and walked toward me with a predatory grace. “I’ve been faithful. Haven’t fucked anyone else, just this,” She gestured at the dildo, “and my hands and thinking about you. But beating Mai, again and again while you watched, has made me insatiable. I need to fuck constantly.”
Her hand grabbed my crotch, finding me already hard from watching her display. “Five times a day minimum. That’s what I need now. Morning before you’re fully awake. Mid-morning when the need hits me again. Afternoon, then evening before dinner, and finally a long one before sleep. Can you handle that? Can you keep up with what I’ve become?”
I answered by lifting her slim body easily and sitting her on the desk, pushing into her still-wet pussy in one stroke. The 42-year-old Japanese woman cried out with relief and satisfaction, and wrapped her legs around my waist. “Yes! This! This is what I needed! Real cock. Your cock, not that fake thing!”
I fucked her on the desk, claiming her willing pussy while she screamed encouragement. Her bolt-ons pressed into my chest as she took everything I gave while her pussy gripped my fuckmeat and she used her muscle control on it. It was a long fuck and gave me time to think and plan.
She came for the first time within five minutes, explosively and violently, with her body shaking. “ONE”, she screamed. “I need four more today. You owe me four more.” I came shortly after, flooding her with cum, and she sighed with deep satisfaction as I filled her. I was satisfied too, as I had come up with the beginning of an idea of how to satisfy the monster I had created.
Over the next few days, I learned she wasn’t exaggerating. Her sexual appetite had become genuinely overwhelming. Every morning I’d wake to her already grinding against me, whispering desperately that she needed me inside her. By 10 AM she’d find me wherever I was, demanding another session. Lunch break meant fucking on whatever surface was convenient. Late afternoon she’d be masturbating with her collection of increasingly large dildos if I didn’t provide relief. Evening and night brought two more sessions. I was heading for a physical breakdown if I kept up this pace.
“It’s the victory,” she explained one night as I lay exhausted beside her, my cum leaking from her still throbbing slit. “Beating Mai in that six-hour sexfight rewired something in my brain. Made me constantly aroused. Constantly needing to assert dominance through fucking. But I only want and trust you. The slaves are for psychological domination and training. But my actual sexual need is all directed at you.”
I took the opportunity and seized the moment. “I have heard there are a lot of underground sexfight betting contests among the Vietnamese women living here in Melbourne. It’s a great opportunity for you to prove yourself better, as you did with Mai, then receive your victory fuck from me. Should I look into it?”
If Iku was a cat, she would have purred. Within days, using the Asian supermarket in Richmond’s free advertisement board beside the trolleys, I hit gold. I used Google Lens to translate the messages pinned to the board. Among the handwritten and home-printed ads for rooms to let, mechanics, homemade tofu, sewing alterations, etc., I found some requests for women’s personal bets, starting at $100, with the highest being $1500. I took photos of them and this time, left the supermarket without cursing the long queue and one cash register, as I usually did.
I had guessed right because the third woman I phoned, the first who spoke recognisable English, confirmed it was a sexfight with the loser paying the amount of the bet. I thanked her and phoned the number of the $1500 bet, who, after inquiring who my woman had fought, and finding she hadn’t, said she didn’t fight nobodies and slammed the phone down. I had learnt you needed street cred to fight at that level of bet, and re-phoned the first woman and arranged Iku’s first betting sexfight.
The next afternoon Iku and I took the escalator to the 15th floor of Building 2 in the Brunswick St public housing estate. 15 floors were too many for me to ascend using the stairs, but I made sure to press the lift buttons with my car key, not my fingers and resisted the urge, as many had not done, to piss in the corner of the lift. As it was daytime, I didn’t have to worry about the broken light in the lift. I pressed the button on the door marked 1508, and Huong Tran opened the door.
She was a skinny, almost malnourished 26-year-old Vietnamese woman, dressed in the uniform of a single mother living in government-assisted public housing: a cheap tracksuit purchased from K Mart and old imitation sheepskin UGG boots. She didn’t have Mai’s disciplined workout leanness, but the thinness of a woman who has fed three children before herself for years. She was narrow-boned with prominent collarbones and wrists, a concave post-pregnancy stomach, smallish tits and permanent dark circles round her eyes. If you looked closely, you could see she may have looked okay eight years earlier.
She said she was Huong Tran, and her eyes nearly popped out of her head when Iku stepped out from behind me. As you know, I am a person’s person, so when Iku went to prepare in the bathroom, I talked and listened, and found out she was a single mother of three who supplemented her government single mother’s allowance with cash sexfight betting income. She said she had started fighting to pay for her kids’ extra private tuition. I glanced at her arms, and there were no needle marks, so I thought she may have been telling the truth. I learnt her kids were next door with the older woman in 1507 so they wouldn’t interrupt the fight, and she boasted her strength was her endurance and cunt muscles as she used them on a dildo as she watched the afternoon TV Soapies.
You may think of me as an upper-class, privileged white ex-private school boy, but when I had first started my Accounting business, I was short of cash and paid rent for four years to live with the Vietnamese family of an early client. They had a corner unit which had three, not the standard two bedrooms of the high-rise government housing, so they could rent one bedroom to me. As it was my business, I could produce low-income pay slips for myself, which gave me official occupancy and an undercover car park. I gained accommodation within walking distance of both the CBD and my Richmond business.
It was almost like old times, talking about how one of the free -use washing machines on each floor was out of action or had someone else’s clothes left there for hours, the lift being out of order, or police banging on the door at midnight with the right room number, wrong building. Looking closely at her under the harsh fluorescent lights, I saw she could have been pretty once. Her hair was long, black, and tied back in a practical ponytail that a hairdresser never saw. Her face, as I have said, could have been pretty with good bone structure, but exhaustion, dark eyes that had seen too much, and an overall wariness made her look older than twenty-six.
I steered the conversation around to the sexfight betting and learnt that the woman who accepted the bet chose the event. Huong chose to her strength, and said it would be a fingering-only contest, most cums in an hour with the receiving woman spreading open her cunt and being fingered without closing her cunt or using her hands to restrict the other woman, explaining to me that was the longest contest at this level of betting. Shit, there was a lot to learn about these betting sexfights, I realised.
Huong spread a well-used mattress on the floor and stripped, as did Iku, who had reappeared and who, despite the squalid surroundings, was really excited and aroused. I was more concerned about sitting on a used syringe hidden by a cushion on the fourth hand sofa. I learnt more rules as Huong’s hands went to her cunt and she started masturbating. Seeing the look on my face, she explained, “You get fifteen minutes to drain yourself before the contest.” Iku took the hint and started pleasuring her pussy and gave a groan and came, then continued her fingerwork, and just before a kitchen timer beeped 15 minutes, she shuddered again, though Huong had cum 3 times.
Huong fished a ten-cent coin out of her tracksuit pocket, showed both faces like a croupier at Crown Casino on Two Up day, and flicked it up. “Heads, I finger fuck you first,” she said flatly. The coin came down heads, and Iku just nodded. I noted the rule for later: the toss decided who chose to do what, and as you don’t last long on a housing estate betting if you make the wrong choice, it looked like it was better to know how many you had to defend.
The mechanics, as I finally understood them: each had one hour as the receiving woman. During the hour, she kept it open. There was to be no closing up of thighs to protect your cunt, no use of hands to restrict the giver and no writhing of your hips. The giver used only their fingers in the opponent’s cunt to arouse. The receiver’s cums were counted against her, with the woman who climaxed the most losing. A simple, brutal, and effective way of deciding the better woman and winner of the bet.
Following Huong’s instructions, Iku lay back on the mattress, legs opened wide, and Huong went to work immediately, and I mean immediately. There were no theatrics, just three spit-wetted fingers straight in, curled up hard against the front wall, thumb grinding the clit, and she established a piston-like rhythm. Iku was still aroused from the pre-fight period and, with no experience of this contest, had no defence ready. Nine minutes in, she shrieked, her cunt clamping on Huong’s fingers, her bolt-ons shuddering, and the flat-faced Vietnamese woman just kept working like a sewer on piece rates.
“One,” Huong said, not even looking up. Her wrist didn’t tire, and she changed angles and depth regularly as she chased Iku’s orgasms. Iku recovered, and fifteen minutes in she got her breathing back under control, and her cunt muscles clamped down and fought back. Under the rule, you couldn’t close your legs and restrict entry to your cunt, but you could make the giver work for every cum with cunt-muscle control. Iku gritted her teeth, sweated, accepted four fingers and a thumb and varied attacks from every angle Huong tried, and gave up exactly one more cum, at the forty-seven minute mark. After an hour, the kitchen timer beeped, and there were two cums against Iku’s name. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.
Huong sat back on her heels, wiped her hand on the tracksuit, and her face showed no emotion. To win, she had to keep her own receiving count under two, or if they were even, they went for another thirty minutes each. From her face, I had no idea whether she was confident or not. Iku knelt up, cracked her neck, and smiled the smile I had last seen in room 7008. “My turn.”
Huong lay back and spread her cunt, and Iku went to work, with two fingers inside Huong and her other hand’s fingers on the perineum pressure point she had used on Mai. I knew Huong had trained her endurance and her cunt muscles on a dildo while watching the afternoon Soapies on the TV. Eighteen minutes in, her flat stare broke for the first time, her hips bucked, and she came with a groan that turned into Vietnamese swearing.
Huong continued to fight, trying every trick and technique she had, as Iku’s fingers kept arousing her and the pressure point added variety. Twenty-one minutes later, the second one lifted her buttocks off the mattress. Huong’s endurance was real, I will say it. A softer woman would have rolled over and given up. She held on, jaw locked, eyes on the ceiling, cunt fighting the fingers, and Iku looked worried but managed to drag the third winning orgasm from Huong with 100 seconds to go. There was no need to play out the hour. Three beat two, and it was over with Iku winning.
Huong lay on the mattress staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, and I watched the maths land on her face. Two weeks of groceries, or the kids’ tuition, walking out the door. She sat up, went to a drawer, and counted five worn twenty-dollar notes onto the table without a word, then pulled the pink tracksuit top back over her tits.
Iku barely had the breath to gloat. She crawled to me instead, dropped to her knees, and demanded it in the same words as always. “I won. Fuck me now while she watches.”
I did, and I will spare you the details, because what I was watching was Huong. She sat on the fourth hand sofa with her arms crossed, flat stare back in place, but it had changed. She was not looking at Iku. She was looking at me, doing sums, and I knew the look. I had seen it on Mai once, behind the glasses, years of invisibility being tossed aside. I mused if I could use The Plan as Iku howled underneath me. Street cred had been gained for Iku, and I had to find more fights for Iku.
The next day, after some overnight thinking, I knocked on door 1508 and Huong answered wearing the same tracksuit. Although surprised, she invited me in and turned off the TV, denying me the chance to watch Days of Our Lives. She hadn’t lied either, as I sat on a wet, discarded dildo.
I got down to business. As my Vietnamese was limited to mainly greetings, health enquiries, weather-type stuff, or asking about relatives or trips to Vietnam and some specific small business vocabulary, sexfighting discussion was obviously out of my league. I needed a sexfight broker. Whether it was handing back her losing bet, my silver tongue or the fact that I said the winnings, less any losing bets that had to be paid, would be Huong’s, she agreed to contact Vietnamese and arrange fights for me.
A normal man would have been happy and left the concrete-walled, vinyl floor covered government 15th floor housing unit. I didn’t leave. I decided to test The Plan by adopting it to Huong’s situation and personality. I asked to see her 3 kids’ photos, and oohed and aahed as she flicked through photos of them, and proudly told me of their achievements at school. I asked if the father was alive, ready to offer my sympathy.
“Three fathers, all of them were cunts who disappeared when I was 5 or 6 months pregnant and not fucking them. They refuse to pay alimony, and will bash me if I chase them for it,” she said.
Light bulbs clicked above my head. The key to this variation of the plan was dollars. As well as her brokering Iku’s fights, I suggested a job as my receptionist, as her English skills were perfect, though I may have been exaggerating a bit. Her face lit up, but then fell. “I would lose my government single mother income,” she said.
“Not if I paid cash,” I replied. Things progressed quickly as I told her that her role would be lying and covering for me when I wasn’t there, some translating, finding out Vietnamese gossip on my clients, and not allowing any woman who visited the office or was at a function we attended to be dressed more sexily than her.
She looked at her tracksuit, light blue today, not pink and told me this was all she had. I had expected it, so I took Huong to Skin Siren in St Albans. It was a shop I’d heard about from that non-stop talking, idiotic Greg at the Lorne seminar. The Boutique, according to its sign, occupied a narrow storefront between a Vietnamese bakery and a tattoo parlour, and the window displayed mannequins in poses and outfits that would make a stripper blush.
Inside, racks of clothing lined both walls, organised by occasion: “Club Whore,” “Office Tease,” “Party Slut, and so on.” A Vietnamese woman dressed 30 years younger than her age, with a yellow streak in her hair and multiple long, dangling earrings, looked up from her phone as we entered, appraising us with bored expertise. And if you’re asking, no, I wouldn’t kick her out of my bed.
“First time?” she asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
“She needs three outfits,” I said. “Slut-wear for business. Maximum attention, but no leather, vinyl or catsuits.”
The woman nodded, already moving through the racks with practised efficiency, mentally sizing me up as to what she could charge. “Daughter or girlfriend?” she asked, glancing at Huong.
“Wife,” I said, using the same line I had used with Yumi in Cairns, and the result was the same, as I’m sure I saw Huong quiver with pride. It was a core feature of The Plan.
The first outfit was a charcoal pinstripe skirt suit, one size too small in the jacket, cut so low the lapels were unable to close even with Huong’s modest 30A tits, to be worn with nothing underneath, the shop-owner said. The skirt was a pencil skirt in name only, cut eight inches shorter than any office would allow, with a side slit that finished five inches below her waistband so the start of one of her arse cheeks showed whenever she walked. A white blouse, sheer enough to be transparent under office lighting, worn open to the third button. No bra was included, and the outfit was finished off with black five-inch heels.
“You’ll need to be shaved smooth for that one,” the woman said to Huong, running a finger along the material covering her own slit. “It’s the same material as the one I am wearing, and any hair catches on it like it’s Velcro. But which is more important, comfort or people looking?” She glanced at me and said, “Of course it doesn’t trouble me as I’m lasered bare.”
The second outfit the proprietress proudly displayed was a fitted navy blue business suit that looked, on the hanger, like something a female high-level government official would wear. Its jacket was tailored and buttoned, single-breasted, professional. That is, until she showed how the buttons sat low at the bottom of the jacket, making the V hang open. She selected a white satin camisole cut so low it would only cover the bottom third of Huong’s smallish tits to go with it. The skirt was a proper knee-length pencil skirt from the front, but a back split went almost all the way up to the waistband, to show bare arse and the string of a black thong whenever she would take a step.
The final creation at first glance looked conservative. It was a proper, elegant tailored business jacket, and after the first two outfits I was surprised. But when I waited for the matching skirt, nothing was produced. The jacket was the outfit, and it would only reach, say, an inch lower than the wearer’s groin, with the two sides below the bottom button able to flap open.
Lan demonstrated by holding the lapels apart, and there was nothing sold to go under it and cover. No blouse, no camisole, not even a g-string. It would be just a naked Huong from the navel down whenever the fabric swung. “This is the one for meetings that run long,” Lan said, closing it again. “She sits, the sides part, and whoever is across the table spends the whole meeting trying to work out if she is wearing anything at all. By the time he works out she isn’t, he has agreed to whatever you wanted.”
She folded the jacket, smoothing it down like it was her own. “I wear this one myself, when I have to pay bills. It has never once failed to work, and I have never once had to open my mouth to do it. Well,” she said, glancing directly at me, “not to talk, anyway.”
As Huong tried the garments in the cubicle, and I could hear her squeals of excitement, the owner, who by now had told me her name was Lan, said, “Fairly extreme for someone not used to this sort of thing. The first one’s fabric has four-way stretch. It’ll hold her in, push her up and cover her deficiencies. I usually go for something a bit more revealing myself, mostly in a white or cream material that makes me look innocent even when I’m basically naked.” I noticed then that not only were her eyes surgically enhanced, but also her tits were as she had them, almost in my chest.
“She’ll need to be careful walking or sitting in all of them,” she continued. “It leaves her completely open. One wrong move and she’s showing her cunt to the room. Not that it is a bad thing if you are confident, like me, and your man likes that sort of thing.”
Huong came out and pirouetted in the second outfit. Again, when Huong returned to the cubicle, Lan spoke. “Contrast and suggestion. The skirt looks almost respectable from the front. Then, when she turns around, her arse is barely covered. The blouse looks professional and businesslike until you realise you can see everything. The bra is, of course, optional. It is something I would forgo, though my tits are far bigger than your wife’s, so she would need the uplift it gives.”
Bringing out the outfits, Huong met my eyes in the mirror, and I saw she understood. These weren’t clothes for a woman who wanted to be seen as respectable. These were outfits for someone whose value was measured in the hardness of men’s cocks and the jealousy of women’s eyes.
I paid in cash, and along with my change, there was a note saying that she had better, more revealing garments that she could show me in a private showing. My cock answered for me, and I nodded, and Lan licked her lips in response.
We stopped off at a nearby hair/beauty salon, and Huong had the Vietnamese staple: tattooed eyebrows and lips, fake nails and a bit of body in her hair. I watched the six Vietnamese hairdressers in action. They weren’t paid a salary, but paid the owner a set amount for the use of a chair for the day, then kept any money customers paid to them. Hence they fought, dressed like the pole dancers at Goldfinger’s Gentlemen’s Club, for male customers, as women would just take the first available. In the car trip back, I told her to give me a list of Korean cosmetics so I could order them online.
When we were back at her government house, she thanked me. Not with words. Her three kids were still next door in 1507, and she pushed me down onto the fourth hand sofa, knelt either side of my hips, and pulled her tracksuit pants off one leg at a time. In the same way she counted out the losing bet, there was no ceremony or seductive flourishes. But her face was different. The flat stare was gone, and what was on it now was want, plain and undisguised, and that was what pleased me.It told me The Plan was working.
Up close, stripped, she was a study in what three kids and no money do to a 26-year-old body. I took it in the way I analyse a balance sheet. Her tits were small, 30A at a guess, the size of a couple of scoops of ice cream, but her nipples were another story entirely. Long and thick, dark, the nipples of a woman who had three kids hanging off them, and big enough to hang my jacket on. Her waist was narrow, maybe 24 inches, and her hips flared out to maybe 32. Her stomach was concave, then my eyes dropped to her cunt, which was shaved bare, not salon smooth. She didn’t suffer from the long torso, short legs Asian syndrome, and that was a bonus. Above her arse was a tramp stamp. It was a backyard, not salon-inked dragonfly, about the size of my palm, inked by someone who charged by the hour and got paid by the minute.
She took my cock in her fist, was suitably impressed as she was used to Vietnamese men, gave it a couple of businesslike strokes to get it where she needed it, and sat down on it in one slow slide. Her cunt was wet, and she immediately went to work on it. I felt her muscles ripple along my shaft in waves as she rode me cowgirl, and I did what was important, which was to watch her face. Her eyes were shut at first, then opened and fixed on mine.
The new tattooed eyebrows gave her face a permanent look of mild surprise, and the fake nails were dug into my chest, but it was her mouth I watched. She bit her lip, then stopped biting it, then let it hang open. Her skinny body worked over me like a machine with one job, narrow hips pumping, her smallish tits barely moving except for the nipples, which swung like two pendulums on the antique grandfather clock in my office I kept to add some class that visitors would notice. Thin she may have been, but her hips were strong, and she ground down on me at the bottom of each stroke like she was trying to take another half inch which I didn’t have.
“You gave me a job,” she moaned, not slowing down. “You bought me clothes, treated me with respect. I’m a single mother with three kids, and nobody has ever given me anything.” She leant forward, and her long thick nipples dragged up and down my chest with every slide of her body up and down my cock. “So I am thanking you now. The Vietnamese way.”
I would have paid good money to know which part of Vietnam had that custom, and visit there. She sat back up, planted both hands on my knees, and then rode me properly. Her breathing became ragged, and she stopped talking, and the woman who had shown no emotion losing her grocery money to Iku was now showing her inner self. She came with a shudder running from her hips up her spine, a strangled Vietnamese sentence, and her cunt clamping down on my cock so hard my eyes watered. She didn’t stop. She slowed for ten seconds, then picked the rhythm back up, chasing a second one, and I realised she wasn’t just thanking me. She needed it. Three kids, three vanished fathers, years of feeding everyone but herself, and this was the first thing in a long time done purely for her.
I grabbed her bony hips and started thrusting up into her, meeting her descents, and she made a sound I hadn’t heard from her before, high and surprised, as she came again. Her third orgasm took longer, and she worked for it, jaw set the same way it had been set on the mattress defending her count against Iku, except this time she was chasing, not defending. When it hit, she collapsed forward onto my chest, shaking, her long nipples pressed hard against me, and I held her narrow ribcage and finished inside her, her muscles still milking me.
She leant against me for a while, getting her breath back as my cum leaked onto the sofa that had seen worse. Then she lifted her head. And asked, “Are you hungry?”
She asked if I liked Bun Bo Hue, the chilli-saturated noodle soup from Central Vietnam. Having had it often in Bridge Rd restaurants, I said yes, I liked it better than Pho. Well, I learnt something. Restaurant Bun Bo Hue has been altered for Westerners. Instead of slices of beef, authentic homemade Bun Bo Hue, like hers, had coagulated pork blood, liver, tendon, and ox tail gelatin.
Concentrating on the benefits of The Plan, I managed to finish it, but then she asked, “Do you want more?”
I nearly vomited, but then I saw she had her hands on the table with her body bent, tracksuit pants at her ankles, ready for doggy style. My stomach settled itself. The Plan had taught me that appetite comes in more than one form.
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