Our Introduction to the Delights of Asian Digital Depravities

In 1992 Mrs. Hornibastard #2 and I were both unwittingly introduced to the delightful world of Asian digital depravities.

This is the epic tale of how we each learned to adapt to and enjoy life in place as wonderfully twisted as southeast Asia.


PART ONE: MY INTRODUCTION TO DIGITAL DEPRAVITIES:

For my 40th birthday my friends gave me a gift that was as memorable as it was life-changing.

They introduced me to the delight of Asian digital depravities.

I was on my first business trip to Indonesia when my 40th birthday rolled around. When one of my friends realized that my birthday was coming up, he graciously decided to throw a party for me at his home. It was a fine party. When it finally wound down and I prepared to leave, my host asked if I was planning to return directly to my hotel. Since it was nearly midnight and a Wednesday, I thought it was a strange question.

“Of course I’m going back to my hotel room! It’s nearly midnight. It will be well after midnight by the time I get back to the hotel and I have to be in the office in the morning.”

Upon arrival at my hotel, I had a quick shower and was preparing to go to bed when my hotel room’s doorbell rang. Quickly slipping into the oversized terrycloth robe provided by the hotel, I peered through the peephole and saw a young woman in a hotel uniform at my door.

I cracked open the door, but before I could ask her to state her business, she announced in her very broken, barely comprehensible English, that she was there to give me a massage.

I figured she had gone to the wrong room and informed her that I had not requested a massage. But she immediately explained that it was for my birthday and my friends paid for it.

Since the hotel didn’t know it was my birthday (but she did), I figured that my friends really had arranged this surprise. But it seemed highly improbable to me that the high-end and highly reputable America brand hotel where I was staying would send a masseuse to a guest’s room between 12 and 1 AM for a massage in a locked hotel room.

I asked her if she really worked for the hotel. She didn’t seem to understand or maybe she just ignored my question. She simply waltzed in, went into the bathroom, collected an oversized, towel (more like a beach towel than a bath towel) and spread it on the bed.

She said something incomprehensible and motioned for me to lie down on the towel.

This was my first ever massage. I was unsure what to expect or how to behave. All I had on was the terrycloth robe. I was still a bit fuzzed out from the drinking I had done at the party, so I just lay down on the towel, still wearing the robe.

My masseuse said nothing as she pulled the robe off me, exposing my hairy butt to the ceiling and the air conditioning.

I was somewhat bewildered as she began my massage. I was butt naked, but she was fully dressed. It seemed to be a very professional and non-sexual massage. So that was the mindset I was in.

Between the soothing massage and my slightly inebriated condition, I soon dozed off. Eventually she tapped me on the shoulder and said something I could not understand. Then she conveyed by her hand gestures that it was time for me to flip over onto my back.

I was clear-headed enough to immediately realize the awkwardness of flipping over onto my back and giving this young woman my full-monte. But she kept gesturing that it was time for me to turn over.

So I did.

The very professional and non-sexual massage continued. Eventually, however, she started to run out of non-erogenous zones to massage. First, spreading my legs wide apart, she got on her knees between my legs. This gave her easy access to upper thighs and lower abdomen which she began painstakingly massaging. Her hands seemed to be performing a military maneuver, gradually encircling my bazooka and munitions. Although my eyes were closed, I imagined the view of a fly on the wall – as a cute but fully clothed young Indonesian kneeling on the bed between my knees massaged my nakedness right down to my danger zone’s security perimeter.

Then the inevitable happened. Although it seemed to be accidental, her soft hands grazed my balls. Moments later, her hands grazed my balls again.

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This got my attention.

I tensed up. Was there going to be happy ending to this massage or was I just raising my expectations beyond reason?

Although she seemed to be trying to avoid repeated, direct contact with my vitals, since she was now concentrating her massage on the few remaining square centimeters of skin that she could legitimately massage without violating local prostitution laws and raising my flag, her “accidental” breaches of my security perimeter became increasingly frequent and prolonged.

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All this attention, accidental or not, was causing my blood to race to a predictable destination.

I soon had a raging boner which, given my state of total undress, could not possibly be missed by this young woman kneeling between my legs.

Then came the moment I had been desperately waiting for. She took my stiff pecker in her hand. This was unmistakably intentional. It could not remotely be considered accidental, especially when she began to stroke it lovingly.

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But then she suddenly stopped massaging me. I opened my eyes to see her raising her two hands like a traffic cop commanding that I “halt immediately!” Leaping to her feet she rushed into the bathroom.

I could hear her washing her hands in the bathroom.

I interpreted this as a signal that the massage was over. Regrettably, despite my momentary exhilaration, there would be no happy ending.

“What a cock-tease!” I thought to myself.

I got up and, retrieving the terrycloth robe from floor beside the bed, began putting it back on. Just before I closed the robe around me, my masseuse came bouncing merrily out of the bathroom, now fully nude.

I might be from West Texas, but I knew exactly what her nude emergence from the bathroom meant. But it had not been my plan to get a massage at all. Now that it was going on 3 AM on a Thursday morning and I was feeling a bit hung over from the drinking at my birthday party, I was not feeling desperately horny.

I tried to convey to her that her further attentions were unnecessary. She had earned her fee and didn’t have to do anything more for me. But she said repeatedly through her broken and mangled English that my friends already “paid for everything.”

I tried unsuccessfully to explain that my friends were not present and no one would ever know that she had not fully completed the task she had been hired to do. She was now free to go.

But, for reasons that I could not understand, she persisted, as if, in some twisted logic, her honor was on the line and the only way to preserve it was to let me fuck her.

Finally, I agreed to 15 minutes of additional massage. As I saw it, a lot worse things could happen to a man who had just turned 40 years old than being given a hand job by a sexy, naked young Indonesian woman in the privacy of his luxury hotel room.

Dropping my robe, I got back in bed and lay back, ready for my hand job.

But she immediately jumped astride me and began sliding her pussy up and down my still rigid salami. It didn’t take long before it just “slipped in.”

After all, that’s exactly what these body parts were made for.

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I had two rounds of very satisfying sex with her before she left my room shortly before 4 in the morning. Even though my friends had paid for everything, I gave her a generous tip.

By the following Saturday night, as I sat in my hotel room reading a book after dinner, I had to face the fact that going to sleep was going to be a challenge. I was desperately horny and there was no getting around it.

Then I wondered, “Does this hotel really send cute, young masseuses to your room to massage you in the privacy of your locked hotel room or was the masseuse the other night an imposter hired by my friends, – kind of like a strip-o-gram?”

I quickly found the hotel’s directory of services and searched for “massages.” I soon found it under the “Health and Beauty Spa” heading.

I dialed the number, vaguely concerned that I was about to embarrass myself.

When a feminine voice finally answered the phone, I said “I would like to schedule a massage.” The woman inquired whether I wanted to come downstairs for a massage in the spa or if I wanted a masseuse sent to my room.

My heart leapt for joy! This was hotel was likely to become my favorite hotel in the whole world!

Trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, I pretended to coolly consider my options before saying I would just have the massage in my room.

Then she asked me a totally unexpected question. “Is there any particular masseuse you want to request?”

My mind raced. “What was the name of the masseuse who had been to my room a few nights ago?” I wasn’t sure I had it right, but I replied hesitantly, “Hamida.”

There was a moment of hesitation on the other end of the line. “Yes, Hamida is here today and she is not booked right now. She will be in your room in 10 minutes.”

I desperately hoped I got the name right.

Less than 10 minutes later, Hamida turned up at my door. As soon as I opened it, she recognized me from a few nights ago and gave me a warm smile.

It suddenly dawned on me why she was so determined to finish her job the first time she was in my hotel room. She knew that if she did a good job, I would ask for her the next time I was in the mood for a massage, and “these crazy Americans always tip extremely generously.”

The proceedings that night were similar to what had transpired on our first encounter, except that Hamida (“Mida” as she preferred to be called), was fully nude from the outset and we didn’t do all of our playing on the bed. We showered together, fucked on the bed, then on the couch.

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After that, I had lots of massages (all but one with Mida) until it was time to return to the USA.

Next up …. Mrs. Hornibastard #2 is introduced to Digital Depravities …