Nate part 2

By Sash.

Now, this is literature, not just porn. If you're in the mood for the whole long story, start with part 1 here.

Put a dog in the same room with a bone. Tell him firmly he is not supposed to touch the bone. Lock the door. Observe the dog.

First, he goes over to the bone and gives it a suspicious sniff. He walks back to his corner and contemplates. Seems just like a normal bone. He sits. He waits. He then goes over and gives the bone a tentative lick. Immediately he springs back, cautious that he has done something his owner has expressly forbidden him to do. He surveys the room. No one seems to have noticed. He sits. He waits. He assesses the situation with his canine faculties – he seems to have gotten away with his last little infraction.

He then walks over to the bone and circles it warily, still relatively alert should his owner suddenly appear. Finally, he can stand it no longer. He settles on his haunches and starts gnawing away at the bone. As time passes though, he grows careless. Soon he is lying flat on his stomach, ravishing the bone with his jaws, sucking the marrow to his heart’s content.

At some point, he even attempts to shag the bone. And the bone is experiencing new parts of the dog that no bone has ever experienced before. It is in the middle of our dog’s pleasuring, when you choose to walk back into the room. Guilt and shame overwhelm the dog. His tail hangs between his legs and he refuses to make eye contact. He sits. He waits. You make no move to forgive him. And the dog rationalizes to himself that it was you who created the situation and put him in the same room as the bone anyway. It’s your fault. Offence is the best defense. He denies all knowledge of the bone. Instead, he snarls and barks and threatens to pounce on you if you don’t go away.

Note: This experiment may work on other domesticated mammals. (But hey, it’s Chinese New Year and year of the Dog at that, so I’m just being festive.)

And so it did with Nate (see "Searching for Soul") from two posts ago. And if don’t know who Nate is because you’ve been watching too much American Idol, you don’t deserve to be reading this entry.

If you remember, Nate and I formally agreed to call a truce in our relationship. Or rather, I had told Nate that I wouldn’t make things “difficult” for him so on my part, I was going to exercise some rusty self-restraint in the situation. Yes, meet Sash, the Protectorate of Man’s Soul. Heh. In all seriousness though, I did my best to abide by my promise.

The minute I told Nate I was not going to make / respond to any more sexual advances, he looked slightly provoked. “Why would you do that?” he asked slightly petulantly. Dog, meet Bone.

I looked askance at him. But we were met by another colleague at that point and couldn’t carry on the conversation any further.

We moved over to the client’s office for a meeting. I was sitting next to Nate and talking seriously to the client when I felt Nate’s fingers sensuously brush up against my leg under the table. I repressed the urge to smile and carried on talking. A little while later, I felt an errant hand sweep across my ass as I stood and leaned over the table to point out something to the client. Dog sniffs bone.

“What are you doing?” I whispered to Nate in the taxi back to the office. He shrugged and gave me an angelic look that denied all wrongdoing.

We were tied up working for the rest of the day so nothing else really happened. But the next day, we picked up where we left off. At every opportunity, Nate would try his best to turn me on. Either by saying provocative things to me (“No underwear…?”) or by touching me surreptitiously (“Definitely no underwear…”). At one point, he even stood behind me in the Starbucks queue and blatantly pressed his bulge into my arse – with our colleagues sitting at a table literally feet away.

I know I should have gotten into a moral huff and sniffed virtuously at Nate and the whole situation. And things would have ended differently.

Unfortunately, I found myself getting increasingly wet as the day wore on. I’m not trying to make excuses but what else could one expect from me? I was single and sexed up. The only thing keeping me from fucking this man right there on the conference room table was good intentions. And we all know the road to hell is paved with good intentions. So I know where I’m headed. Dog licks bone.

At some point, I began to respond to all this teasing with some of my own. “No underwear and a soaking wet pussy, you forgot to mention darl,” I leaned over to whisper and casually flick my tongue against his earlobe.

For every move he made on me, I made one back – and upped his game. If he touched my leg, I’d touch his cock. If he groped my arse, I’d reach under and grope his balls. Our game grew pretty hot and heavy. And soon, we were timing our ‘toilet breaks’ to find somewhere private to kiss and grind our bodies against each other passionately. Before returning – slightly ruffled – to our colleagues.

That evening, we were having drinks at the lobby lounge and decided to share a cigar. Again. (I know, I know but can I help it if I like cigars?) He was watching me intently as I sucked on it and blew out a cloud of smoke around my lips. One by one, our colleagues left, but not before wishing us a safe journey back home the next day, leaving Nate and I alone. I looked at my watch. Past midnight.

“My flight’s at eight tomorrow,” I said.

“I guess we should go to bed. It’s pretty late.” We waited for the lift. In silence. In the lift, I hesitated and then pressed ‘6’ for my floor and ‘9’ for his. He fiddled with his pen and notebook.

“Ok, well this is me,” I said brightly. “Have a good flight tomorrow.” I lifted my hand in a cute little wave before stepping out of the lift.

There was a slight pause. And then Nate stepped out of the lift too, ostensibly to give me a hug and wish me goodnight properly. However, as we embraced he said to me huskily:

“I know what you’re going to ask me…”

“What?”

“You’re going to ask me to your room for a nightcap.”

“Well, if you want to. You’re welcome to come,” I said casually. And we walked to my room together. Dog circles bone warily.

Once in the room, he stretched out fully clothed on the bed. Shoes included. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I knew I could have just taken off all my clothes and clambered on top of him. Too easy. Too predictable. Or we could just have sat there and carried on chatting. But that would have been silly.

Absently, I had begun to take his shoes off. Soon I peeled his socks off too. And then I took the mini-bottle of moisturizer from the hotel that was (conveniently) by the bed and spread it over his bare feet, kneading it slowly into his skin. The cold cream heating in my hands, I used my thumbs to rub circles into the balls of his feet, my knuckles dug gently into his arch and my fingers firmly stroked his Achilles tendon.

His whole body reacted and he groaned. I could see his pants tightening around his crotch.

I then used my teeth to lightly nibble the top of his toes. He bucked.

My tongue slithered around his big toe. He buried his face in the pillow to keep his moans from escaping.

I closed my lips around his toe and sucked. Hard, hollowing my cheeks around his toe. He writhed on the bed and put his hand on his bulging cock, rubbing it through the fabric of his trousers.

I repeated the same sequence on his other foot. Halfway into it, he pulled me up to him and started tearing my clothes off, until I was only left with a beige camisole. He stuck his fingers roughly into my pussy and played with me until I was thoroughly wet. His passion was overwhelming. I tried to enjoy myself except that he was moving much too fast. He gave my pussy a few rapid licks. And then stuck his fingers back into me. Dog ravishes bone.

However, it wasn’t until he leaned over to kiss me that I felt there was something wrong about the situation. The wrongness emanated from his kiss. There was a sour quality to his breath, a bit like the odour of blue cheese. It was sharp and overpowering. I just couldn’t accustom myself to it. I gasped involuntarily.

I am a great believer in compatibility of breath. Air is an essential element of life and the way one’s body processes and transforms it before returning it to the environment is unique. We are defined by our breath. And I find nothing more intimate than lying on my back post-sex and willingly drawing in the sweet, sated exhalations of my partner, who is collapsed on top of me.

But there is something to be said about a person whose very breath befouls the environment that they are in. Even his saliva that dried on my lips left them cracked and fishy-smelling.

Nate continued to lap desperately at me, like a dying man to water. His eyes had rolled back into the back of his head so I could see the whites. He was writhing on top of me, the side of his belly squished against my arm. It felt spongy and yielded little resistance to pressure. He was furiously grinding himself against me. Wrong. All wrong. And all of a sudden, I felt smothered.

I tried to recoil but somewhere somehow I knew I had past the point of no return. It wasn’t because Nate had already emancipated his cock from his trousers and was beating it against the side of my face. No. Rather, it was because mentally, I had accepted that this had to happen. It was the culmination of 4 days of extended teasing, of which I had played a big part. I knew that if I had really objected to the outcome, I should have said so at any one of the turning points earlier in the story. And now, it was time to hold the peace.

I tried to enjoy myself. I really did. I had enjoyed the teasing. I had enjoyed the touching. I had especially enjoyed the toe-sucking. But alas, it was the thrill of the chase. And the prize seemed slightly disappointing.

I wasn’t inspired to fuck him. So I sucked his cock and hoped that he would cum quickly. He did. All over my face. You would think that would make a man at least somewhat grateful. Dog pleasures Bone.

Instead, once he shook the last drop of cum out of his cock, he looked at me in a mixture of shame, anger and horror. He practically leapt out of bed and hastily pulled his clothes back on. He threw me a towel and gestured for me to clean up.

“Fuck, what did you just do to me? You knew this would happen, didn’t you? What else would have happened? I’m a man alright. A MAN. I’m not a saint,” he spat accusingly.

“W-what?” I stuttered in shock. “I thought you wanted this as much as me.”

Nate ignored me and continued on his rant. “Do you know I have three little people that depend on me? I can’t afford to fuck up my life. I can’t afford to fuck up my marriage. This is fucking unacceptable!” He was angrily fastening his belt and tucking his shirt messily into his pants. He pulled his shoes back on with a vengeance, stepping on the back of the heels.

He looked in my direction. “Why are you looking at me like that for? You don’t have to worry about consequences. You don’t have someone to answer to when you get home. What the fuck do you have to be scared or worried about?” Dog goes on offensive.

Dog denies knowledge of bone. "This never happened. Do you hear? Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!" I didn't respond. I felt the temptation to cry but refused to give him the gratification of seeing how much he had hurt me. So I just looked at him dully, the light completely extinguished from my eyes.

He yelled expletives all the way to the door. “Well, if I don’t see you again. Good luck to you.” The door slammed. I hadn’t moved from my spot on the bed. In fact, I sat there like a statue for a full 10 minutes. Still naked from the waist down. And then I went to the bathroom and washed my face a total of 8 times. I took a shower. I looked in the mirror.

And an accidental rapist looked back at me. I felt like the guy in college that gets led to bed by a girl, they sleep together willingly only to have her parents find out the next day and she cries rape in a bid to defend her honour. Maligned. Defiled. Misunderstood. Wrong, all wrong. I felt like shit.

There is no straightforward moral lesson here. I make no excuses for myself. I created the situation with Nate and it backfired so I don’t really expect sympathy from anyone. I was half of the mind not to write about it, because of the intensely personal and traumatic nature of the encounter. But I’m glad I did.

I know this is a long, complex entry and thanks for sticking with me if you managed to reach the end. More than anything, I write this as a painfully honest note to self. Because I need to mitigate my reckless impulse and innate knack for trouble with the sobering memory of the mistakes I have made in life (this being a BIG one) or I will one day self-destruct. And there will be no one to blame for it but me. This bone needs a conscience.

That said, I don’t want to end this on a defeated note. Because I’ve written it, you’ve read it and it’s over. It is now firmly compartmentalized under the Persian carpet of my mind. Let me assure you that I’m on the fucking warpath for the next few weeks to reaffirm my love for sex. I’ve self-prescribed a good gratuitous shag (or five) to cleanse my system. Stay with me troops because in that regard, I’m used to getting what I want.

Cocktease

By sash.

“Okie, I’m going home now!” I straightened up abruptly and flipped my fingers through my hair, my voice unusually bright.

 I avoided my companion’s gaze as I casually initiated the universal pre-departure motions, as one does before leaving any party. There was a degree of ritualistic deliberation to my movements – the looking around for my bag, the checking of the time on my mobile phone, the gathering up of my personal accoutrements, dropping the unused condoms into my purse.

When I was done, I finally looked at Julian. He lay unmoving on the bed, naked with his legs splayed apart and his head propped up against the pillows. His cock still throbbed and glistened with the memory of my freshly-removed mouth. He held it in his hand, almost questioningly, like a teenager being caught out by the physical manifestation of his desire.

I grinned impudently and moved to pull the sheets over him; a mollifying Mother-Earth gesture meant to cover his nakedness and signal the end of the night’s festivities.

 He resisted. “No, come here. You can’t just leave me like this.” He kicked at the sheets and pulled at my arm in an attempt to upset my balance and force me back to bed. I wiggled out of his grasp.

“You can have more of me tomorrow,” I playfully admonished, laughing at his discomfiture.

“But I want you now.”

“Well, too bad. We can’t always get what we want, dear. That’s life! Besides, I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, won’t I?” I lowered my voice and ran my tongue up the outer side of his ear, simultaneously brushing my hair against his neck. “Let’s consider tonight as collateral.”

“You would see me tomorrow even if I fucked you tonight.”

“I know. But I want you to really really want me tomorrow. Tonight’s just an appetizer,” I touched the tip of his cock and it pulsed to life. “Hmm…ok here’s a little more just for you,” I licked my lips and ran them down his shaft with excruciating slowness.

I heard him exhale loudly as I pulled away a few minutes later. I adjusted my dress. His eyes slowly opened and he stared intently at me. I stroked his hair in mock-empathy.

“You don’t believe I’m really leaving, do you?”

“Actually, I am afraid…that I do. You are a good tease. I can play along. And I will see you tomorrow.” He paused. “Even though, I’m going to have to finish myself off after you go,” he added ruefully.

I chuckled. It had been a case study in physiognomy to watch Julian’s face run the gamut of emotions. From surprise to dismay to indignation to amusement to disbelief, all in the span of a few minutes. And now exhausted by their earlier exertions, his features seemed to have found respite in their current arrangement – a half-smile of resignation tinged with helpless bewilderment. Only his pupils, large and dark in rings of blue, defiantly registered his sexual arousal.

I looked at him fondly. “Be my guest. You should do it while things are still…fresh,” I ran my fingers sensuously down his thigh before heading for the door.

I know I know, you’ve all heard some Healthy Relationship guru state that imposing a delay on sexual gratification can invigorate an otherwise lackluster sex life. But for a single person with very different sexual needs (I lack consistency, not vigour!), an episode recounted as the one above requires a lot of self-control – not an area I usually excel at – and some amount of misplaced mischief.

It is also however, very effective. So I’m not sure why more single girls don’t use this method to get men hooked and keep them hungry. This is Asia after all, if men wanted a surefire fuck, then they would have paid for it. Instead, they’re on a date on you because ultimately you are free to leave if you want to.

So occasionally you should. Just for fun. Even if you’ve shagged before. An element of surprise always ensures that nobody can take anything for granted.

And surely, there is a sense of empowerment that comes with being a good cocktease. It usually starts with dressing the part. For me, it was a clingy, low-cut black outfit with straps that innocuously fell off the shoulder and revealed more than they should (but not nearly enough). But anything that doesn’t have small furry pom-poms all over the front and makes you look like a 12-year old girl should do the trick.

Then there’s the conversation bit over drinks or dinner. A throaty laugh (best inserted after his jokes), casual physical contact (best inserted after your jokes) and a reasonable amount of sexual innuendo are your best weapons at this stage. Also possibly, a suitable quotable quote just to show that you’re well-read and a person of depth. (In this regard, Oscar Wilde is timeless and very accessible, thanks to Google – don’t worry, the last thing this blog intends to do is force actual literature on you).

Usually the dancing occurs if it is late enough or if one is drunk enough. At this stage, give him a good show. It helps if you actually like dancing, as I do. Caress your body, brush his face with your hair, grind your ass into his lap. It is also permitted to express rampant desire at this point. A simple “God, I want your cock inside me” before moving sinuously out of reach has an admirably uplifting effect.

And then, you’re in bed. Finding a good point to pull the plug is always tricky. Too early and the night becomes a real downer (pun intended). Too late and it’s just too difficult. I have yet to find someone who can pull away in the middle of sex. If you can, you are a machine and you have my undying admiration. (This doesn’t count if you are a. married b. fucking someone you are not attracted to c. extremely drunk or d. never had an orgasm. Factors not mutually exclusive.)

Fellatius interruptus is my preferred method. There’s a certain amount of sexual intimacy and promise that comes with giving head. But it’s nice to actually stop when your jaw gets tired (as opposed to pausing on the pretext of picking hair from your teeth and then carrying on for another hour). Nothing gets between a man and his source of suction, as we say. So it’s usually a good way to ensure another meeting.

If done correctly, the sex when it does happen, is usually explosive. That is, if he doesn’t prematurely ejaculate on your leg. If done incorrectly, then you are left waiting for him to call the next day while he can’t be arsed and would rather have a beer with his mates / hooks up with another girl with a shorter skirt and an even lower-cut top who will most assuredly have sex on the first date / undergoes surgery for an emergency case of blue balls.

With Julian, it was most definitely going to be the former. He fell into the category of “old favourites”. “Old” because we had shagged before and literally, because there is something about a man in his late 30s or early 40s that makes them prefer these casual attachments that I seem to specialize in. And “favourites” because well, I enjoy fucking him. And hanging out with him. We even watched 6 years of Roberto Cavalli retrospectives on TV together, so obviously I don’t just use him for sex.

Also, he had flown into Hong Kong for a round of meetings and didn’t know all that many people save his colleagues, whom he had to maintain a reasonable level of professionalism with. So you see, I had insurance. Of course, the next night Julian and I did finish things to a satisfactory degree. And it was well worth the wait.

In Recovery

By Sash.
I love the feeling of being well and truly fucked – the state of being utterly sated and of absolute no use to anyone. It’s better than chocolate. It’s better than a new pair of Balenciaga shoes. Hell, maybe even a few pairs of Balenciaga shoes.
The thing is, nowadays sex is everywhere. Everyone’s talking about it from desperate housewives to professional relationship gurus; and everyone’s doing it from your baby sister to baby boomers on Viagra. It’s all very fashionable to be self-actualised about one’s sexual habits. And the ease and availability of getting laid in the 21st century has almost made sex into a non-event. (Unless of course one accidentally falls in love, but that gives rise to a whole host of other problems.)
I have nothing against the commodisation of sex – in fact I think it can only make the world a friendlier place – but it only serves to underscore the fact that real quality shags are hard to come by. And I’m not talking about attempting a few variations on the usual cock-pussy routine either. Anyone with a reasonable imagination and access to decent Internet erotica can shag like that.
No, I’m talking crazy, earth-shaking, spine-tingling, no-holds-barred quality fucking. As I had yesterday evening. And then again late last night. And early this morning as well.
I came so many times I lost count. Bone-shaking, mind-numbing orgasms that made me gush and squirt copious amounts of pussy juice onto the sheets. Orgasms that made me bite down hard on the fingers that were forced against my teeth to contain my moans. Orgasms that drew blood as I dug my nails into the nearest available expanse of male flesh.
“You’re going to wake the whole hotel baby,” he whispered huskily as he tugged my head back with a fistful of hair.
“So? Why don’t you stop talking and show me how a real man fucks pussy?” I taunted him, my voice part-moan part- growl.
We fought each other like wild cats. Him on top, me on top. Me hanging off the bed with no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist while he drove his cock home at a relentless pace. Him at the verge of coming with my finger at his prostrate and my mouth at his cock, begging me to stop. And when he did come, it was with enough force to hit the opposite side of the bed.
His cock stayed hard for a long time even as we lay there panting, completely spent. Our bodies pouring with sweat and our limbs interlocked, his fingers gently traced patterns up and down my calves. We said nothing, just faded in and out of consciousness as our bodies stopped quivering and our heartbeats steadied. His snores woke me up some time later and I crept to the bathroom to clean up.
I looked around. We had fucked all over our boutique Philippe Starck hotel room and it showed. Mojitos half-spilt on the carpet, stained sheets pulled off the bed, articles of clothing and condom wrappers strewn willy-nilly, magazines in the sink, cutlery on the floor. I liked the room better that way. Not so showy. Not so severe. I’m sorry, Mr Starck, but a perfectly space-maximised room just isn’t conducive to fucking like animals.
When I got home last night I slept for 12 hours straight. And then woke up today, inhaled a three-course lunch and a 500ml bottle of cranberry juice before starting to write this.
As I sit here in a crowded coffeeshop sluggishly stringing sentences together on my laptop, no one around me can tell that my inner thighs still ache from being held almost 180 degrees apart a day ago. Or that my body feels taut under my dress like its undergone traction (not too far from the truth really). Or that my knees can’t quite support my body weight with confidence.
I half-smile to myself as I shift in my seat. I can still feel the rawness of my pussy from being fucked dry and then wet again. And the tenderness of my ass from having melted ice-cubes put inside it. It would only take one careful look from a curious passer-by to spot the knots in my hair that even the most vigorous brushing couldn't defeat. And the bruises down my thighs and tell-tale marks on my back that will take days to fade.
But for now, I am too lost in my post-coital wonderland to care. I’ll mourn the moment when my body recovers and I have to resume the search for the proverbial needle in the haystack of plain vanilla sex.
Presently, I can’t contemplate contacting the assortment of overeager namby-pamby boys I’ve collected in Hong Kong who come too quickly and shag too meaningfully ever again. That's the thing with too much quality, it really spoils the market. And in this case, my shag diary for the rest of the month. Ouch.
But if anyone knows of a better way to balance quantity with quality (without offering me a CV of their bedroom abilities or eponymously labelled pictures of their cocks), let me know. Alas, my freshly-fucked bruises won't last forever.

Missed Opportunities

By Sash.

Remember Anthony, my good-referral shag (ref: Sept 26)? I recently got the following text message from him:

Hey baby. Am going to be in HK on the 6th. Will you be around?

I replied in the affirmative and followed up with the somewhat obligatory reply of how I have been swooning about Hong Kong with my loins in the throes of absolute lust waiting for him to return. (A bit of an exaggeration really. At least the swooning bit - I am perfectly capable of lusting for someone without losing consciousness, thank you.)

He replied:

Great, I look forward to pleasing you soon. Can I bring a friend? She’s blonde, beautiful, German. Wants to meet you and eat pussy all night.

Greeted with this scenario, I hesitated. Instead of a resounding yes, I couldn’t quite make up my mind how to reply to Anthony, which I thought was extremely out of character.

You see, confession time: I have never actually been in a threesome with another woman and contemplating it was making me feel a little odd. I tried to put my finger on exactly why.
Was I uncomfortable with the display of another woman’s naked sexuality? Would Jesus still love me if I put my fingers up another girl’s pussy? What if she had crooked teeth or big feet – would I still be able to clamber into bed with her? Was I simply being - horror of horrors- a prude?

The thing is, I actually like other women. And not deodorant-shunning, breast-strapped, baggy-panted dykes either. It’s the lipstick-wearing delicately-perfumed women with luscious curves and supple skin that I find sexually intriguing. And just in case you were wondering…Yes, I have kissed and made out with a few. Yes, sometimes for the benefit of the general public. Yes, just like in porn.

And I have long been enamoured with the idea of being a full-fledged bisexual. It just seemed to be a position that offered the best of two worlds. Strawberry tea, afternoon cuddles and incestuous Tupperware parties with the girls. Impulsive flings, extravagant gifts, wild and crazy sex with the boys.

However, I have to admit I’m only recreationally bi. For one, I am a bit too attached to my meat – thick, fleshy, hard, pulsating, self-lubricating, hanging slightly to the left and preferably belonging to a lean mean virile male.

A buzzing vibrator, though deftly handled by another woman, just doesn’t do the trick. I mean technically it does, but ultimately, 8 inches of rubbery silicone and flashing lights does not a cock make. It doesn’t have a foreskin. You can’t tug on its balls as you rock back and forth. It doesn’t ejaculate on command (“Cum now for me baby, please…Now. Hard.”) And it’s just a little bit silly to be putting it into your mouth.

Second, I can’t quite eat pussy. I’ve tried. But well, I find it intimidating. Pussies are complicated pieces of machinery – every one is slightly different and there are lots of fiddly bits (flashlight not included). They need to be treated with a level of finesse and skills I’m not too confident I have at this point. I can just about cope with the incessant demands of mine. And the pressure and responsibility of getting it absolutely right with another woman is crushing.

If I failed to get her to orgasm (and being female, I would know the difference between a faker and a real quaker), then it would be a disaster that would strike deep into the heart of all womankind. I might have to go into therapy. And you might even have to boycott this blog. Horrors.

I’ve tried my best to be as liberal and un-Singaporean as possible about thinking through these issues but alas, I fear it is a mental barrier I can’t quite overcome right now. (I have though started learning how to tie better cherry-pip knots with my tongue. So I am working on the situation.) Maybe I am destined to spend my life just being completely straight after all. How disappointing.

All this means a FFM (2 females 1 male) threesome, whilst not completely out of the question, would be a lot less fun for everyone involved. I wouldn't be able to participate to the fullest of my abilities. And in my opinion, it would be selfish to just lie there and make the other girl do all the wetwork, so to speak.

I would like to be a team player and share my toys. Really.

I also have doubts about how sexually fulfilling a FFM scenario would be for me. I’m insatiable enough when I have dedicated attention – and quite up to the task of handling 2 men at a go. But having horny, multi-orgasmic me, multiplied by 2, in a room together demanding satisfaction? All I can think is that Anthony, capable as he was in the sack, had better have a good backup plan ready. And it better not be a movie and ice-cream either.

Misgivings aside, I was of course curious to how I would react to Anthony’s “blonde, beautiful German” in person. There was always the slim possibility that Angelina Jolie might have bleached her hair, changed her name to Olga and started working for Luftansa, incidentally scheduled to stop off in Hong Kong on the 6th. And that she might be just the person to turn me into a raging lesbian. (Really, I think it would be horribly unfair not to consider a serious lifestyle adjustment under those circumstances.)

So after much deliberation, curiosity won the day. I decided to leave my fate to the threesome gods. I sent Anthony a tentative reply:

Ok but only if you think we’ll like each other. No guarantees. And I have the right to demand a refund.

I held my breath. I had made a big leap into what sociology professors in the U.S. would have called the realm of “subverting gender stereotypes”. I was proud of myself - I would not just be another sexuality statistic. Anthony had better start taking his vitamins.

He SMSed the next day:

Just checked. She’s not around on the 6th. Dang! Trust me, she’d have loved you. Next time then. See you soon.

I felt both disappointed and relieved at the same time. So I was to be deflowered another day. Oh well. Back to my cherry pips and the comfort zone of being only 30% gay (of course it’s a spectrum, stupid).

I can just about hear the tempered rejoicing from the religious right (some of whom obviously read and comment on this blog faithfully for reasons that mystify me). As well as the collective exhalation of the Singapore government who want my fecund, heterosexual ovaries to solve its ageing population problem.

So I am fairly happy about pretending to be an upstanding citizen and pillar of our uptight lil community for a while more. But excuse me if I go to bed occasionally dreaming of Angelina.

Sexually deviant, moi?

Welcome to the Circle of Champions

By Sash.

So, Hong Kong. City of Life and newly-christened Home of Mickey.

Lots of people ask me why I moved. And I always reply, “Oh I got sick of Singapore” which is the over-simplistic answer one gives at frivolous dinner parties – accompanied by the careless shrug and toss of the head – to people I intend never to see again. But of course, you faithful reader, don’t fall in that category.

I moved because of a variety of factors – most of them are boring and not worth dwelling on (office politics, professional opportunities etc.). But chiefly, I moved because it was time for a Change. A big 3-60. Up the ass. No lube.

Living in Singapore for the past few years has felt like a bit of a Faustian bargain. An insidious sacrifice of my soul on the altar of casual familiarity, comforting conformity and grand middle-class lucre. Don’t get me wrong. I've enjoyed every minute. And most likely I will return one day, a harried tai tai with 3 squawking children in tow, ready to discuss PSLEs and charity fundraisers with much aplomb.

But for now, there’s Hong Kong. And Ms Sash van Winkle needs to make up for lost time. To feel alive. To reinvent. To live dangerously. And yes, to have better sex. (And more frequently, yes please.)

In that respect, things started off auspiciously. My phone beeped a few hours after I touched down in Hong Kong. It was Matt, one of the most charismatic (and naughtiest) men you would ever meet, and a favourite shag of mine from more than a year ago. He now lived in Switzerland and we kept in touch occasionally.

Matt: “R u in hk?”

Me: “Yes. Sitting in the middle of suitcases and contemplating the meaning of life. Why? What’s up?”

Matt: “My friend Anthony will ph u in 5 mins and invite u for a drink! He’s a champ.”

Me: “Wait, this isn’t the self-same Anthony from our last encounter?”

I didn’t know Anthony. Save that he had a honeyed Aussie-accented voice and loved to talk dirty. Also he must have known Matt reasonably well. Because he wasn’t the least bit surprised when Matt called him mid-shag, switched to speaker phone and then had me describe to Anthony exactly how I was being pleasured in breathy, graphic detail.

Matt: “Yep! He’s in HK and will meet u either at Dragon-I or Carnegies to start!”

I stared at my phone in disbelief. It was that Anthony. And that Anthony wanted to meet me on my first night in Hong Kong. I hadn’t even unpacked a toothbrush and already I was being set up to meet a complete stranger whom I had phone sex with for drinks. Exactly what the doctor ordered, I guess. I figured it was only good fengshui to accept.

Anthony and I met at Dragon-i at about 11 p.m. and hit it off almost immediately. He was tall, wore a well-fitted Paul Smith suit and had an absolutely wicked sense of humour. It was a Wednesday, Dragon-i’s legendary Model’s Night, but we joked that it must have been full of hand or foot models (strange choice of career – but being currently unemployed, I’m in no position to judge) because we hadn’t seen anybody particularly attractive there.

Or maybe we just weren’t paying all that much attention. I was more intent on making Anthony work hard for my favours.

“We’re not leaving here until I say we are. Because I have rave reviews but the jury’s still out on you,” I teased. Anthony raised an eyebrow in reply, as if challenging me to test him. So I did.

First, I asked him how good he was with his fingers and his tongue – and to show me how he intended to use them. He talked me through his intentions. And I was immediately turned on - never underestimate the power of a beautiful turn of phrase and good old fashioned imagination.(“These two fingers go inside you until I hit the spot”, “My thumb stays at the top on your clit until its stiff and peaked for me”) Finally he took the fingers of my right hand, brought them to his mouth and used his tongue to dart in between them, flickering and sucking their length before nibbling softly on the skin between my knuckles. ("And I don't need to explain that one...")

“Not bad…” I murmured. My eyes watching his tongue intently. “What about if I do this?” I reached for my drink and poured a significant amount of it down the front of my low-cut top. “Oops.” I leaned in close and ran my tongue up his earlobe.

He bent his head over and followed the streams of vodka cranberry from the top of my clavicle to the centre of my cleavage, lavishing attention on the upper mounds of my breasts. I arched my back against the pillar. It was then that I decided we would get the bill and leave.

But there was a final test. We reached Anthony’s hotel room and he had with his key-card in his hand. But before he could let us in, I stood in front of him and blocked access to the keyhole. With a cheeky laugh, I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers and slipped a hand inside to grab his cock.

“Show me how much you want me. Right here.” I said. To my surprise, he was completely uninhibited about pinning me to the door and unzipping my satin trousers, pulling them completely to the ground. I wasn’t wearing any underwear (in accordance to my principles) so he bent over and began to lick the mound of my pussy. Right in the hotel corridor. I could feel myself get soaking wet. Convinced, I took the key from his hand and opened the door.

Anthony turned out to be great in bed. One of those men who is just naturally sensual, wild, tender, generous and passionate – and who can apply these qualities together with a healthy knowledge of sexual techniques and unfeigned attentiveness to a woman’s pleasure.

Essentially, any man who instinctively knows to rest my right leg on his shoulder, lick my toes whilst vibrating his thumb on my clitoris is a real keeper.

“I’m thirsty,” I whispered after we had finished our first session of lovemaking (there were to be 3 sessions in total before dawn).

Anthony took out a bottle of minibar-cold Evian, opened it and took a swig before kissing me deeply and pouring it into my throat. He did this a few times. He then took a big mouthful, put his lips over my pussy and shot a stream of cold water into me. As water slowly trickled out of my pussy and onto the bed, I felt him lapping it up with warm, languorous strokes of his tongue. The gesture were unexpectedly and deliciously sensual.

“Now that I’ve licked you clean, we can start all over again,” he said.

The next day, I sent a text to Matt.

Me: “Loved Anthony. Every ounce as good in real life as over the phone. Showed him the town, made sure he had a good time etc. You’ll be glad to know he didn’t let the side down.”

Matt: “Sooo pleased to hear that. Welcome to the circle of champions. 3 of us next time. Hv a great day!”

I laughed. And probably inhaled enough carbon monoxide to mess up a few internal functions, but everything was humming from the tip of my toes to the top of the clit. And then somehow I knew - viscerally - that things would be all right for me in my newly adopted home.

So hello Hong Kong, I thought. Here I come.

Three's a Crowd (But we love crowds...)

By Sash.

Before I left Singapore, I had just the sweetest threesome to remember our over-manicured Garden City by. Two Qantas stewards (one Italian – Paolo, one Maltese – Mario), too many drinks at Attica and lil’ ole me.

It started off innocently enough, as these things do, with me dirty-dancing with Paolo. Paolo fit the profile of the typical mid-40’s Italian – leather-tanned, slightly oily, shirt half-undone, abundant chest hair, mellifluous accent, oodles of enthusiasm but relatively harmless. I didn’t fancy him, and was quite relieved to have my ass groped by his younger, more well-built, suave friend Mario.

Mario and Paolo had been friends for 17 years and they had just gotten back from holidaying in Italy together. A few sweaty sandwiches on the dancefloor later, they were telling me the most entertaining stories about nude beaches (how to find them), family dinners (how to avoid them) and Italian women (how much unnecessary energy is required to bed them).

It was getting hot on the dancefloor and I pleaded for a drink. Mario led me to the bar, ordered us the perfunctory drinks and then proceeded to ravish the living daylights out of me. We must have taken quite a while because by the time Paolo came looking for us, my lips were flamingly swollen, my hair haphazardly kinked and a small bruise was beginning to form at the bottom of my neck.

“Paolo! You’re just in time to see what I’m doing to our beautiful friend here,” Mario said before breaking into a stream of fluent Italian, most of which I thought sounded highly complimentary. (But then I don’t speak Italian, so this is a highly unjustifiable opinion).

“Oh? Show me again. I want to see everry-ting,” Paolo said, wide-eyed. Mario proceeded to accede to the request, but not before I broke off halfway and eyed Paolo mischievously.

“You like to watch? This is only Chapter 1. There’s so much more that I could do your friend Mario over here. It could go on for hours. But you won’t be around to watch it all. This is only the first act. You might miss…(staged gasp) the climax.”

I cupped Paolo’s chin, and pushed a finger gently past his lips. He sucked on it greedily and I turn my head to bite Mario swiftly on the shoulder. “I think your friend likes me.” We both laughed and Mario dipped his head over the swell of my breast, lapping at it sensuously.

Paolo could hardly contain himself. “Oh show me…that’s right, tease me, tease me. I love to watch. Can I watch, please? You can tie me up so I can’t even touch myself. That way, it will be the ultimate tease. I’ll be good, I promise.”

I pretended to hesitate. “Weee-lll, I guess you can watch a little bit. If Mario is ok with it.” I turn to Mario and say in a loud whisper: “Maybe he can watch up till the part where you fuck me. Then he has to go back to his room”.

The whole scene was turning very B-movie but they seemed like the sort of men who were suckers for over-acting and a cheesy script. God bless Italians (and their neighbours).

“Paolo is like a brother to me. We’re family. Any other guy I wouldn’t be so sure. But Paolo – he gets the best. And you’re the best chick in this club, bella. So let’s all go back.” And with that affirmation, Mario got the bill and left the club.

Once we were all nicely ensconced in the Swissotel, Room 1309, Menudo and Paolo broke out more drinks while I took a shower. By the time I stepped out, they were both naked, knocking back vodka tonics and comfortably chatting. It felt like a big pyjama party (sans pajamas).

They then took a shower - together. Actually, it was rather refreshing to see two men so comfortable with their bodies and each other (even in the unlikely event of any soap-dropping). And that was what made the whole threesome absolutely enjoyable for me. There was no competition, no attempt at one-upmanship, just two men with two not unimpressive cocks, and one combined desire to please me.

We did start off by tying Paolo up with the string of the hotel bathrobe. He was just so happy to watch. But as these things go, it would have been churlish to deny him a little action. So I crawled on all fours over to him and put his cock in my mouth as I was fucked by Mario from behind. Every deep cock-thrust in my pussy was matched by the appropriate audible suck of my mouth.

There was great chemistry in the room – and at some point we couldn't deny Paolo the joy of participating. He so actively wanted to suck, and kiss, and lick every inch of me, even though I’m sure he would have been just as content as a bystander.

Really, a girl couldn't have asked for much more...

Well technically, she could. But three is such a good number in terms of what fits where at any one time, and who gives head to who, and who sucks on who whilst doing doggy, that personally I wouldn’t mess with the dynamic. I was surprised to see that they both kept their erections reasonably well. For some reason I just expected there to be a lot more cock flogging going on, but maybe I'm just woman enough for two men.

Any more than two would not be quite a turn-on. I don't find it horny to have numerous men line up patiently and flog their cocks desperately just waiting their turn to use me as a spunk-bag. We all know of Singaporeans who have launched famous careers in this fashion. But I am neither bored nor publicity-hungry enough to follow in those footsteps. (If I ever get into the Guinness Book of Records, it’ll be because I was the first woman who inhaled the longest length of string or painted the largest number of bullfrogs on a single canvas. Or something completely eccentric like that.)

Besides, threesomes should be fun, intimate and off-the-charts sensory experiences. There’s nothing desperately dirty or soul-destroying about them if everyone has the right attitude and does what they’re comfortable doing.

Occasionally, they can even feel quite uplifting and dare I say, life-affirming. After we were finished and Mario had shot a load full of cum on my face, we all laid back on the two queen beds, panting.

Paolo turned to Mario and said exultantly: “So we finally shared a woman! Tonight has sealed our 17 years of our friendship! And now no matter where we are in the world, we’ll always have our time in the Swissotel to remember. With the sexiest bella in Singapore. We’re going to talk about this one for a long time. Even when we are old and our dicks don’t work anymore.” Aww.

That old Italian penchant for hyperbole, of course. But still, I was strangely moved by that little speech. I gave them each a massage whilst they continued to regale me with little vignettes that began with “Remember the time we…” until finally we all fell asleep one by one.

And only then, did I discover the one, big drawback to sharing a room with two inebriated men whom you’ve just finished having a mindblowing threesome with – the Snoring. It was like an orchestra of the damned. Winds on the left, brass on the right, and cacophonic madness everywhere. I slipped out early the next morning with a note left at the bathroom mirror to escape from it all.

So got a threesome on the cards? Make sure you’re well prepared. Lose the inhibitions. Bring lots of condoms. And pack earplugs.

Stripping it down

By sash.

Whilst I love the relentless tempo of frenzied fucking - buttons popping, shirts ripping, underwear torn off with teeth - sometimes it's essential to slow things down a little (especially if I'm wearing my favourite bespoke outfit) and which guy doesn't like a good strip tease? Here's one that works for me - Japanese bondage ropes and ice-cubes optional:

I start by putting a good track on, something I'll enjoy dancing to. Pretty much anything goes but leave Black Sabbath, Teresa Teng and Frank Sinatra to the professionals. If I'm feeling plebian - or I'm at his house, wasting valuable time rummaging through his CDs instead of getting it on - something from the Black Eyed Peas will usually do the trick. If I'm well-prepared, then something Latin or Claude Challe's 'Je Nous Aime' are my preferred options. (If he only has chinese opera and classical music in his collection, then my advice is to leg it out of there. Fast.)

The trick to stripping is to put up a good show. It's all in the pent-up anticipation, the simmering tension and then the postponement of the climax (yours or his) for as long as humanly possible. Of course it's easy for his over-enthusastic member to overwhelm the situation at some point and plunge straight in, so to speak. It's up to you to decide at which point this is acceptable.

As much as I approve of audience participation, I never like him to spoil all the fun. So, in order to maintain the upper hand, I make up a few rules and talk him through them:

I can touch you, but you can't touch me.
Take your clothes off and I'll tie your hands behind your back.
Sit up and pay attention. I'm going to show you how I really like to be touched.
If you behave, I'll finish off by coming on your face.

I never give the game away and let him assume that we're going to end up fucking (I guess this works better with people you hardly know, as opposed to would-be Chinese boyfriends who take this as their God-given right), so all these rules are delivered in a reasonably firm but sexy manner. So far, there haven't been any complaints.

I start swaying my hips to the music. I use my hands to move up my thighs, to stroke the sides of my breasts and to caress the back of my neck. I lift a leg onto the bed, my skirt begins to ride up and I angle away from him, so he only sees me from behind. I put my fingers to my pussy, pushing aside my panties and start rubbing my clitoris. My eyes are half-closed, I put my head back and moan softly deep in my throat. Taunting him...

Are you enjoying this? You like watching me get off?

I turn to face him. I reach under to remove my bra, revealing nipples that are hard against my chiffon blouse. I cup my breasts and pinch my nipples, twisting them slightly through the fabric. I climb on top of him and dangle one breast dangerously close to his mouth. So close he can feel my hair on his face, my hot breath on his forehead and just when his mouth closes on the outline of my breast, I turn away.

I pull my top off and reach for a piece of ice from the champagne bucket. I rub the ice-cube slowly down my cleavage and then over each nipple, watching rivulets of cold, melted water run down my chest, soaked up by my skirt. I pop it into my mouth and lean in for a kiss, pushing the ice over his lips and through his teeth, forcing him to manipulate it with his tongue. My cold, wet nipples brush against his cheek suggestively.

Now show me what you can do.

When the ice has melted and he's done sucking on me, I reach under my skirt and step out of my underwear. He sits up and I straddle him with my back against his chest and my hands on his knees, my skirt around my hips, rubbing up and down against his erection. He leans over and watches over my shoulder as I start touching myself under my skirt. I draw out a finger from my pussy, glistening with juice and put it to his mouth. He licks it clean, his tongue dancing circles around my fingers.

Don't you wish it was your cock doing that? I do.

I reach down to pull my skirt off and reach down to untie his hands. By this time he's chafing at his bonds, about to explode. I wrap myself around him tightly, letting him feel the full heat between my legs. I start untying his knots with excruciating slowness. At this point, I judge the situation and make a decision about how much more I should torment him. The point is to stimulate and titillate - not generate hate - so if the excitement is making him froth at the mouth and show symptoms of cardiac arrhythmia, I generally take it as a signal to stop while I'm ahead. I hesitate...

I'm only going to let you go on one condition.

I name my price. I've earned it. I know if I think of something really good, the rest of the night will follow. And I'm the sort of gal who is never at a loss for ideas.

P.S. If I'm wearing bad-ass stilettos, it goes without saying that I'm keeping them on all night. It just completes the look, dahlin. The juxtaposition of nudity with luxurious, over-priced frippery. Why the concept is quite deliciously postmodern, if I say so myself. ;)

There is such as thing as Too Big

By sash.

...especially when you’re a small Asian chick who does Kegel exercises almost for a living.

Through my many exploits, I have experienced the whole size spectrum. From pinkie-small to porn movie-big. And surprisingly, I find that my tastes stay quite happily within the curve in this area. Maybe at a modest 60th to 70th percentile? Average, really.

I figure, I'm 26 and reasonably tight so any more than a 6.5 inch cock (erect, pre-cold shower/swimming pool/ejaculation) is a waste, right? I guess I'm not exactly when you would call a size snob. Although I reserve the right to change my mind once a baby or two pops out of me, and I need to start wearing thermals to keep my pussy from letting the wind in. Get those rulers out!

Circumference and curvature are a whole different discussion though. I once shagged a guy who called his cock "The G-Spot Penis" because it curved upwards strategically. He had limited technique and an even more limited personality (be ye wary of any man who gives his penis a name and refers to it in the third person - "The G-Spot Penis likes it when you suck him hard") , but I had to admit he had a really good cock.

So how big is too big? A few months ago, my cervix met (collided with, rather) Adam. Adam was a great guy and reasonably unassuming in every way - although come to think of it he had a big nose, so I should have guessed - except when he dropped his pants. Then he became Mr Novelty Dildo. Yea, lucky me. I swear my tonsils constricted at the thought of what was coming their way.

Sex with Adam felt like an eternal pap smear with not enough K-Y. He took at least 5 minutes forcing himself into his condom, all the while manfully tugging and pulling away at himself to retain his erection. When he had finally wrestled the condom on, his cock just bulged and flopped around in all the wrong places. I had never seen anything so alarming. Purple is just not a good colour for cocks. Please somebody just give that man a Trojan Magnum XL, already.

And then, 1-2-3-Brace! He began to shag me in earnest. It started off pretty pleasurably but when he turned me around on all-fours, pulled my hair back and took me roughly from behind, I must have lost a whole layer of soft tissue from my nether-parts. I was going to need medical attention and a prescription for industrial lubricants if it lasted much longer.

But no pain no gain, as they say. I rocked against him as fast and hard as I could. Muscles cramped. Stars swam. Pigs flew. And then it was over. I brought a cold glass of gin-&-tonic into the bathroom and iced myself down. I didn't stay the night. In fact, I never called him back. Yes, superficial me. I stopped seeing Adam because of the size of his knob.

So don't believe everything you hear in the locker-room, boys. I'll be clear about this: I never want to see anything over 9 inches again unless it's stuffed full of pork and I'm eating it with mustard.

But obviously that's just me. I don't see Peter North or P.Diddy having problems with chicks.

Hotel 81

By sash.

Now I know what the fuss was all about. Billed as "Singapore's largest tourist class budget hotel chain", Hotel 81 frequently came to the rescue of more than one sexually frustrated Singaporean adolescent. That's how I first came to know about it anyway.

I was doing some research for some school magazine feature I was writing about Hotel F&B Managers (suffice to say, it was a riveting piece of literature) and quite innocently -and enthusastically- called almost every hotel listing in the phonebook looking for people to interview. (Note: this was when I was like, 15 and still had a work ethic).

Of course, Hotel 81 didn't have an F&B Manager to interview. The receptionist's comments, "People don't really come to our hotel for the food leh" and "Is that like Housekeeping?" led me to think something was amiss. I was enlightened a few days later by a bunch of my more worldly friends who were undoubtedly more acquainted with the facilities than I was.

A hotel with its roots in Geylang, Hotel 81 is the site of unsanctioned hook-ups and hourly sex. A spectrum of ill-at-ease characters sweat, grunt and ejaculate within the confines of its paper-thin walls on a daily basis. One is just as likely to meet an unshaven Ah Pek with his two-bit mainland Chinese mistress, a bronzed NS man with his most recent prize, fumbling teenage couples terrified that their staunchly-conservative parents might find out, as well as the occasional bonafide budget tourist.

Or one just might find...a curious middle-class yuppie in business attire (i.e. me). With Quinn i.e. scruffy cash-strapped ex-coke dealer in tow. On a Wednesday lunchtime. You know, a good time as any to check out the F&B outlets.

To be fair, Hotel 81 was surprisingly clean (rooms were spotless, sheets regularly changed). And pleasant with everything you needed for a quick fuck, including a heated shower, TV with remote control, packaged peanuts for sustenance, toothbrush, condoms. It was also almost unapologetically tacky (faux-Renaissance art, chintzy chairs and gothic pillars). And it was also really cheap. $30+ for 2 hours - the number of shags you can squeeze into that period is anyone's guess. Hotel 81 is definitely what most Singaporeans deem value-for-money. Or "cheap cheap good good", as they say. No need to bring your own Dettol.

I've definitely laid my skanky self in much dirtier, shadier and uglier locations. (strangely, shopping centre handicapped toilets come to mind). But the idea of sneaking out to a rent-by-the-hour hotel at lunchtime, sanitised though it was, still felt pretty seedy. And quite ludicrous. Quinn and I wasted about an hour of our allotted time making silly jokes about the "minibar" and listening intently at the walls. We were laughing so hard he couldn't even get a proper erection and we decided to watch an animal documentary just to get ourselves into the mood, which sent me into a further burst of giggles.

When we finally got the machinery in order, we did it twice and then I had to scurry back to my desk job all neat and tidy, none the worse for wear.

(Real time update: Quinn's been bugging me for a repeat of our little Hotel 81 adventure next week but I'm sorry to say this one's definitely a single serve. It's a little too proletariat for my tastes. I guess that means there'll be continuing damage to Quinn's bed - yes, the one already held together by masking tape. But I've already blogged about that. Drats.)

Younger men

By sash.

Last night I broke with tradition and shagged a guy younger than me. Maybe it was because I needed to do something special to celebrate a major milestone in my life - resigning from my company. Or maybe it was because he didn't seem like the typical washed-out chewed-up Singapore expat when he proclaimed loudly that all Singaporean women bored him (how charmingly naive). Or maybe it was because he told me he used to be a gymnast and flexed his not inconsiderable pecs for me. Or maybe...just maybe it was because I was at Attica on a Wednesday. How many more excuses does a girl need for the fact that she was just plain bored and very horny?

"You sound like you have an American accent," he says.

"I went to school there," I reply nonchalantly. I had noticed him standing quietly in the corner of the VIP area, watching me dance.

"Which uni did you go to?" he asked seriously. As if my academic qualifications really mattered to him.

"Uh oh. Wrong question. How old are you?" I shot back, instantly suspicious. I wasn't in the mood for intelligent conversation.

"I'm a very mature 23 year old," he says.

I laugh. "Err...that's like, my brother's age."

"Well I can do a few things your brother can't. Like this." He swoops in for a kiss. His lips are soft and unbelievably gentle. I break away and grind my hips sexily against him. Not surprisingly, I can feel his growing erection. We dance together for a while.

"God you are such a tease. You've got to be the most exciting female I've met in Singapore," unable to control his arms from roaming up and down my body. I tease him for a few more minutes before turning to face him in my attempt to tell him a few disappointing home truths.

"Look darlin', I'm too old for you. Besides, I'm off home now. I have an 8:30 meeting. Sorry." I cock my head and smile with faux-regret. As I leave, he follows me with an air of injured nobility, insisting on walking me to my cab.

"Look, this is really not necessary. But since you're the tourist, I can drop you off if you don't live too far." I hail a cab, open the door and usher him in. It was more of a directive than an invite. By now, I was relishing playing the role of Corrupter of the Youth, probably as much as he was enjoying playing the Acquiescent Puppy.

In the cab, my tongue made tantalising circles around his thumb and I sucked each of his fingers in turn. In return, he reached under my skirt to pleasure me, his fingers surprisingly deft and quick. By the time we reach his house, he's worked me into a reasonable lather.

"Don't make me beg...please..." he says huskily, looking as if he would enjoy doing exactly that.

"All right I won't. Your night just got better. The taxi fare is $8.60, come on get your change. No dawdlin' now, dear," I exit the cab and he stares at me open-mouthed, not quite following his sudden reversal of fortune.

Now if you follow this blog, you'll know that youth and inexperience aren't particularly high on my list of desired qualities in bed. But he committed himself reasonably well. He was a quick learner. His enthusiasm and stamina served him well. And he thanked me for a great night in the best way he knew how. Again. And Again. And Again(!!?). All in the space of an hour.

All in all, the shag turned out pretty ok. I think I was charmed by his earnest adoration of me. It certainly made up for the flourescent ceiling lighting and student-styled apartment (complete with sports trophies). He didn't have the practiced lines and guarded technicality of an older man. He was in genuine awe of everything I did. Every little gesture would turn him on and bring him to his knees (literally and figuratively), begging me to do it again.

"How did you know I like girls who lick my clavicle / suck on my balls / ride me reverse-cowgirl etc, " he would ask almost incredulously. I practised my best 26 year old knowing smile in response.

Ardently, he would whisper, "you're explosive in bed", "you have to give me your number", "how do you do that?", "you are the sexiest woman I have ever met". Sighs. I could get used to that.

Of course, there's no saying what 10 years of life experience and experimenting with loose women will do to him. But until then, it can't help to pick up a few useful life skills can it? I've told him that I'd bring my Japanese bondage ropes for our next session ("If I decide there is to be a next session, don't get your hopes up," I told him before leaving his apartment). So he can learn them, and learn them well.

Things I learned from having a hard cock

By sash.

1. Having proudly sported my own strap-on, I can imagine how having a cock is fascinating very much in a Secondary School science project kind of way. As a piece of matter, it constantly changes state (soft to hard), fulfils various functions (sexual pleasure, waste removal) and it responds to stimulus (touching, sucking, thrusting, extreme temperatures etc.) Thus, it is worthy of constant scrutiny and experimentation; no wonder men are perpetually touching themselves.

Mentally, having a cock presents very different possibilities from having a pussy. For one, a cock allows you to feel more in control of your own arousal…and also, more responsible for giving your partner pleasure. As these are just my impressions from having a prosthetic, I don't claim to be an autority on the subject. But I can well imagine if I had a fully functioning penis with a moveable foreskin and actual ejaculate to spray on something (wet tissue/ freshly laundered sheets / pair of tits) I would never leave the house. (Insert "Full-Time Wanker" joke here.)

2. Fucking someone with a cock is a tiring business. I understand now why men just want to turn over and fall asleep after doing it. I am not lazy in bed by any stretch and have perfected my own brand of pelvic thrusts, bunny bounces and Kegel contractions, but Post-Garth buggering, I have discovered whole sets of new (aching) muscles along my inner thighs and hamstrings. Hopefully it works on my cellulite.

3. I am now much more forgiving about men who can't multi-task in bed (“what is so difficult about holding my legs up, spanking me, sucking on my breasts and touching my clitoris all at the same time?”). My experience with Garth has shown that I too am lacking skills in this area. I can't seem to muster up the physical agility - not to mention, mental focus - to keep a 'cock' moving, give my partner a handjob and reach my own orgasm at the same time. (Whilst keeping my balance and making sure my tummy doesn’t hang out.)

Never has sex seemed like an endless session of Pilates or some other torturous gym-concoction to build “strength in the core”. It would be so much simpler if I could just knit my brows together, look at a single point on the wall, thrust furiously before collapsing in a sweaty heap and muttering a token “Was it as good for you?”.

4. Miracles can be achieved with the right product. In Garth's case, we used Astroglide, which is quite difficult and inconvenient to procure in Singapore. Evidently all the women here either 1. have walking faucets between their legs 2. aren't having sex or 3. use that manky K-Y stuff doctors use for Pap smears for lubrication.

Penis Envy

By sash.

Gay men rejoice, I now have one more thing in common with you – besides my penchant for Kylie and pink feather boas. Last night, I buggered a guy’s ass. Usually the farthest I dare venture in that area is a questioning poke now and then with my fingers and only if the guy I’m with doesn’t have a mild stroke first.

But as you know and as this blog lays testament, I never pass up opportunities to have new (and potentially scandalous) sexual experiences. But before I begin, let me assure you I haven’t had a change of heart – I am still 100% female, and still adore having sex cock-pussy style dearly -I've just now know how to wield a mean strap-on.

The strap-on in question was a prime piece of meat, shall we say. It had three heads - two for me and one for him. It looked like a medieval chastity belt - complete with leather straps for my thighs and a steel band across my waist. When it first made its appearance, I looked at it a little doubtfully.

“You know I don’t take this thing out very often. But you seem like the sort of girl who can handle it.”

That’s what started all the trouble – an innocuous-enough conversation about souvenirs from New York that I was having with Garth in bed. Garth was a scruffy freelance journo who picked me up at a press conference I was attending (with my day job). I was doing my best to disguise my skanky self with pinstripes and Powerpoint, but there was no mistaking his piercing stare across the conference table. I was not all that surprised when he emailed me the next day to ask me out for a drink. And even less surprised that he was interested in more than my personality…I just didn’t count on the contraptions in his closet, I guess.

“Are you freaking out yet?” he asked, as he closed the closet door and returned to bed with my toy for the night.

“No, it’s very difficult to freak me out. Besides, I’m more curious about this thing than anything else. I hope you wash it thoroughly.”

Garth put the strap-on in my hands and I lightly ran my fingers over its three flesh-coloured prosthetic bits (sorry I know this isn’t a very handicapped-sensitive description) . The protrusions were reasonably unyielding but have a slightly rubbery texture. The manufacturer had also simulated the shape of a cock head, complete with a ridge for the glans and quasi-frenulum on two of the bits meant for me. (Dedication to detail, I approve of that.) The final bit (or 10-inch chunk, really) meant for him was shaped in long, smooth contours.

As I got more familiar with the toy, it is not immediately apparent how I was supposed to put this on, so I looked up quizzically at Garth, waiting for instructions.

“Well you strap it on like this. Here, these two are for you,” he demonstrated. And before I knew it, I was fully strapped in, my pussy and ass appropriately plugged. I looked down to realise I was now in possession of a king-size cock. And ooh yes, I had an erection.

I have to admit I was quite proud of my new prosthetic cock and its perpetual tumescence. To start with, it was almost one and half times the size of anything I had seen before (and I’ve seen quite a lot) which also implied it would not be the sort of thing one used conventionally on women i.e. it would not be best friends with anyone's cervix.

All in all, it felt like a fucking weapon. Or, a weapon to fuck with, if you will. I was in control and I could already feel the blood rushing through my veins. I was getting worked up, flushed. I think I could have even uttered a bloodcurdling war-cry at some point but I restrained myself.

Meanwhile on the bed, Garth assumed the position - face down, ass up. He turned around to look at me somewhat expectantly.

“You don’t think I’m gay or anything, do you?”

“Look, you don't use deodorant and I have to wash my hair with soap every time I shower at your house. So no, I don’t think you’re gay,” I laughed in reply. Garth was so homophobic he could almost be French. (Except he's American). “Besides you shouldn’t be so self-conscious, all men have a prostrate gland, so you’re all biologically wired to like it up the arse,” I might have seen him cringing in response, except that I was busy bracing myself to enter him.

I took my time with it. After all, I figured a straight guy’s ass is a delicate thing. So lots of lube and achingly slow penetration. He loved it though and with each thrust, he was writhing and groaning all over his bed, at my complete mercy. The view from behind was one to cherish - his lifted arse eagerly gobbling up my prosthetic - and helped me understand why men are regularly unable to make eye contact during sex. Because damn, its hard to tear your eyes away from the sight of one's monstrous peg sliding into a tight, slippery receptacle. Boys, I am enlightened.

Soon, we both got into the swing of things and upped the pace. The beauty of the toy meant that the faster/harder I fucked Garth, the more vibrations it caused inside me. I had never been more motivated to master the finer points of fucking with a prosthetic. I also wanted to ensure that my partner had a good time (see boys, having a cock is not an excuse for being selfish and inconsiderate). So I concentrated on perfecting my rhythm and technique on Garth's bum, while he practised some rhythm and technique on his own rock-hard member.

We finished up with a bout of normal cock-pussy sex. But not before fumbling around with lube-slippery fingers for 15 minutes trying to remove the device from around my waist and more than a moment of mild panic (on my part) contemplating what I would do with a 'cock' for the rest of my life.

But that sort of question is best left for the experts. And my brief love affair with having a cock is best contained to Garth's closet for now.

To hair or not to hair

By sash.

I was having a conversation with some girlfriends yesterday about pubic hair. (Yes, I have girlfriends. Yes, they are all beautiful and refreshingly open-minded. No, you cannot tie them up or watch us having sex. BUT we will contemplate licking Valhrona chocolate off each other’s parts for an immodest sum of money. Ok, so I digress.) Anyway, a group of us got together over a delicious Vietnamese meal and we were waxing lyrical about well, waxing…and other forms of hair removal.

But before I start, let me state this upfront since most of you who read this blog will probably be wondering anyway. I have pubic hair. In fact, pubic hair is my friend. I’ve done the shaved pussy thing before but for some reason, it doesn’t feel quite right to me. It destroys the sense of mystery and ambience to the whole area in general. And I can’t quite shake the feeling that I’m supposed to be twelve and fulfilling somebody’s twisted Lolita fantasy.

So currently, I keep my pubic hair in a landing strip format. (Boring, sorry.) But I have to admit that the length, breadth and general housekeeping of this strip fluctuates with time, mood and the number of ‘planes’ I expect to be landing on it at any one time. If I’m not doing any regular shagging, I do frequent maintenance below. It’s always better to be prepared, in my opinion. First impressions do count. Second, third, fourth impressions can jolly well deal with regrowth.

I know some girls who are of the exact opposite persuasion, and more power to them. It’s a matter of individual preferences, really. And special requests.

Sometimes, I am quite happy to take requests. They give me an excuse to indulge in a variety of pubic coifs that I know will find an appreciative audience. In fact for a long time, I was the proud owner of luxuriant vaginal vegetation because Adam, a very special regular, would love to bury his nose in it and just nestle. (This behaviour must be derived from the same gene that makes some men go crazy for the smell of musty armpits during sex. I should have paid more attention in biology class!) Anyway, since I really liked Adam as a friend and a partner, I promised not to let anyone take a razor or pot of wax to my pubic bush for a long time.

Basically I have a very opportunistic mindset about this. If you’re a good lover and having my pubic hair completely grown out (or removed or dyed red and shaped in your initials) makes you lavish greater attention on my pussy with your eyes, lips, tongue, fingers, silicone vibrating objects, then you got it.

I also know men who absolutely cannot bear the idea of going down on a pussy with any hair on it. (Although pubic hair in the tonsils isn’t listed as a life-threatening medical condition, I’ve checked) With JP, I would often find myself seated absolutely still on a toilet seat, legs splayed wide open, watching as each confident shick of his Mach3 chastised my errant pussy of its wildebeest ways. JP and I only hooked up very occasionally, but it became a bit of a ritual between us. And I have to say, the tingle of mint shaving cream combined with the intimacy of being shaved by someone else, not to mention the anticipation of fun-and-games to follow is an absolute turn-on. But obviously don’t try this if you’re both stone drunk or with a man that’s on asthma medication / just got eliminated from Survivor.

Female circumcision is listed as a medical condition, and let’s just say, it’s not something you want for Christmas.

Making Love

By sash.

As much as I will always be unbearably excited by men smacking me and calling me a bitch as they ejaculate all over my breasts, there is quite an entirely different sort of satisfaction when a guy looks into my eyes, strokes my hair and then paces himself so that we can come together. Damian makes love to me (his term not mine) and it’s like I’m a different person when I’m with him. I am beautiful, not hot, not sexy, not fabulous. I am a person, not a horny slut, not a vixen, not a goddess (although all of them are compliments graciously given in their own way. Thanks, you know who you all are).

I curl up on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. I wake up in the middle of the night and sleepily call him “sweetie”. But don’t worry I’m not getting soft in my 26 year old dotage even though I know this is sounds like a really sappy post.

The point is, I don’t often “make love” and admittedly, I’m quite enjoying the novelty of it. An overdose of Mills & Boon novels in my lusty adolescence has made me slightly allergic to the concept -- making love is what married people do, its light-off sex and is so…so absolutely pedestrian. I’ve debated this with Damian, about why we make love instead of just fuck. We haven’t quite reached any sort of concrete conclusion, but maybe it’s because we keep having these discussions late at night when his dick’s inside me and (naturally) it’s quite hard to concentrate.

Anyway, it’s just nice to know that I am still capable of gentle, tender physical behaviour towards another living creature that isn’t my cat. Maybe I’ve come full circle and have become jaded by too many gratuitous flings. Now meaningful, communicative sex has become sexy. (Gasp!) I hope this doesn’t mean I’m on the slippery slope towards becoming a Desperate Housewife. Maybe I should start baking muffins and reading the Bible for cheap thrills.

Karen - part 8

Karen
by HBBO @ sgforums


Part 8


My heart sank when Karen pleaded "Wait!....." I was in a dilemma whether to thrust the remaining half of my cock into Karen's tight pussy or to withdraw completely, when Karen continued "Don't cum inside me hor." That was the most unambiguous consent that I had ever gotten from Karen and that provided all the encouragement that I needed to push the rest of my cock into Karen - causing her to squeal in delight.

With my cock fully sheathed in Karen's sacred love tunnel, I paused momentarily to savour my "victory" and to comprehend the almost surreal nature of our union. I then gently pinned Karen against the glass-partition wall of the shower stall and slowly pumped my cock in and out of Karen's tight pussy using long deliberate stroke as we fucked in a standing position. I picked up the pace after some 10 minutes of gentle love-making when I sensed that Karen was on the verge of an orgasm. The rapid pounding of my cock soon pushed Karen over the edge - causing her to shudder as she cummed amid moans of ecstasy.

By then, I was also getting closed to my own orgasm. I continued pounding non-stop into Karen's wet pussy (grunting with each thrust of my cock) while she was still squirming from her intense orgasm. Within minutes, I felt my floodgate opening. I pulled out my cock and sprayed my hot semen all over the shower stall – including some which landed on Karen's body. That was one of the most powerful orgasm that I have had for a long time!

We had sex several more times over the next 2 days at the Bali resort - including once when Karen woke me up in the middle of the night with a blow job and then straddled me while I was still in bed.

---------------------------------------------------

After our return from Bali, we continued to have sex on a regular basis. My relationship with Karen was clearly beyond that of a "special friend". Nonetheless, Karen continued to reject me as a bf – claiming that she was not ready for a serious relationship so soon after her breakup with Anthony. I found that hard to accept as it was already more than a year after the breakup. We argued frequently over this and the tension eventually led to us drifting apart.

In the end, the disillusionment led to me taking up an offer from my Company for a 2-year posting to the USA. That was the straw that finally broke our relationship. Soon after that, Karen took up a scholarship to do an MBA programme at the University of New South Wales (UNSW). We lost contact with each other soon after that.

---------------------------------------------------

4 years later

With the completion of my 2-year posting in USA, I was sent back to the Regional HQ in Singapore and was soon caught up with the "rat race". By then, my memories of Karen have faded into the background - until I found a letter sitting in my letter box one day.

It was a wedding invitation. It was addressed to "Mr Wanker" and signed off by "Yours Peaches". With that, tears started streaming uncontrollably from my eyes as memories of Karen flashed through my mind.......



The End



Afternote


Since the story has ended, I would like the opportunity to address some of the issues that were raised by readers either directly on the forum or indirectly through their PMs to me:

1. Is the story "copied" or "original"?

There were a few readers who accused me of copying the story from somewhere (although none of them were able to furnish any proof). Well, the truth is that the story is 100% original. For those who are still unconvinced, so be it. I am not going to waste my breaths to try to convince you otherwise.

2. Is it a "true story" or a "fiction"?

The story is 80% truth and 20% artistic exaggeration. The people mentioned in the story (for example Karen and Anthony) are all real person. But their names have been changed to protect their privacy. All the events and incidents described in the story (example braless in office, Man U vs Arsenal bet, Mt Faber and Bali incidents) are all real. The exaggerations are in the sex scenes. They have been "spiced up" to make them more exciting for the readers.

3. Why did I write the story?

Contrary to what some people may think, I did not write the story out of vengeance. Believe it or not - I wrote the story so as to improve on my English. I used to write a lot in my previous job. Now that I have switched job, I have a lot less opportunity to write. To prevent my writing skills from degenerating, I decided to write a story about my r/s with "karen".

4. Did I end the story pre-maturely because I was bored?

The truth is that my original plan is to complete the story in 6 parts. But when I started writing, I begin to recall more and more incidents which I thought would be of interests to the readers. The story was therefore expanded to 8 parts. Even then, there were a lot of other interesting incidents that have to be left out due to constraint of space. Otherwise, the story will continue to maybe 20 parts. I hope you realised that it is not easy to condense 2 years of my life into an 8-part story.

5. Did Karen really have a "hairless pussy"?

This has to be the weirdest question that I have received from my readers! Is it really that rare for a girl to get a bikini wax???? Maybe we should do a poll here at the Bar

Karen - part 7

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Karen - part 6

Karen
by HBBO @ sgforums

Part 6
My relationship with Karen was a complex one. Karen has not regarded me as her bf, even though it was apparent to both of us that our friendship was already beyond platonic level. In one of our subsequent conversation, Karen defined me as a "special friend", although she did not quite explain the meaning of that. I guess we were sort of midway between normal friends and a bf-gf type of relationship.

In any case, our relationship continued to grow following the dry f?ck session. As her "special friend", I was granted "free access privilege" – meaning that I could touch her freely (except for her pussy). This was a privilege I used very regularly as I simply could not keep my hands away from Karen's gorgeous boobs. I would grope her whenever we had the privacy – in the car, in parks, in lifts, at staircases, etc.

Very often, our weekend dates would end up as petting sessions in my car and with Karen finishing me off with a handjob. At times when she was in a "playful" mood, she would tease me by kissing the tip of my cock or giving my hard shaft a few quick licks during the handjob session. Nevertheless, Karen has never acceded to any of my requests for blowjobs – maybe she felt that blowjob (just like touching of pussy) was considered too intimate even for a "special friend". However, this was set to change a couple of months later when one of our petting sessions got too intense!

The incident started out as a routine movie date one Saturday night. It was a very good RA movie (can't recall the title) with a lot of nudities and a couple of extremely hot sex scenes which left me both aroused and frustrated as the cinema was too crowded for me to fondle Karen's boobs without being too obvious. By the time the show ended, it was already past 2am (it was a midnight show). We were both feeling a bit hungry and we decided to head to Newton for supper. During supper, we talked about the movie and Karen admitted that she found the sex scenes stimulating as well! I quickly seized upon the opportunity and persuaded Karen to go "park-tor" at Mount Faber. Karen saw through my intention immediately and teased me for being a "pervert". But despite this, she agreed.

By the time we drove up the slope to Mount Faber, it was already past 3am. Except for 2 other cars in the car park, the whole place seemed deserted (which is not surprising at this unearthly hour). We parked our car and took a short walk to one of the pavilion (about 200 metres away) which overlooked the sea. As we walked, we groped each other like 2 horny teenagers. By the time we reached the pavilion, Karen's bra has been unclasped and one of my hands was already under her blouse fondling her naked boobs. I wasted no time in lifting up Karen's blouse and burying my face into her boobs the moment we reached the pavilion.

I was busy caressing, sucking and nibbling away on Karen's nipples for almost 10 minutes before I noticed Karen looking intently at something behind me. I turned around and soon spotted what caught Karen's attention – there was another couple in the next pavilion about 50 metres away from us! While it was too far away and too dark to see their faces clearly, it was obvious from the silhouettes (illuminated by the moonlight) that the couple was busy petting – just like us!

What surprised me was not the couple's presence in the next pavilion, but the fact that Karen did not stop me while I was sucking away on her boobs. It was obvious that they could see us (or rather our silhouettes) if they happened to look at our direction. I asked Karen if she prefers to shift to another location, but Karen said that it was "not necessary". It was then that I suspected Karen has an exhibitionist streak in her. The risk of being seen somehow heightened the sexual arousal in her. [Note: I also recalled that Karen had previously told me that she loves to suntan topless when she was holidaying overseas]

With Karen's assurance, I continued to lavish her boobs with kisses and caresses. The presence of "possible audiences" amplified the erotic feeling in both of us. Soon, I had Karen squirming with arousal and moaning softly to every flick of my tongue on her nipples. By then, I was also panting with excitement. My cock was hard like a rod and with copious amount of pre-cum flowing freely from the tip.

Sensing my need for relief, Karen unzipped my pant and wrapped her small delicate hand tightly around my fully rigid shaft before pulling it free from the tight confine of my pant. With my cock out in the open, Karen proceeded to jerk me off with her usual slow and gentle rhythm. This has the effect of intensifying my arousal without pushing me too quickly to the point of no return. I closed my eyes as I took in the intense pleasure that Karen was lavishing on my cock.

I opened my eyes a few minutes later when I felt a warm and wet feeling on my cock. I was totally surprised to see Karen kneeling in front of me and with my cock completely engulfed in her mouth. Finally, Karen was giving me the blowjob which I had been yearning for several months - in the open and only 50m away from another couple. It was magical. It was almost unbelievable!

For the next 10 minutes, Karen licked and sucked on my cock while concurrently massaging my balls with her hands. Her skilful and enthusiastic oral manipulating soon pushed me to the edge. I warned Karen as I felt my floodgate opening. Karen barely had enough time to pull away from my cock before I lost control and sprayed my cum several feet into the air – and wetting the pavilion floor with my creamy discharge in the process. The orgasm was so intense that I felt my knees almost buckled under my own weight as I ejaculated.

As I regained my composure and my sanity, I saw Karen seated on the pavilion bench and struggling to put on her bra (which I had removed earlier). Without any warning, I lunged forward, pushed my hand under Karen's short skirt and touched her pussy. Taken aback by my abrupt incursion, Karen could only whimper a half-hearted protest and soon "surrendered" herself to the inevitable pleasure of having her pussy massaged.

To allow me easier access to her pussy, I laid Karen down on the bench and placed her legs on each side of the bench. This caused her thighs to be spread wide and thus surrendering her panty-clad pussy to my mercy. In spite of her panty, I had no problem locating her clitoris (which was already engorged) and gave the nub a good rub down through her panty. This made her already soaked panty even wetter by the minute.

Sensing that Karen would not object, I gently pulled aside her panty to expose her waxed pussy to the night air. Seeing Karen's totally bare pussy was having a stimulating effect on my cock as it started stirring back to life. Nevertheless I was determined not to allow my cock to distract me from giving Karen her well deserved orgasm tonight.

I lubricated my fingers with Karen's juice and gently inserted them into Karen's incredibly tight pussy – one at a time until I had 3 fingers in her pussy. I then started finger-fucking Karen and simultaneously rubbing/licking her clitoris until she cummed several minutes later amid a series of soft moans.

By then, my horny cock was fully erected again. I asked Karen if I could fuck her, but was flatly rejected. Nonetheless, she gave me a 2nd blowjob of the night. This time I lasted much longer and the eventual orgasm was almost as powerful as the first. I felt my balls totally drained of semen as I stained the pavilion floor with my cum for the 2nd time that night.

It was at this juncture that we noticed the couple at the next pavilion has already disappeared. Till today, we have no way of verifying how much they have seen of our petting session.



End of Part 6 (To be continued)