The Burmese Interpreter Who Crossed the Line With Me

At the beginning of the year, my auditing firm merged with a British company with an international presence. There were layoffs, relocations, new hires, and even the office moved floors. For those who don’t know me: I’m a financial consultant, and I’ve been in the industry for nine years. I work for a Madrid firm that went from being the fifth-largest in the country to having subsidiaries in Kuala Lumpur, Jakarta, and Hong Kong. The merger was with an English boutique with clients in Asia, Europe, and America.

Among all the changes, I was assigned to coordinate regulatory compliance protocols between the local and international parent companies. We had to unify criteria, translate manuals, and adapt the documentation to several jurisdictions at once. Precise work, the kind where you read the same thing a thousand times until every comma matches.

That earned me a promotion. Company car, corporate card with no spending limit, a couple of other benefits I never imagined I’d have before forty. I speak three languages and, according to several partners, I was the perfect candidate to spend forty-five days in Southeast Asia sorting out the new subsidiary.

I didn’t want to hear about it at all. A few years ago I vacationed in Indonesia and it didn’t go well. But they insisted: this time it would be Malaysia, for work, everything paid for, decent hotel, nothing like that backpacking adventure I still regret.

I packed my bags in Madrid and left.

When I landed, a car from the subsidiary picked me up. A grand reception. In that office there were only three foreigners besides me: a Colombian, a Mexican, and me. Everyone was ridiculously cordial. According to the Mexican, part of the reason was that among the fifteen people who worked there, I was the only one over six feet one, blond, with light eyes and visible muscles. It’s something they have, he explained: a certain different treatment when they see a white European. Ugly to say, but that’s how it is.

After meeting the team, eating with them, and making video calls to Madrid and London, it was time to roll up my sleeves. Part of the material was in English, but many documents were still in Malay. In one of the hybrid meetings I asked to be assigned someone to help me with the language.

They introduced me to Kyaw. Burmese, just turned thirty, with a complicated personal story: he left Myanmar as a teenager, did whatever work he could find, and made his way on his own. He spoke Mandarin, Malay, English, and a little Thai. He wasn’t a lawyer or an auditor, he was an administrative assistant, but they’d hired him for his ease with languages. He was five-foot-three, very thin, in a gray suit that was two sizes too big. He smiled all the time, with an almost childlike eagerness. He wanted me to teach him Spanish.

He was one of the few in that office who knew how to move among everyone without getting stuck. When we walked together down the street, two of my steps were six of his. The size difference was brutal, except with the Colombian and the Mexican, who were around five-ten.

One custom at the subsidiary was to go out drinking or for dinner at the end of the workday. I didn’t want to. The hotel had a gym and I needed to get my diet and routine back in order after a week without training. I promised them Friday.

The week went by between meetings and translations. Kyaw spent half the day in my office, helping me with clauses from the contract. I’d gotten used to having him close by. Mostly because my head, while he read aloud trying to pronounce words in Spanish, kept drifting somewhere else: imagining him naked, face down, with that little ass raised, waiting for my dick; imagining him on his knees sucking me with that small mouth that would barely be able to take it all. Every time he leaned over the desk to point out a clause, the bulge under my pants made itself known and I had to cross my legs.

One afternoon, while we were waiting for coffee, I asked him if he lived with anyone. He said no, that all he had left were his father and younger brother, who were still in a village in Myanmar living on very little. His goal was to save enough money to bring them to Kuala Lumpur. He told me with that same smile of his, without drama. He didn’t want to say more, and I changed the subject.

—Do you have a boyfriend? —I asked.

He laughed, lowered his head, blushed, and slowly shook his head.

Looking toward the glass wall of the corridor, he took a sheet of paper from the desk and wrote something. He slid it over the keyboard to me. “I like boys, but it’s a secret.” I let out a short laugh, leaned in, and wrote underneath: “Me too.”

He opened his eyes wide. He got serious, sat down in front of the computer, and started typing as if I’d offended him. The company didn’t look favorably on relationships between employees of different ranks. Kyaw, who knew the rules better than I did, had immediately understood that my note could land him in trouble. I touched his shoulder with the folded paper and whispered that now we shared a secret, that we were both in the same boat. That calmed him down. Not completely, but a little.

***

A few days later the regional director’s birthday was celebrated at the office; he oversaw all of Southeast Asia except Japan. A Malaysian man in his fifties, well-mannered, always dressed as if he were going to a wedding, delighted with me and my work.

He invited me to the birthday dinner. He was paying, at a restaurant with white tablecloths and no prices on the menu. Out of professional respect, I accepted. We all sat around a huge square table. To my right was Kyaw, who, since the little note episode, hadn’t left my side. To my left, the Mexican. The dinner was quiet, with lots of people coming over to greet the director. After the toast, musicians appeared, then karaoke, dancing, and the wine flowed without restraint.

I had to work the next day and wanted to leave. Outside, a fine rain was falling. I said my goodbyes. Kyaw was still seated, looking at everything with that smile of his. I told him I was leaving and that, if he wanted, I could drop him somewhere. His face changed at once. He gathered his things in a hurry and we went out together to the parking lot.

In the car I asked him to enter the address into the navigation system. He lived quite far from the center, in a neighborhood that, according to something I’d read on a forum before leaving Madrid, wasn’t exactly welcoming to someone white arriving in a company Mercedes. I asked him if it was safe to go in with the car.

He grimaced, hesitated, and told me to leave him at the exit of a train station, about ten blocks from where he lived. It would be well lit there, and the train ran all night.

We agreed. On the way we talked about dinner, about the director, about the people who had come over to greet him. Kyaw changed the subject without warning and asked if I was seeing anyone. The question made me laugh, and a little tenderness too, I won’t deny it. I told him no, that since arriving in Kuala Lumpur I hadn’t had a single free moment to meet anyone. He smiled and looked out the window.

We arrived at the station. He opened the door, said goodbye with his usual courtesy, and started walking toward the platform. There was barely a yellowish light on and no one else waiting.

I took out my phone, called him, and told him to come back to the car. He ran back, opened the door, and sat down again. I told him, with the firmest voice I had that night, that that station at that hour was no place for him alone. That we were going to my hotel and would decide there. He kept repeating, nervously, that he was fine, that he could get out, that he could even walk home. I cut him off: tonight you sleep better than tomorrow.

***

The hotel room was more like a suite: a kitchenette with an oven, a long counter, a large sofa by the window, and a separate bedroom with a huge bed. Kyaw’s mouth opened when he walked in. He told me he lived in an apartment the size of that one room, and that it was everything he had.

He asked if he could stay the night. I said yes. For him, respecting customs was important, and he needed to wash his clothes for the next day because he wasn’t going home. I pointed him toward the washer-dryer in the kitchen. While he inspected it as if it were a brand-new appliance, I started undressing to shower. He left the washer and stared at me without bothering to hide it. When I pulled down my pants and the bulge in my boxer briefs was visible, he let out a deep breath. He told me, in a low voice, that a body like mine was something he’d only seen in movies and on websites online. I laughed, took off my boxer briefs in front of him, and let my cock hang heavy between my thighs, still soft but thick, and I pointed it out with my chin. His eyes went straight to it, unable to conceal it. I told him to take care of his clothes, that I’d shower first and then he could.

I got into the shower and left the door slightly ajar, in case curiosity got the better of him. Through the mirror’s reflection I saw him peek in a couple of times, biting his lip, not daring to do more. I lathered my cock slowly, letting it swell a little on purpose, knowing he was there spying. I came out with the towel wrapped around my waist and told him it was his turn. He, wrapped in a towel that covered him from the armpits down, practically flew into the bathroom and locked the door. Incredible how shy he was.

I picked up my phone, checked messages, left it charging, and stretched out naked on the bed. I assumed he’d sleep on the sofa, which also opened into a bed. I was almost asleep when I saw him in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in his towel again, telling me the clothes were still damp and he had nothing to wear. Mine would be seven sizes too big on him. I got out of bed, not covering myself, and my cock swayed thick at the height of his face. Kyaw’s eyes went wide, his mouth went dry, and he swallowed without being able to look away from my cock. He stammered: what was I doing, how was he supposed to sleep, what was he supposed to put on.

—Shut up and come here —I told him.

I took his clothes out of the dryer, spread them over the back of a chair, and told him they’d be perfect in the morning. He could sleep with me, with the towel on if that felt weird, or use the sofa. I showed him how it unfolded so he could see it was a real bed.

Looking at the floor, serious, he chose the sofa. I wished him good night and turned off the lamp.

***

I went back to bed. It was almost eleven. I fell into a deep sleep after a very long day.

The thing is, my old nighttime habit has always been that at some point in the early hours, I get hard on my own. And when I get hard, there’s not much to negotiate. In the middle of the night I heard movement on the mattress. I opened my eyes and saw Kyaw, still in his towel, telling me the sofa wasn’t comfortable and that he preferred the bed. I said, fine, lie down, rest.

After a few minutes I felt his body pressed against mine. In proportion he looked like a stuffed toy next to a boxer. I turned over and held him from behind, to see what he’d do. It didn’t take him long to react. I felt a small hand sliding over my stomach, down, past my pubis, until it found my cock, which was already beginning to swell by pure instinct. He wrapped his fingers around it and a soft gasp escaped him at the thickness. He couldn’t quite get his hand around it. He started jerking me slowly, squeezing, drawing the foreskin up and down, exposing the thick head and covering it again. I pretended to be asleep and felt his breathing quicken against my neck, his heartbeat racing, and his own small hard cock pressing into my hip over the towel.

I rolled onto my back, more comfortable, and my cock stood rigid, lifted against my navel, thick and with the tip already wet. He reached for it again with his hand, held it by the base, and leaned in to look at it closely in the half-dark, as if examining something he still couldn’t fully believe was real. He lowered his head. A few seconds later I felt the heat of his tongue running over my glans, licking the drop of fluid that had appeared, circling the crown. Then he opened his mouth and tried to take it. He got halfway, choking a little, with tear-filled eyes and puffed-up cheeks around my cock. He pulled back, breathed, and took it in again, now using both hands at the base so he could tend to what was left outside. He sucked hungrily, with the wet sound of saliva dripping down his chin and onto my balls. With his free hand he stroked my chest, went down to my balls, weighed them in his palm, and came back up. He worked hard, sucking, panting softly between gags. I’d gone days without touching myself and had to clench my teeth and bite my lip not to cum in his mouth within ten minutes.

I put my hand on the back of his neck and guided him, setting the rhythm. I showed him how to go down as far as he could and take it all the way out, lick the frenulum for a few seconds, and then take it in again. When I felt him choking, I pulled it out myself, let him wipe the slobber from his mouth with the back of his hand, and he, without needing instruction, started sucking my balls, one by one, taking them all the way into that small mouth. My cock was shining with saliva, throbbing against his face.

I felt him rise to my face level, slowly, and bring his mouth toward mine looking for a kiss. I let him come close and kissed him back hard, biting his lower lip, sliding my tongue deep inside, holding the back of his neck with one hand. He jerked back, surprised, still convinced I was asleep. I took his face in both hands and devoured him without hiding it. When he pulled away, almost apologizing with his eyes, I told him to relax, enjoy it, there was no one watching us. I yanked the towel away in one pull and he ended up naked on top of me, his small but rock-hard cock pressing against my stomach. He tried to wrap his arms around me for an embrace and couldn’t reach my back. I explained how I liked to be sucked and put him back to work. He learned fast, I’ll give him that, though half my shaft always stayed outside his mouth.

I made him turn over. I put him on all fours, face pressed to the mattress and ass raised. His ass was exactly as I had imagined: small, round, hairless, two soft cheeks split by a tight seam. I spread it open with both hands and saw his hole: pink, puckered, virgin-looking through and through. I lowered my face and ran my tongue over him from top to bottom, from the base of his balls to the dimple of his tailbone. Kyaw jerked hard, muffled a cry into the pillow, and his back arched. I licked him again, now focusing on the hole, salivating it well, pressing the tip of my tongue against the closed muscle until it began to give. I ate him with long licks, sliding into it when it loosened, sucking his balls between strokes of my tongue. He moaned with his mouth against the sheet, clenching his fists, shaking his little ass back toward me looking for my face.

I wet a finger with saliva and pushed it in slowly. It went all the way in. I moved it inside, looking for the spot, and he let out a rough groan he couldn’t quite hide. I pushed in a second finger. That one cost him; he clenched, bit his forearm. I worked them in scissors for a while, opening him up, while with my other hand I jerked myself slowly with all his saliva. I asked if he’d let me fuck him. He shook his head, turning toward me in fear, and told me he’d never been with a cock that big, that it scared him, that it wouldn’t fit. I saw the real fear in his eyes and didn’t insist. I told him it was fine, to relax, that we’d get there later.

I put him on his back and knelt over his chest, my cock pointed at his face. I grabbed his head with both hands and started feeding it to him myself, at my own pace, fucking his mouth carefully but without stopping. He could take half of it, and with his eyes closed and tears running down his temples, he sucked with everything he had, hollowing his cheeks, sticking his tongue out under the glans every time I pulled back to let him breathe. I pressed the tip to his lips and spit into his mouth; he opened wider and stuck out his tongue asking for more. I fucked his mouth like that for a good while, hearing him swallow and gag every time I reached the back of his throat.

When I felt he couldn’t take any more, I leaned back, knelt over him, and jerked myself with my hand over his face, squeezing my balls with the other. Kyaw stuck out his tongue, closed his eyes, and waited. I painted his whole face. The first shot hit his forehead and hair, the second crossed his eye and nose, the third and fourth filled his open mouth and chin, and the last ones slid down his neck to his chest. His face ended up covered in cum. I rubbed the head against his lips, smearing what was left, and he licked it with his eyes still closed.

He sprang up, went to the bathroom to wash, and came back like a child who had finished the game. He curled up against me, still naked, with his little ass pressed against my thigh and his head resting on my chest, and fell asleep right away.

I held him like a stuffed toy. In the morning he was terribly nervous about getting to the office early and, above all, about nobody seeing us together.

I dropped him off two streets from work. I went in with the car as usual. The day went on normally. On a folded piece of paper, before mid-morning coffee, I left him a note on the keyboard saying that I wasn’t going back to Madrid from Kuala Lumpur without tasting what he had refused me that night.

To be continued.