Текст книги "Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 2"

Автор книги: Miss Izzy

Соавторы: Suzanna Kusuma,Amir Muhammed,John Burdett,Lee Yew Moon,Andrew Penney,O Thiam Chin,Dawn Farnham,Amirul Ruslan,Ricky Low,Richard Lord
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BEST OF ASIAN EROTICA 2
Edited by Richard Lord

INTRODUCTION

Eroticism is on the march; or maybe it’s more apt to say, it’s on the slink.

Whatever the proper term, perhaps nowhere is that advance more evident than in Asia, which has by far the largest population of any continent. Asia practices eroticism in fascinating ways and, recently, Asian writers and writers based in Asia have been chronicling some of this eroticism.

In the second half of 2006, Monsoon Books (Singapore) published Best of Singapore Erotica, the first anthology of erotic fiction (along with a handful of erotic poems) ever released in Singapore. That volume proved to be a surprising success: not only did it dominate Monsoon’s own bestseller list for many months, but just four months after the collection first hit the bookstores, we were going into our second edition.

Strongly encouraged by the success of this venture, Monsoon decided a few years later to come out with a second collection of erotic short fiction.

This time, however, the company decided to cast its nets wider and brought out Best of Southeast Asian Erotica, in which four other countries were included. (The new territory included Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand and the Philippines.) Although it only appeared in late 2010, this book, too, seems to be a success, both critically and commercially. Now we are taking our erotic sampling out into a new frontier: the world of ebooks.

The stories included in these first two e-collections represent a mix-and-match of the best works from the two earlier print volumes. We have dropped the flash fictions and poems from our Best of Singapore Eroticacollection and then merged them in these first two volumes of ebooks with pieces from the Best of Southeast Asiancollection.

As the first collection was composed entirely of Singapore stories, there is still a heavy presence of Singapore fiction in both of these first volumes.

Subsequent volumes feature first-rate erotic fiction (and some non-fiction) from throughout Asia.

But what we offer here is exemplary of the principles we employed throughout in selecting stories for the first two print collections: good stories, well-written, though with a definite erotic flavour. This is not pornography; it is a sub-genre of full-bodied literature which looks at and celebrates the sensual and the sexual in the human experience. These stories were not chosen simply because they titillate (though many of them do that as well), but because they delight, inform and sometimes even enlighten and ennoble.

We enjoyed putting both collections together (as you might well imagine). We think you will enjoy reading these stories and seeing why Asia is fast becoming the world centre of eroticism in all its richness and variety.

GOOD MORNING, BANGKOK
Andrew Penney, Thailand

Savika. As Thai as the fragrant jasmine rice used each year in the Royal Ploughing Ceremony to ensure a good harvest. But—quite unmistakably—also a daughter of Mother India; the pink and bronze tones in her complexion telegraphed her Thai-Indian ancestry in a way which stiffened the cocks of a certain kind of Thai male with thoughts of Hindu gods making love in a sea of churning milk.

The General who was admiring her contours as she slept was one of those men. Although Savika’s Indian features were softened by her Thai blood, the heft of her full breasts belonged to an apsara, one of those curvaceous Hindu sprites decorating temples all over Southeast Asia.

In the quiet street far below the sleek new studio apartment which the General used as a garconniere, street hawkers were setting up their noodle carts in the pre-dawn, and steady streams of Japanese cars were already threading themselves through the Bangkok roads in a routine which was designed to beat the dreaded rush hour jams of Krung Thep, the City of Angels.

It was so early in the morning that nearly every car in that thick flow of traffic had a sleeping child strapped into the back seat, an authentic Bangkok angel dreaming in his or her school uniform. The natives of Bangkok love to boast that their children eat, sleep, study, and are even born in cars; the city’s traffic department has a squad of officers trained to nip through traffic jams on motorbikes and deliver babies in the gridlock.

Savika was sleeping so deeply that the General was able to use his cellphone to speak to his official driver without waking her. This was hardly surprising; the General was physically powerful, sexually experienced and was known to be a bold and demanding lover.

One of the national emblems of Thailand is the garuda, a fearsome and very virile male eagle which soared into Buddhist mythology via the Hindu culture that is at the root of so many things Thai. This includes the writing system, religious rituals, court etiquette, dance, music and art—even virtually every surname in the Kingdom. The Hindu God Krishna himself was said to have ridden into cosmic battles under a banner depicting this creature.

The General had swooped over—and against—Savika’s supple young body like a garuda, taking his pleasure from the rich curves which felt so different from the smooth milky flesh of his main wife and his main concubine, who were both Sino-Thais of good birth, like himself.

He had spread her arms on the bed like wings and used his strength to press her wrists into the mattress as she moved her hips under him in that fierce Indian rhythm which they both enjoyed. The heavy breasts swelling above that narrow Indian waist had been crushed against his smooth chest during their lovemaking, and her heels had squeezed the firm muscles of his lower back when she wrapped her legs around his waist to pull him more deeply into her body.

The idea of making love with a dusky Indo-Thai woman represented erotic possibilities which were something like a drug for some Thai men. Savika herself took some very sharp pleasures from satisfying the General’s tastes for Indian women, who were believed to be loose and uninhibited.

The erotic appeal of such women never failed to grip these Thai males, whether they were ethnic Thais, or a luuk jeenlike the General, whose family had emigrated from China three centuries ago and risen to the very highest levels of Thai society—as courtiers, senior army officers, and titled merchants.

Indo-Thais had lived and prospered quietly in the Kingdom for centuries.

It was a small community; fewer than 70,000 souls versus something like seven million Sino-Thais.

Like the Chinese, they had become utterly Thai, producing a caste of Thai-speaking businessmen and advisers. The chief Hindu priest of Thailand, who presided over royal rites, was Indian, and at least one Indo-Thai had served as a Privy Councillor.

Shortly before six in the morning, the General decided to wake his mistress for some brisk exercise before he headed for the office.

He bent his head between the thighs of the sleeping woman, and blew softly on the sensitive folds which were exposed because she was so relaxed that her thighs were slightly parted. When Savika’s hips moved, her patron gripped her knees to part them even further and began to pull her out of her slumber by raking the lips of her yoniwith his strong white teeth.

The General was fond of sleepy sex; he had a taste for watching women sleep and for taking them before they were awake enough to know whether they were ready to be penetrated by him. He loved feeling sleepy women tighten about his lingamin surprise as they began to realize what was happening to them.

None of his women were complaining. He knew that Savika, who happened to have the same name as a popular Indo-Thai TV actress, was particularly fond of being woken up for sex.

Yawning twice, she rubbed her eyes open and gazed at her patron, with eyes which were so large and dark that she looked like she was wearing eyeliner even without any makeup. The heavy gold dancer’s anklets that she wore to feed the General’s fantasies jingled lightly as he slid his lean body along hers, crushing her breasts once again, and pushed the heavy head of his very rigid lingamfirmly past the warm, fragrant gates.

He wanted to devour his mistress; the dark and well-defined lips of her mouth became an early breakfast for him. He nipped and sucked at them and forced his tongue cleanly past her strong white teeth in exactly the way she liked, in a very deep embrace that pressed their tongues together and made his penis throb.

When the General penetrated his sleepy Indo-Thai apsara, he entered her in a sexual position which is known as the Bevel, his body fitting snugly against hers with every slow thrust, like the smooth bevels of a picture frame or a mirror. It was a classic position which permitted the man to enter a woman from the rear while she was lying on her back.

Kneeling astride her legs, he had grasped Savika’s right ankle and pulled her leg right across her body until it was resting on his right thigh; this tilted her hips and exposed her smooth buttocks to him. He kept a firm grip on her ankle and began thrusting.

The General’s young mistress gasped as she felt his lingamsplit her ripe body open and drive its thick head deep into her pussy with enough force to make the muscles of her anus clench and contract. She was dewy wet and deliciously tight. He enjoyed the low sounds which she was making as he took his time churning her hot inner sea in exactly the same way as the old Hindu gods might have churned the sea of cosmic milk with their bodies.

The General’s cellphone beeped twice just as Savika began writhing under him from the force of her orgasm, and her inner muscles began squeezing his cock. It was a text message from the General’s official driver, who had been circling the block. The General knew what the message said, but he merely grunted and continued to make love, allowing his mistress to take her time enjoying her little death.

Like many Thai men, the General had studied Tantric sex techniques; this was a society where it was not considered shocking for men of his rank and wealth to juggle official concubines and mere mistresses, and love all of them well.

He used these techniques to control his ejaculation, withdrew from his woman and patted her on one rounded buttock; Savika’s breasts were heaving and her smooth bronze skin was glowing from exertion. The mistress understood exactly what her patron wanted, and rose to a kneeling position on the bed. Tilting smoothly backwards, she arched her back like a bow to present herself to him, pillowing her head lazily on that thick glossy Indian hair, and on the hands which she kept crossed behind her neck.

And then she waited for the General to finish. His erection was dark with blood from his excitement, and bobbing aggressively as he moved between her thighs on his knees. Savika’s crotch and her mound were completely smooth, in the Indian style which her patron appreciated very much; he paused to split that smoothness with his thumbs and make her moan before he reared over her again and re-penetrated her.

Several minutes later, the General’s cellphone was beeping again, more insistently now, but nobody in the bedroom of that studio apartment was paying any attention; he was too busy riding his mistress, and he was also riding an orgasm which was so intense that he left marks on Savika’s upper arms and printed her shoulder and her heavy breasts with the marks of his teeth.

After he was done ploughing that darkly succulent body and had spurted a decent amount of his seed into his mistress, the General rolled onto his back next to the young woman and put his hand on her thigh to feel the deep muscles of her legs trembling from the effects of the very profound pleasures he had just inflicted upon her.

The lovers lay next to each other, panting. Savika rested one delicate hand on the rough but neat hairs of the General’s groin, rubbing the backs of her fingers lazily over the base of the cock which had been so very angry and hungry, but was now very tired after all that exercise.

Her patron enjoyed the light cool weight of his young mia noi’s hand on his penis, which was still bobbing stubbornly as it took its usual time to soften. The General knew that he would not be able to climb into his official car any time soon; his penis had a mind of its own.

It was a full minute before Savika was composed enough to sit up and waihim graciously—bringing her hands as high as the middle of her forehead—and her patron had calmed down enough to greet her and wish her a pre-dawn good morning with an abbreviated but affectionate male waiof his own.

The young lady knew her patron well enough to bend her face down and use the tips of her fingers to touch his feet lightly, Indian-style, as if they were a husband and wife in India.

As is the case in Hindu India, touching the feet in Thailand is a very intimate gesture of submission and love, and the General’s lingambegan jerking to military attention again at her touch. Her rosy bottom, which was still completely naked, bobbed into his line of sight and sharpened his arousal.

The minor wife’s Hindu curves always did that to him; he was severely tempted to flip her onto her belly and pin her down, so that he could feel her heart beating wildly as she submitted to him and waited—together with him—for him to become fully erect and take her yet again.

However, the beeps and chirps from the cellphone were becoming increasingly urgent, and the General decided, reluctantly, to wash himself and get into his dress whites for the long day of military duties ahead.

Savika watched her general languidly from the bed, without lifting a finger to help him; her eyes were half-closed under her very long eyelashes as she watched him bathe that hard body and dress himself.

She memorized the velvety heft of his penis in her hand as she bid him farewell by kissing him along the shaft. After her lover had let himself out of the tiny studio flat, she stretched herself out on the sheets like a contented oriental odalisque and dozed for a while, dreaming contentedly as another bright and muggy new day began dawning in Bangkok, the City of Angels.

THE SEX THING WITH THE TEMPOYAK
Amir Muhammed, Malaysia

Zeb and Sarah had been having sex for nine and a half months, and she was starting to get bored. It wasn’t that she would openly yawn during sex or anything, but she would find her thoughts flying to places other than the man who was actively in bed with her—such as whether she’d remembered to pay the electricity bill, as they were so quick to cut off the supply the last time.

She didn’t bring up the topic in case he got offended. Besides, this was an unusually long relationship for her, so she figured that it was inevitable for the initial excitement to fade away after a while. It was probably the natural course of things. Weren’t there more important things in a couple’s life—mutually enriching adventures that they could embark on together? Maybe they could get season tickets for the Malaysian Philharmonic or something; she’d always vaguely wanted to cultivate an interest in classical music. So she pretended to enjoy the sex and just kept quiet—or rather, just made the unquiet sounds he would expect to hear. After all, she loved him and hoped the feeling was still mutual.

Zeb, however, was fully aware that Sarah was getting bored with him in bed. He noticed it in a certain glaze that came over her eyes, and since they always kept the lights on during sex, he would get to see every little thing in those eyes that he loved so much. He didn’t bring up the topic because he didn’t want her to get defensive, which might trigger their first fight. It was an unusually long relationship for him, too, but he wanted to make it even longer. So he continued performing his sexual duties the best he could, while thinking of a plan to make things better.

One night in December, he suddenly thought of something. It was an idea that seemed to him quite fine, and so he started grinning. Luckily, Sarah was already asleep by then, so she didn’t have to wonder at this sudden, unexplained cheer.

Twenty-four hours later—after they’d both been to work and back separately, as was their usual weekday routine, the only difference being that this time Zeb had made an extra stop along the way home at a dusty bookshop named Toko Junk—they found themselves in bed again.

They were in the middle of foreplay, and without looking up at her face, he could sense (at the most subliminal level) that her enthusiasm was less than his. He suddenly stopped what he was doing. She noticed the change in the usual rhythm and opened her eyes. He was no longer in bed, but standing beside it.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, hitching herself up.

‘Wait till you see this,’ he said, and walked to a large paper bag that he’d left on the dresser. He removed something from the bag and walked back, joining her in bed. She accepted the thing; it was a hardcover book, exquisitely bound in burgundy and obviously old, but written in a script that she didn’t understand.

‘It’s an ancient Javanese sex manual,’ he explained.

‘It doesn’t look Japanese.’

‘No, JaVAnese,’ he corrected her. ‘Luckily, it’s a language I can read.

It’s called the Serat Centhiniand it’s from the early 19th century. It’s sometimes referred to as the Southeast Asian Kama Sutrabecause it’s so sexually explicit. During the course of the story—and yes, unlike the Kama Sutra, there is actually a strong narrative—there are many lessons on how men and women can best pleasure each other, because sexual ecstasy is seen as something that can help people attain spiritual enlightenment.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You can Google it; the book exists!’

‘No, I mean I don’t believe you can read it. Who on earth reads ancient Javanese?’

‘I learned it from my grandfather. Look, I’ll prove it to you,’ he said, and he lay back against a raised pillow, getting her to do the same against the other one. The pillows, nice and big, were from IKEA.

He put his right arm around her shoulder while his left hand flicked open the musty tome at a random early page. He started reading aloud. The words sounded incantatory, even frightening, as if he were putting a curse on her.

She half-expected the room to start filling up with kemenyanincense. He read out a whole page, the fingers of his left hand travelling down the book while those of his right hand, almost unconsciously, touched various parts of her.

When he was done, he had a slight frown.

‘It’s very strange,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I get it.’

‘Why, what is it?’ she asked, getting curious in spite of herself.

‘It’s describing an esoteric sex ritual involving tempoyak.’

‘ Tempoyak?’

‘Yes, tempoyak.’

‘I didn’t know the ancient Javanese ate fermented durian.’

‘This isn’t exactly for eating.’ And then he described in some detail (he was translating a whole page, after all) how the tempoyakshould be used.

She was incredulous, then amused, then intrigued—but still rather mystified.

‘But why would that be pleasurable? It doesn’t seem logical,’ she said, after the ritual had been described so vividly she felt like a 3-D demonstration had taken place in front of her, like a triple-X version of Avatar.

‘Don’t know. Maybe it was true in the early 19th century but no longer so now.’ He wanted to put the book away, but she stopped him. His right hand continued to touch parts of her, and now she placed his left hand, which still held the book, over some other parts of her. As the exquisite burgundy binding of the hardcover travelled over her skin, she thought of the possibilities.

The next day, as per their usual weekday routine, they took their separate routes to work. She ended up lunching with three of her colleagues at a Malay restaurant. The place was packed, and the whirring fans didn’t do much for the humidity, but the food was good. While she had a little sambal petaiwith her rice and tenggirifish, she also asked to take away a Tupperware of tempoyak.

‘You actually like that stuff? It’s so sour,’ her colleague Mel said.

‘Yeah, I know,’ Sarah said, vaguely. She reached for her phone to call Zeb and was dismayed to see that the battery had run out. She could wait to use the charger in the office, of course, but she felt an urgency within her. She asked to borrow Mel’s phone.

She dialled Zeb’s number from memory, and he took his time answering.

Sarah knew she had to keep her part of the conversation discreet because her three colleagues were within hearing distance. She didn’t want to seem like some kind of pervert.

‘It’s me. Borrowed phone. I bought the tempoyak,’ she said, when he was finally on the other end. ‘Should we try the… recipe tonight?’

He laughed. ‘Serious?’

‘Yes’ she said, keeping her voice light. ‘I’m curious to see how it will taste.’

‘Okay, but there are a few other items we’ll need to get. The tools.’

‘Yes, I remember the items. Can we get modern-day equivalents? Some of those ancient ones won’t be available now.’

‘I will check with IKEA after work,’ he said, and she could almost see him wink.

After the call ended, her other colleague, Rini, said, ‘Waah, I didn’t know you two cooked.’

‘There’s a first time for everything. It’s a Japa—… Javanese recipe.’

‘Those things tend to be spicy, right?’ asked her third colleague, Ling.

‘We shall see,’ was all Sarah said.

As promised, he had a bag of IKEA products. They spent a bit of time preparing in the kitchen, and when everything seemed to be in place, he asked, ‘Are you ready?’ and she replied, ‘Sure!’

They did it in the kitchen itself because there were already paper towels and power sockets there. And it was, in a word, awesome. She tingled in places she didn’t even know existed; at a precise moment during the ritual, she actually thought her head would swivel around like in a movie possession, because she really felt like she was being taken outside herself, into a more primitive but more vital realm of the senses. Perhaps she was taken out of the Earth into the mythical sky kingdom of Kayangan.

When it was finally over, she wanted to start all over again. He was willing, but there was no tempoyakleft. When they both stopped panting, he said, ‘Tomorrow you can bring a bigger Tupperware.’

That was the start of the most amazing week of her life. She couldn’t concentrate at work. The simplest things, such as watching creamer dissolve in coffee, would make her blush with remembered pleasure. It was like everything else became black-and-white while the sex thing with the tempoyakevery night was not only in colour, but the swirling, explosive palette of a Bollywood musical sequence. (Why deny it: she’d always preferred Bollywood to classical music. The Malaysian Philharmonic could safely be ignored now.)

She was sure that the sounds they made would sometimes alarm the neighbours, some of whom were terribly nosy, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t a couple resuscitate Javanese rituals from the early 19th century in the comfort of their own kitchen—or, as was the case, in every other part of their apartment?

Things can’t get any better than this, she thought. But she was wrong.

She got back one evening and started undressing immediately. She somehow knew he was in the bedroom. (Since they’d started the sex thing with the tempoyak, they had achieved an almost ESP level of communication.

They could not only finish each other’s sentences but anticipate the other’s thoughts. This was probably because the ritual took them into more intimate territory than either had thought possible.)

By the time she got to the bedroom, she was already naked. And he was waiting for her, standing, also wearing only a smile. He didn’t have any of the props with him, but even looking at him without the ritualistic paraphernalia—he was just the naked Zeb that she had seen hundreds of times in the past nine and a half months—was enough to get her excited.

She was so happy letting her eyes wander over every inch of him (some inches more than others) that she didn’t notice he had his right hand behind his back. Then he brought it out: the book, again.

‘I’ve just finished the next page,’ he said. ‘The page after the description of the sex thing with the tempoyak. Would you be interested to try the next level?’

‘There is a next level?’

‘Yes. The book goes through several stages, each subsequent one meant to bring a couple even closer together in the journey of life.’

She nodded, not daring herself to say anything, not even ‘Sure!’, even though her mind was filled with exclamation marks.

‘Tonight we can go back to basics: just you and me, if that’s okay with you. But when you come home tomorrow,’ he said, walking towards her, reaching her, doing a few things to her until he brought his lips to her ear and whispered, ‘bring a whole durian.’

A few days later, Zeb was walking along the road that housed the Toko Junk bookshop. The aged proprietor, sitting outside for a respite from the stuffy interior, waved to him and he stopped.

‘How are you doing, Mrs Heng?’

‘Fine, thank you. Looking for any more books?’

‘Not for the moment,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There are so many I haven’t finished yet!’

She watched his retreating back with a smile. If only all customers were like him! He’d sometimes buy things that no one else would buy. Like his most recent purchase: a 19th-century Land Code, a hardcover exquisitely bound in burgundy but written entirely in Hindi. ‘Do you read Hindi?’ she’d asked.

‘No.’ She could have sworn he then winked at her. ‘But I’ll improvise.’