Return Visits – Thailand, 1960s

That first night changed everything. I walked out of the brothel in a daze—legs shaky, mind spinning, the taste of her still on my tongue, the smell of her body clinging to my skin like smoke. My buddies were waiting outside, laughing and slapping backs, asking crude questions I dodged with mumbles and a forced grin. They never suspected a thing. She hadn't said a word.
I told myself it was a one-time thing. A drunken mistake. Something to bury deep and never revisit.
But three nights later I was back.
The same dark road off the main strip, the same quiet compound half-hidden by trees and shadows. My heart pounded harder this time—not from nerves, but anticipation. I slipped in alone, paid the mama-san quietly, and asked for her by description: the small one, older, in the sarong. They knew exactly who I meant.
She was waiting in the same dim room, same low lanterns flickering. This time there was no hesitation. She smiled—that same small, knowing smirk—and gestured me to undress. I stripped faster than before, cock already half-hard just from seeing her.
We didn't rush to fucking. She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled me close, and took me in her mouth first—slow, deep, teasing. I stood there trembling as she worked me, her small hands on my hips, her dark eyes looking up. When I was close she stopped, pushed me down, and climbed on top again. But this time she rode me slower, controlling every stroke, making it last until I was begging under my breath.
After I came inside her she didn't get off right away. Instead she scooted up, straddling my chest, and fed me her softening cock. I sucked eagerly now—no flicking tongue, no nervousness—just hungry, open-mouthed worship. I licked the sticky mix of my cum and her juices from her shaft, her balls, the crease where thigh met groin. When she hardened again in my mouth I took as much as I could, gagging softly but pushing on.
Some nights she let me explore more. I'd finger her ass while she jerked herself over my face, then lick my finger clean before going back for her hole with my tongue. Other times she'd piss again—hot and steady—while I knelt or lay beneath her, swallowing what I could, letting the rest run down my chest. The humiliation burned, but so did the lust. I craved it.
Over the next months I went back dozens of times. Sometimes once a week, sometimes two or three nights in a row when I could sneak away from base. I learned her rhythm, her smells, the way her cock felt when it throbbed against my tongue. She never spoke English, but we didn't need words. A touch, a look, a gesture—that was enough.
I started bringing small gifts: American cigarettes, candy, a cheap bracelet from the PX. She accepted them with a nod, tucked them away. In return she gave me things no one else ever would: complete surrender to desires I hadn't even known I had.
The other guys kept going to the brothel too, but I always asked for her specifically. They teased me about having a favorite "old mama," but they didn't know the half of it. To them she was just the leftover choice. To me she was the only one who mattered.
Even now, decades later, the memories are vivid: the humid air, the lantern light on her dark skin, the coarse pubic hair against my face, the salty-bitter taste of her cum, the sharp warmth of her piss. I never told anyone the full story back then. I barely admitted it to myself.
But I went back.
Again and again.
Until my tour ended and I had to leave.