Soap Opera 2: Asian Women and My Business
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Chapter 2: Thuy and the Sydney trip
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2: Thuy and the Sydney trip - Soap Opera 2: Asian Women and My Business goes up against my other Soapy Series, A Soap Opera: My Year of Living Dangerously(with Asian women). Just like when Days of our Lives, The Bold and the Beautiful and Dallas fought for TV ratings, and some viewers watched one while others channel hopped, you too can be a loyal reader of one or binge on both. This new series follows my Australian business and Asian women and is full of over the top characters, implausible plots, rivalries & feuds.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Blackmail Coercion Consensual BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Light Bond Group Sex Interracial White Male Oriental Female Anal Sex Double Penetration Exhibitionism Fisting Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting Voyeurism Big Breasts Size Small Breasts Cat-Fighting
The next day, after our conversation, Huyen surprised me when she showed up at the office and, instead of focusing on her work, spoke to me. “Mr Greg, I’ve been thinking about what you said about how I could boost my confidence for the business, so I ordered some things from Temu. They are my idea of corporate wear that could step up my presentation.”
I leant back in my chair, very happy indeed, as she scrolled through her phone to show me the order. It consisted of several micro- mini pleated Japanese-style skirts that’d barely covered her arse when she stood and would flap up with every step. They were paired with a fitted blazer that screamed “boardroom tease”, plus slut heels and underwear that made the thong and quarter-cup bra I’d got her look tame.
“I know it’s extreme, but I think it’ll help with the Tia Ling vibe we discussed. It’s a business professional look, but it should turn heads at meetings and give the firm a modern, with-it look.”
What could I say to take away her happiness, and mine, as I saw my chance of winning the bet with Jim Thompson? I nodded encouragingly as my cock hardened at that thought. “Huyen, I agree. Let’s sort the heels first. We need to find the height that shows your legs at their best.”
She nodded, kicking off her work shoes, and I grabbed a stack of old folders and piled them on the worn carpet to make a makeshift raised step. “Put your heels on it, and we’ll build it till it feels and looks the best.” She placed her heels on the stack, and her face changed with each folder added, gaining self-confidence with each added folder. She watched the results in a mirror while I observed her closely, noting how her eyes lit up most at about five inches.
“What do you think, Mr Greg?”
“I thought the second last,” I said, that being the one that had her most happy as she looked in the mirror.
“Same as what I thought, Mr Greg,” she said happily. “Five-inch stilettos should fit in with these outfits and help in sealing client deals.” Her cheeks flushed, “Yes, just the thought makes me feel new and different, Mr Greg. It’s as though I could handle anything now.” She took a deep breath. “What about garter belts and stockings in case we have top-level international client meetings. I think they would match anything the wives wear and improve our firm’s image.”
I tilted my head, pretending to think it over, but in reality, to hide the joy surging through my face. “I agree. It will be best for those big, important ones, add that extra class and professionalism and not let their women outdo us.”
She scrolled through Temu again. “Wait, look at this. It’s a tight skirt dress split wide right up to the waist.” She scrolled to another bookmarked page. “And I could pair it with this special stocking garter combination where the stockings reach all the way to the groin.” She was on a roll. The combo would be dual-purpose too, as I think it would work perfectly with miniskirts. There would be no gap between the stocking tops and skirt hem, and it would only be visible when I want it to be.”
I swallowed hard, picturing it on my mouse-like, unmarried secretary, seeing the slits flashing skin, glimpses of garters and stocking tops. But more importantly, I pictured her no-sex life cracking wide open. “Great work, Huyen. Order it as this will change everything for the firm.” She also picked out some new trousers for me. They were that new close-fitting style, not like my baggy, daggy old ones, saying that we should look good together.
Two days later, after a bit of back-and-forth on the phone, Huyen and I fronted up at an expensive clinic in the city. The surgeon was Thuy’s husband, Que, whom I had done the prenup work for, so he owed me, and we received express service. I was in full actor mode, playing the supportive boss as we showed him photos of Tia Ling.
“See, Que. Huyen’s got the same height and build as this Tia Ling: 5 feet 1, 110 pounds. Her height and weight match, while her waist and hips are dead ringers at 24-33. You just need to add some 34Cs, in that same hard, fake look, like in these photos of Tia Ling. The firm’s footing the bill, so book her in pronto.” I was already spending the money from the new clients gained at the Annual meeting. They had fallen for the trap of believing that if they paid annually up front, they would get a cheaper fee and better service. What idiots.
He went to work on his computer and soon pulled up some photos of Huyen before-and-then AI altered after shots on his screen, explaining the procedure in that calm, everything will be right, salesman-like tone surgeons have when they smell money. I am sure most of his attention was on which new Ferrari he would be purchasing, as Huyen was just one of many patients who would finance it.
Huyen bit her lip, eyes widening as she studied the images, but I knew she was all in as her Tia obsession had her hooked. We wrapped it up quickly, scheduling the surgery for ten days, and as we left, I praised her. “You’re the only one I know who could pull this look off successfully, and the look on her face showed she agreed.
The ten days flew by in a blur of even more new customer invoices and client queries, which had originated from the Vietnamese Small Business Association annual meeting, and before I knew it, surgery day rolled around. I dropped a nervous but happy Huyen off at the hospital that morning. “Can’t wait to see you after the operation,” I told her. “You will be Tia Ling, but better.”
That evening, I went back during visiting time and slipped into her recovery room. The place was hospital stark with pale cream walls, beeping machines, crisp white sheets, and an antiseptic tang in the air. Huyen was still out under the sheets, so I guessed she must have had to wait, as all the day’s operations had a listed time of 9am. Her plain face was slack, and her glasses were propped on the side table, but I pulled up a chair anyway, my gut spilling over my belt as I waited. I thought it would be best for her first sight on regaining consciousness to be her supportive, caring boss
After 15 minutes, she stirred, eyes fluttering open, and, as I had planned, the first thing she saw was me, leaning in with what I hoped was a supportive look. “Good evening, sleeping beauty. How’s it gone?”
Huyen blinked, still groggy from the anaesthetic, then her hands drifted up under the gown, tentatively cupping her new bolted-on 34Cs. She gasped, a mix of surprise and wide-eyed excitement lighting up her features. “Mr Greg, they’re real. So full and firm, just the same as Tia’s.” Her fingers explored a bit more, pressing gently, and she let out a small, thrilled moan, as if she couldn’t believe it.
That was when the door swung open, and a stern nurse in scrubs entered, clipboard in hand, and eyed me like I was a stray dog. “Sir, visiting hours immediately post-operation are for family only. You will have to leave.”
I didn’t budge, putting on my best innocent look. “Family? She is my wife. And has been for years.”
The nurse frowned, checking her chart. “Different surnames, Nguyen and yours. It doesn’t add up.”
Before she could boot me out, another nurse poked her head in. Luckily for me, she was a Vietnamese woman in her mid-forties. “It’s fine, Karen. In Vietnamese culture, wives often keep their maiden names. No big deal, let him stay if she’s okay with it.”
Huyen nodded weakly from the bed, her mind still buzzing from her touch-test, and the nurse Karen backed off with a huff and glare. I smiled at her and gave her retreating back the finger. I settled back in, grinning at Huyen. “Told you I’d be here for the big reveal”
When she was a little rested, I told her that I had booked her into the health retreat in Warburton for a week, as Que, the surgeon, had said a quiet recovery helped the patient make a better recovery. Unfortunately, it meant the seclusion there was absolute, so she would be cut off from the real world. I looked sad as I said that, although that was hard for me, her full recovery was more important.
As you may have already gathered from my story so far, my mind is always a step ahead of the game. You may remember Thuy from the annual meeting of the Viet in Chp 1, and the deep throat she had given me after the beauty contest. In particular, remember what she had demanded after the contest, with her eyes blazing for revenge on her cheating hubby. In repayment for him fucking her 18-year-old niece she wanted a weekend of fucking with me.
I had managed to get her to book us into a five-star Sydney hotel, overlooking the harbour, in the week Huyen would be locked up in the health retreat. I saw it as a win-win situation for me. We flew up for a three-day, two-person orgy, intent on never leaving the bed except for room service, and I would pop Viagra like lollies to keep my 10-inch cock rock-hard through it.
Thuy was 42, but she didn’t look a day over 30. She was slim and fit as hell from all her gym sessions and had a body honed like a weapon with its toned legs, flat stomach etched with subtle abs, and her fake, firm B-cup tits her surgeon husband, Que, had gifted her. Yes, as I have mentioned, the same Que. Her skin was smooth, light olive, and her short, stylishly cropped black hair framed a face with sharp cheekbones and full lips. For the weekend, she’d packed nothing but slutwear, skimpy lace teddies that showed her body at its best, thigh-high stockings, crotchless panties for easy access, and heels that made her arse eye-catching when she bent over.
Day one had kicked off the second we shut the door to the penthouse suite. Thuy shoved me against the wall, her red dress clinging to her body, the fabric outlining her hard nipples and the outline of her shaved pussy. “Fuck me now, Greg,” she growled, yanking my pants down and wrapping her lips around my thickening cock. I had popped my first Viagra in the taxi and felt the rush as I swelled to full mast, 10 inches, thick as her wrist, with the veins already bulging. Remember, I am writing this, so I may be biased.
She deep-throated me effortlessly, her throat muscles squeezing nearly as strongly as her crocodile-jaw strength pussy, gagging just enough to make it sloppy with spit. I gripped her head and thrust deep until my balls slapped her chin, then, after some throat exploration, pulled out and bent her over the bed. Her presented arse was tight and round, gym-perfected, and I slid into her dripping cunt from behind, every inch of my meat stretching her wide. She wailed like a banshee, pushing back to take it all, her walls clenching hard around me.
We went at it doggie style for ages. I pounded her till she squirted, soaking the sheets, then I flipped her onto her back with her legs over my shoulders, and reamed her missionary, watching her fake tits bounce with each thrust. You may think I am exaggerating or am Superman, but I was using my new Dr Jonson Mark 2 cock ring. Just the same as “Colonel” Tom Parker, Elvis’s manager’s did with his title, I think the Dr bit was self-awarded. By evening, I was feeling my age as we had tried many positions and were now beginning anal. Thuy lubed up my shaft with her mouth and our cum juices, then guided me into her tight arsehole, inch by inch, gasping as I bottomed out.
“Deeper, you bastard,” she hissed, and I obliged, overlooking the lack of tender words in her plea, fucking her arse raw while fingering her clit. She came noisily twice before I released Dr Jonson Mark 2 and unloaded deep inside her. Day two was similarly nonstop, but more Viagra kept me going like a machine. Thuy strutted around in high heels and a cupless bra, her fake tits on full display with her nipples pierced with gold dumbbells. “May as well make the bastard spend his money on me,” she hissed as she fingered the new 21-karat additions.
The next morning, Dr Jonson Mark 2 was getting a workout as she rode me cowgirl style on the couch, her slim hips grinding down, taking my full length into her cunt while she leaned back, rubbing her clit furiously. Her body glistened with sweat, and her moans echoed off the harbour-view windows. She switched to reverse cowgirl so I could watch her arse swallow my cock, as she begged for more.
She was a woman on a mission, intent on repaying with interest her husband’s infidelity. I went along for the ride, pun intended, and the afternoon descended into oral overload. She wrapped me in 69 on the floor, her mouth working my shaft while I tongue-fucked her arse and pussy, lapping up her juices. Then she wanted it rough: I tied her wrists with her stockings and face-fucked her till my cock expired. Recovered, I ploughed her arse again, this time with her on all fours, with me pulling her hair as I went balls deep. She came screaming, her body shaking, and I followed, pumping cum into her bowels before pulling out to spray the rest on her tits, which she licked. As you can imagine, I was a busy man, but very, very tired and drained.