Part One
In the autumn of 1985, I, Curtis Hillborn, was a 21-year-old college graduate without a job. According to my diploma, I was qualified to be a print journalist, but I quickly became disenchanted while working for a smalltown newspaper. Mostly it was because the pay was lousy and so were the hours. Furthermore, it was difficult to be motivated about going to work each day when the most exciting thing on the agenda was a township council meeting. I resigned after about 3½ months of poorly paid tedium. I sought employment elsewhere.
Searching through the want ads one day, I came across a job opening for a position described as “office assistant” at a factory. It was located in a nearby city about a 30-minute drive from the home I shared with my parents and younger sister. The pay was considerably better than what I had gotten working on the newspaper, and the hours were regular: weekdays from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. I quickly typed a cover letter, attached it to my résumé, and mailed it to the address printed in the ad. Within a week I had been contacted about the job, attended an interview, and impressed the company's boss by saying my biggest job-related asset was organizational skills. That seemed to be a desirable quality and the magic words they wanted to hear. I was hired and told to report for work on Monday morning.
The factory produced parts for various types of machines. The automotive industry was its biggest customer. My job was basically to make sure what was in the warehouse jibed with what our records in the office said. I shared that office with a likeable fellow named Stan Fanshaw. I estimated him to be about a dozen years my senior. I was basically relieving him from various minor tasks while he processed orders and arranged for their transportation to various buyers within a 500-mile radius.
I was warned that Stan had a short temper—and he did with other people—but he was exceedingly nice to me. During the first week, all I did was observe what Stan did every day and take notes. By the start of my second week, I was overseeing shipments on my own, and keeping track of the production of every item that the factory manufactured. That was more time-consuming than it sounds because there were no computers in the office in 1985. I kept track of every part manually, using things that looked like recipe cards. I was responsible for making sure the arithmetic on each of these cards was accurate. Stan quickly realized I was strong in basic math and my calculations were quicker than his, so updating the inventory became my main job, along with creating production charts and physically overseeing outgoing shipments to ensure the correct boxes were put on the trucks. All in all, I liked my job, and I liked Stan and all the other people I worked with daily.
Stan’s wife, Helga, occasionally dropped by the factory. Apparently, Stan had bragged to Helga that I was a superb employee. She took a liking to me, too, inviting me to come to their house for dinner on three separate occasions within the first five months I was on the payroll. I happily accepted every time. Quite a pretty woman, Helga looked to be in her late twenties. She was a thoroughly pleasant person, often referring to me as “the little brother I never had.” I became fond of her, too.
Part Two
The warehouse attached to the factory was huge. There was an upstairs floor that had several rooms that seemed to be completely unused. Rumor had it that vagrants would occasionally enter the factory at night and sleep there. One night an employee was discovered basically living in one of the unused rooms after he had been evicted from his apartment. After that incident, Stan and I were both instructed to keep an eye out for intruders lingering on that empty upper floor.
One Wednesday, about six months into my employment, I was checking my inventory figures against the number of boxes actually stored in the warehouse. I noticed some activity in the supposedly unused upper floor. I figured it might be an intruder so I climbed the dozen metal stairs and walked toward one of the dozen rooms. It caught my attention because a light was on. I opened the door and saw something I clearly was not supposed to see: It was Stan having sex on a bed with a female who was clearly not Helga. (This woman, what little I saw of her, was of Asian descent.) I said, “I apologize; I thought there might be an intruder up here.”
Stan was remarkably calm. He just replied without emotion, “Close the door, Curtis, and go back to the factory floor. I’ll talk to you about this later.”
I thought I was in big trouble for literally catching my supervisor with his pants down. I expected our conversation would center on my being terminated. Surprisingly, it did not. I was sitting in the office updating the inventory cards when Stan walked in. He was still calm and reserved. We made eye contact and he said, “Normally I’d be furious about what happened, but I know you were doing what you had been told to do about finding intruders. Unfortunately, you spotted me and my secret.”
Stan explained that the upper floor had a bedroom that a former supervisor used long ago during the Second World War when the demands on the factory often led to long shifts. The supervisor, instead of going home for a couple of hours of sleep, would just catnap in that bedroom when he was able. When the war ended, nobody bothered to remove the bed. Stan had found it the first week he was there—and realized that it would be a good place to have sex with other women without his wife knowing about it or even being suspicious. Stan told me he had a preference for exotic hookers. Every Wednesday, Stan would sneak one into the factory, go to the bedroom on the top floor, and have a secret fuck with her. He had never been caught—until now.
Stan offered me a proposition. “Curtis, I like you and my wife likes you, too. You may feel you have some sort of obligation to her to tell her about my secret bedroom and the whoring I do there. Maybe you do. However, here’s a deal I’ll make with you: In exchange for your silence, starting tomorrow afternoon and every Thursday from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m., you can use the secret bedroom for the same purpose I do. I’ll pay for a hooker to come to the warehouse to service you in that bedroom. It won’t cost you a dime. I’ll pay for it out of the company’s expense account. All I ask is that you tell absolutely no one about this so that it remains our secret. Furthermore, you’ll be paid for those two hours as if you were working in the office instead of fucking. What do you say to that?”
“Sounds like a good deal to me, Stan!” I cheerfully stated. “But you know me. I’m detail oriented. I have to know a few things before I agree to this proposition.”
I noticed the bedroom seemed to be quite tidy, so I asked who did the tidying. (It was the custodian’s brother, a man named Dimitri, Stan told me. He came in on Wednesday nights to change the bedding and do whatever cleanup tasks were needed, including bringing in fresh towels for an adjacent shower that I didn’t know existed.) When I asked how the girl got into the factory undetected by anyone else, I was told the custodian’s brother was responsible for that, too. He would pick her up at a designated meeting place, drive her to the rear of the warehouse where there was a seldom-used door, wait until there was no one around, and lead her up the staircase. When the sex session ended at 4 p.m., the procedure was reversed.
“Dimitri will now have double duty and double pay if you go along with this plan,” Stan said. “That will make him happy, I’m sure.”
“How long have you been doing this?” I asked.
“Halfway through next month it will be six years exactly,” Stan replied.
“How long have you and Helga been married?” was my follow-up question.
“About seven years,” Stan replied just as coolly as before.
I chuckled and shook my head. “This is what I don’t understand,” I said with blunt honesty. “Helga is quite an attractive woman and she is also a lovely person. Isn’t having someone like her as a bedmate enough for you?”
Stan paused for a moment before stating, “To be perfectly honest with you, Curtis, the answer is no. Don’t get me wrong. Helga is a great wife in every respect; I have no complaints, but she’s just okay in bed. I like variety in my life and I like plenty of sex. Here’s an analogy: I love hot fudge sundaes. I go to the ice cream place near my house all the time, four or five times a week. My usual order is a huge hot fudge sundae. But despite how much I love them, I occasionally order a banana split for something completely different.”
“I get it,” I said. “So, who was today’s banana split I saw you screwing?”
Stan laughed at that remark. “I have no idea what her name was or anything about her. Frankly, I don’t want to know that sort of thing about my weekly bedmates. The escort service that my buddy runs just fulfills my order every Wednesday at 2 p.m. with a girl who fits the profile I provided. I prefer young Asian women who have good blowjob skills and who will ride me with enthusiasm until I come.”
The picture was becoming clearer, so I started to ask questions that pertained to me specifically—if I accepted Stan’s proposition: Do I get to make a profile for the type of girl I want to bed? (The answer was, “Of course.”) Do I get the girl for the full two hours even if I ejaculate in two minutes? (“Great question!” I was told. “With a lot of hookers, once you blow your load, the session ends. That’s not the case with my buddy’s escort service. Two hours means two hours. If you can come a half dozen times in the time you have...good for you.”)
“I think we have a deal,” I told Stan.
“Good,” he replied. “I know you are an honorable guy, Curtis, and you’ll say nothing about this arrangement to anyone. Now let’s create a profile for you so I can send it to my buddy, Murray. He’s the guy who runs the escort service.”
Working alongside Stan, it took only about 10 or 15 minutes for me to make a list of the attributes I wanted in my hookers. Stan made sure I listed every possible detail I could think of: the preferred age, height, weight, body type, hair color, eye color, and ethnicity of the female.
“What about special sexual talents?” Stan asked. “Maybe you’re like me and like hookers who give great blowjobs. Maybe you like to fuck girls up the ass? That’s not my thing, but to each his own. Remember, it might be impossible to find a girl from the escort service who has every attribute you desire.”
I paused then said, “Now I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, Stan. I’ll be absolutely thrilled if any girl shows up tomorrow at 2 o’clock for me to screw in that secret bedroom of yours.”
Part Three
My mind was barely focused on my driving as I made my way home. I was constantly fantasizing about the girl whom I hoped to fuck the following afternoon. Ideally, she’d be an 18-year-old Filipino or Thai, about 5’3” tall, with an athletic yet busty body, who was skilled in fellatio. Realistically, I was hoping for at least an attractive girl who knew how to handle a sexually inexperienced 21-year-old male’s first romp with a hooker. My complete sexual résumé consisted of three brief and secret meetings with a friend of my sister when I was 16 and she was 14. Don Juan I was not.
The next afternoon, Stan didn’t mention a thing about my 2 o’clock appointment in the secret bedroom with Miss X. He could tell I was edgy and abnormally preoccupied. Twice he had to remind me to collect the important production numbers from various parts of the factory. Normally I would do that task without needing a reminder. At 1:40 p.m. he said, “Curtis, you can head to the upper floor of the warehouse now. The bedroom door is unlocked. Get there early and familiarize yourself with what’s there. You will find a few bonus surprises. Dimitri will knock on your door at 2 p.m. He’ll have your girl for today with him. Then you’re on your own.” Stan stood and shook my hand. I left the office and walked with a steady gait to the area of the warehouse where I needed to be. I would have run all the way there, but that was against the factory’s safety rules.
When I got there at 1:47, I examined the room and saw there was a shower with plenty of liquid soap and shampoo choices, a clock-radio, a tape player with a variety of music genres, a small fridge containing beer and soft drinks—and several boxes of condoms. (I honestly hadn’t thought about that aspect of having sex with a complete stranger, but now I knew what was expected from me.) There was also a stack of XXX magazines, some of them imported from Europe. I thumbed through a Swedish one with a 1980 date on it. A spectacular girl named Petra caught my attention. Her beauty and shapely body were off the chart. Suddenly, I wanted to change my profile with the escort service to have me preferring Scandinavian girls over Asians.
I was so fixated on the lovely Petra and her many pages of carnal exploits that I temporarily forgot that I was expecting an important knock at the door. When it occurred, it startled me. The time on the clock-radio said 2 p.m. exactly. I cavalierly tossed the Swedish porn magazine onto a table and rushed to open the door.
There stood a man in his sixties, presumably Dimitri, with a very petite Asian girl at his left side. She was cutely dressed in a yellow blouse and a short red skirt. She was maybe 5’2” tall and was absolutely adorable to my eyes. She wasn’t the busty female I had been fantasizing about, but her figure was more than acceptable. Dimitri guided her into the room and said in broken English, “Here she is for you, Mr. Curtis Hillborn. I’ll return for her at 4 o’clock.” Then he left.
“Hello,” I said to my soon-to-be-bedmate. “Do you speak English?”
“A little bit,” she said, making a small space between her right thumb and index finger to illustrate her point.
“My name is Curtis. What’s yours?” I asked, doing what Stan apparently never did.
In short sentences, the girl gave me her autobiographical highlights, stating, “My name is Fern. I am Filipina girl. I am 18 years. I come here to do blowjob and fuck you. I am a good girl.”
I considered that her last sentence contradicted the one before that. Then I looked at her through skeptical eyes. “Are you really 18, Fern?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she muttered somewhat unconvincingly as she looked down at the room’s carpeted floor.
I joked, “If that’s true, you must have just celebrated your birthday sometime during the last week or two.”
“Yes, my 18th birthday was last week!” she insisted, looking for any acceptable way of making me believe that improbable stat.
“Hey, that works for me!” I said with a knowing smile.
Being totally unfamiliar with hooker protocol, I wasn’t sure what to do next, so I gently placed my arms around this small but very attractive female and embraced her warmly. This action seemed to startle Fern.
“Oh, you like to hug before doing sex!” she declared. “I like that too.” Fern then struggled to find the correct word to use. “It is very...very...gentlemanly of you. Yes, gentlemanly.”
I thanked her for the compliment and then I kissed her left cheek.
Fern was also pleased with my second sign of affection toward her. She commented, “Oh, you are the romantic type, too. We will get along just fine, Curtis. You will see.” She returned a similar kiss to me. Then she said, “Let’s get undressed for the fuck. Sit on the bed. I do a striptease for you.”
To my delight, Fern did what she said—and di it quite well. I was becoming greatly aroused as she stood before me in her undies. I stopped her before I saw her private parts. I wanted to undress her myself the rest of the way. Fern got the idea and allowed me to undo the clasp of her bra and remove her panties. She was exquisite with her shaved pussy, better-than-average tits for her height, and generally lithe body. I lifted her onto the bed while I undressed quickly. When I saw Fern fingering her vagina, I sped up the process.
I was about to take my place beside Fern on the bed when I heard her say. “Condom, please!” My dick was already pointing skyward and I felt it was a shame to cover it up, but I understood that it was likely an accepted rule of which I was unaware. I grabbed one of the rubbers and stepped toward the bed.
“I do that for you, Curtis. It’s sexy that way,” said Fern referring to putting the condom on my erect penis. “Then I give you an excellent blowjob.” I took her up on both offers.
Fern slid the condom down the shaft of my dick with the experience of the pro that she was, despite her reputed young age. I stood up. Fern knelt and proceeded to tantalize my manhood in a most delightful way. Her licks and sucks were quite pleasing, although I wish a layer of Latex was not impeding the full sensation. Even so, I suspected for good reason that an ejaculation would soon be forthcoming.
“Time for the fuck,” I said to Fern, mimicking her broken English. I told her, quite honestly, “I want to fuck your pussy before I come.”
Fern seemed to get the idea about urgency. I lied in the center of the bed and my diminutive Filipina hooker climbed aboard my dick and started gyrating.
“Excellent, Fern! You certainly are a good girl!” I declared.
At first, I put my hands on her waist to guide her up and down my rod. After a few seconds, though, I saw how her perky breasts were bouncing sexily at me. I just had to fondle them! A few moments later, I pulled Fern’s torso closer to me so I could suck on those lovely tits while we fucked.
Within two minutes, I had fired my load and my condom was holding a decent amount of jism. It was the first time I had ejaculated while inside a girl’s pussy since Lindsay Sumner and I fucked in a secluded meadow about six years earlier. At Lindsay’s insistence, I had to use a condom that afternoon, too.
“Oh, good man! You came. Good for you!” Fern insisted.
“No, not good!” I replied. “I wanted to fuck you much longer before coming, but you are too sexy for my dick to hold in my cum shot. Let’s try that again.”
I wasn’t entirely sure that Fern understood what I had said, but she knew our fucking was nowhere near over for the afternoon when I promptly got a second condom for her to slide on my semi-erect dick. It took her a minute or two of tugging and licking to get my penis back to fully erect status.
This time it was Fern’s back that was against the mattress. I spread her legs. She rested her feet upon my shoulders while I penetrated her from a kneeling position on the bed. My condom-covered dick slid into her pussy easily. I could tell she had been screwing men for quite a long time. Nevertheless, I instinctively tried to satisfy her with a hard, rapid thrusting motion. I’m not sure if that truly pleased her—but it certainly pleased me. About 20 minutes after I had come the first time, a second volley of sperm left my rod. Again, I was disappointed that it wasn’t being deposited inside Fern’s pussy—but rules are rules.
I yanked off condom number two and got onto the bed beside Fern without condom number three—yet. This alarmed Fern a little bit, but I gently said, “No fucking right now, Fern. Just cuddling and sucking.” I was being honest. At my insistence we spent the next 40 minutes or so embracing each other. Of course, my hands did quite a bit of wandering. I was doing plenty of groping, enjoying Fern’s tits and their sensational erect nipples. I sucked, licked and even slid my penis between them. Fern did not seem to mind that particular sex act being condom-free.
With the clock-radio showing 3:20 p.m. and my phallus once again ready for coitus, I said to my excellent bedmate, “One more fuck—from behind!” Adhering to standard practice, I put on a condom and placed Fern in a kneeling position at the end of the bed. I stood behind her. For the first time I noticed her bum was quite nice. Accordingly, I caressed her cheeks for a minute or two. Then I jabbed her pussy with my hard dick and proceeded to pound away. This was the roughest I had been with Fern since she stepped into this secret bedroom, but I was enjoying the moment. Fern was moaning a repetitious “Ah! Ah! Ah!” in rhythm to my thrusts. It was weak, but I managed a third cum shot. Again, it was shielded by a Latex barrier. I bemoaned this fact out loud. “Fern, I so wish I could fill your pussy with my sperm. We could make beautiful babies together.”
“No, Curtis! I fuck my clients but I do not have their children!” Fern insisted.
“Okay, Fern!” I said in an understanding way. “You can’t blame a guy for fantasizing, though.”
We shared a shower—which was fun—and Fern was ready when Dimitri arrived precisely at 4 p.m. I turned out the light and locked the door of the wonderful secret bedroom.
I sauntered back to the office to collect my jacket, my lunch pail, and a book I was reading during lulls. I noticed Jim, one of the shift foremen, sitting in Stan’s chair. It occurred to me that Stan’s shift concluded at 3 p.m., so with my being absent, Jim had to come in for an extra hour to run the office in case things got busy while I was occupied in bed with the lovely Fern.
“Hi, Curtis,” he said politely. Then he confirmed my assumption. “Stan asked me to report early to take your place from 3 to 4 o’clock today. I understand this will be the case every Thursday from now on.”
“We’re you busy at all for those 60 minutes?” I asked him.
Jim surprised me by saying, “No, at least not as busy as you were, I suppose. Did you have a good fuck?”
I was stunned! For someone who insisted that his hooker-fucking and mine had to remain a tightly kept secret, Stan was certainly a blabbermouth!