Chapter 1: The Beginning

The bass from the karaoke machine thumped through the thin walls of the private booth in this Wan Chai hostess bar, red neon flickering like typhoon warning lights across the sticky vinyl table littered with half-empty bottles of Chivas and green tea. The air hung heavy with the scent of Johnnie Walker and Marlboro smoke, cheap jasmine perfume, and the faint tang of congee from the dai pai dong downstairs. I, Max, a 28-year-old sales manager hustling electronics deals in Mong Kok, slouched on the worn leather couch, my short 5’5 frame sinking into it as the Korean girl—name already forgotten, something like Ji-eun—pressed her glossy lips to mine, her tongue darting into my mouth like she was trying to fish out dollars.

Across the booth, my client, Lao Ban Chen from Shenzhen, grinned lazily, his pants around his ankles while the Filipina hostess, all curves and fake lashes, bobbed her head between his thighs, slurping loudly on his thick cock. ‘Holy fuck!’ he muttered in Cantonese, slapping her ass. She gagged but kept going, spit dripping down her chin onto the karaoke remote.

The Japanese girl—maybe Aiko, who cares—giggled and poured me another whisky highball, her tight cheongsam riding up her thighs. ‘Max-san, you want more fun? Lai, lai,’ the Korean one whispered, her hand sliding down my zipper. I nodded, cock already twitching. Why not? As long as I flash the HKD, these girls lit up like the Symphony of Lights show over Victoria Harbour.

She yanked my pants down, my slight, androgynous build—pretty face, slim hips—making me look more like a K-pop idol than a cheater. Her warm mouth engulfed my cock, sucking hard, tongue swirling the head while she hummed some BLACKPINK tune. I groaned, gripping her dyed hair. The Japanese one kissed my neck, pinching my nipples through my Uniqlo shirt. Then the Korean spat on her palm, rolled a condom from her purse over my shaft—Durex, ribbed for her pleasure—and straddled me. Her wet pussy swallowed me whole as she bounced, skirt hiked, black lace panties shoved aside. Her tits jiggled in my face; I sucked a nipple, tasting swear and perfume.

But my mind wandered to Van—Vanessa, my wife of three years, the prettiest girl I’d ever landed. Sharp cheekbones, long black hair like a Lan Kwai Fong model, from a rich family in Repulse Bay who splashed cash on our Peak-view wedding at the Peninsula and the down payment on our Mid-Levels flat—prime real estate, harbor glimpses past the Peak Tram cables. She’s a medical doctor now, pulling 12-hour shifts at Queen Mary Hospital, saving lives while our bed’s been a graveyard for two years.