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. ;)