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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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

NIGHT RIDE
Nigel Hogge, Philippines

The gears of the old diesel engine clashed and the bus lumbered off up the highway, bumping over potholes and creaking from side to side. Lisa fought her way to the rear to see if she could get a last fond look at her mother and sisters, but when she got there, the gathering dusk made it impossible to see anything through the grimy rear window.

For some reason she began to cry. Perhaps it was a memory of her father averting his eyes as he accepted the little gift from her that started the tears.

She searched for tissue paper in her purse, all that she carried besides an overnight bag and some ears of corn bound with twine, pressed upon her by her mother at the bus stop.

A hand loomed in front of her face, holding a handkerchief. Instinctively, she took it and wiped her eyes. Pulling herself together, she removed the cloth from her face and was disturbed to see it wasn’t very clean.

She turned to the person who had so kindly offered it to her and was surprised to see a young foreigner, a tall, skinny white guy dressed in a faded denim jacket, scruffy white T-shirt and khaki shorts. He was grinning at her.

In the darkness, she could make out faint pockmarks on his face. He had a big, thick-lipped mouth that reminded her of an English rock-and-roll star she’d seen cavorting on a video.

She quickly returned the grubby cloth, nodded curtly, and turned back to the window. She was in no mood for banter. She felt depressed and stared through the glass at the occasional passing light.

The bus droned on through the evening. Night fell. Her feet ached. She hung onto the ceiling strap for support, and out of nowhere her depression lifted, and wicked, erotic thoughts came to her, the kind of thoughts that often plagued her because she was, she knew, a wicked and erotic girl.

Wild fantasies entered her mind, not helped by the fact that she was standing on a filthy floor which trembled and vibrated and sent tremors running up her legs, finishing up at the same damp spot between her luscious, plump, quivering thighs.

Naughty visions of men, boys, hairy chests, flat bellies, hard biceps, lean buttocks, swelling calf muscles, corded necks, thick wrists, sensitive fingers, firm jaws, the feel of a man’s… caramba!!

She froze, her cheek pressed to the unclean glass… caramba! The son of a bitch! The low-down animal! Was she imagining this, or was this part of a dream? Had she fallen asleep standing, and what she felt pressed against her bottom just imagination?

She unwrapped the green leaves from a sheath of ripe yellow corn and wondered if she shouldn’t offer some to the foreigner standing behind her.

He had been silent so far, thank the Lord, and she couldn’t be sure whether he was very kind or a disgusting pervert. She decided to keep the rest of the corn to give to her girlfriends at the club, and sank her pearly white teeth into the soft, delicious flesh of… caramba!

Placed against her butt, which she knew from experience was one of her most sought-after features, was a warm iron pipe. Yes, right in the groove between her bottom cheeks! She chewed on the corn furiously.

She couldn’t scream for help with her mouth full. She twisted her head around to glare at the white guy, but he was standing with his eyes closed, a peaceful, innocent expression painted on his face, which was definitely not handsome. The warm iron pipe had withdrawn. It no longer pushed against her soft rump. She stared up at the man for a while. It was too dark to see if he was pretending to be dozing. A car passed the bus and the cabin was momentarily lit, the yellow glare of the passing headlights sweeping across the mass of long-suffering humanity squeezed like cattle inside the bus as it rattled through the hot night towards the capital.

She blinked and was startled to see his eyes, which were a deep brown with flecks of gold, now open and looking at her.

They didn’t turn away. The man watched her, no longer grinning like an idiot. He wasn’t quite as unattractive as she had first thought. She frowned at him and turned back to her solitary vigil at the greasy window. She knew what would happen next… and it did.

Actually, two things happened at the same time. She had just realized that her pussy was very wet because of the nasty thoughts she’d been unable to banish from her mind minutes earlier, when the bus hit a particularly large pothole on the highway and the foreigner was thrown against her back. A growl of irritation rose from the passengers, and some of the peasants near the front of the bus told the driver their opinions of his ancestry and his mother’s true occupation, but what Lisa knew with total clarity was that the iron pipe against her rump was real, very real, and had not been a dream.

The man groaned, inches from the back of her head, and what did little Miss Catholic Country Girl do? What did prim and proper Miss Irritation do?

She pressed her bottom back against his penis, is what she did.

To this day, when she thought about that moment, which was often, she could hardly suppress a smile. It was a delicious moment. The fire in her belly churned, the torment between her legs itched so much that she had to twist herself against the side of the bus.

She dropped the corn husk and her purse and raised her hand to the strap above her, the better to display herself for the foreigner’s pleasure. Standing on tip-toes, her calf muscles taut, she firmly, without a hint of shame, hidden by the noisy darkness, moved her derriereagainst his dick and began rubbing herself up and down like a mare in heat cajoling a stallion, for in heat she was.

She was wearing a red blouse made of silky material and although it was demure in style, with long sleeves and a big collar, she could actually look down and see her nipples pushing through the fabric. She placed a hand on her left breast and teased the stiff, thrusting peak of her nipple, playing with it, pinching, tweaking the small living cone, then, moving her fingers to the other breast, repeated the torment.

Her breath was rapid, further fogging the glass inches in front of her mouth. The hefty meat of the stranger’s prick gave off such a heat as to warm her bottom. The two of them, existing in their sensual zone of privacy amongst this mass of flesh around them… a zone made all the more thrilling because of its proximity to danger and discovery… began to move in time with the bus’s lurching motion.

His hands, unable to restrain themselves, left the strap and used her shoulders, and then her waist, for support. He leaned into her, and her bottom clenched and unclenched as his turgid love club, so fearfully constrained by the cloth of his khaki pants, pushed against her black skirt and silk panties, layers of material it was desperate to break through. Suddenly, the bus swerved off the highway and bumped down a short track to pull up, with a groan of brakes and a sigh from the ancient transmission, at a dimly lit way-station.

The bus stopped and the passengers pushed and jostled towards the door, which had swung open with a bang. Within seconds, they were alone on the vehicle, save for the baskets of vegetables and fruits, the slatted crates of chickens and a few pigs tethered by their hind legs.

She leaned down to pick up her purse, fighting to control her pumping breath, conscious of the soggy sweetness between her inner thighs, hardly able to turn from the window and escape her torturer. But turn she did, and fled, unable to make eye contact with the man, so shy did she now feel.

She climbed down the steps shakily and walked towards a soft drink stand. She didn’t know how long she stood staring at the rows of bottles, back-lit by the flickering oil lamps of the tiny café. People milled about as night moths flew around her head and around the soft, hissing glow of the lamps. She was lost in a personal trance, the feel of the man’s mighty cock alive in her memory. She forced herself to drink a bottle of sugary soda. She paid for it with trembling hands and entered the forest behind the café to take a pee before returning to the bus.

As she strolled back to the dusty vehicle, she saw the man leaning against a tree. In front of him he held a big suitcase. She guessed he might have travelled a long way. What route had he taken that fate had planted him so near to her on this night? Where was he coming from? Where was he going? She smiled at him timidly, but his eyes were averted. She knew the suitcase was held in front of him to conceal the bulge in his shorts.

The driver of the bus shouted and clapped his hands. They were on their way again, ready for the final hour’s drive through Manaha’s morbid outskirts and from there to the center of the city, and she had a decision to make.

Would she, could she, return to the back of the bus to take up her former position by the window? Would he follow her? Should she stand, this time, at the front of the vehicle to escape him? Was she a slut or was she a decent Verubian whore on the way back to peddle herself once more along the dangerous waterfront of the capital? Was she losing her mind?

She sprang onto the bus near the head of the line of passengers and strode back to her original place. A small smile was upon her lips. So she was a slut after all. So be it. She could hardly wait for the man. She knew with the female’s carnal intuition that he would soon be behind her again. She knew his need, and needed that need.

She knew he was there as the bus thumped and jolted back to the highway, stopped, changed gears with a hydraulic hiss, and swung to the left to begin its final lap of the night. Her dark, pretty eyes lit up with an inner fire as once again his manhood pressed against her jouncing young bottom cheeks.

But this time the playing was over. She had signalled her permission.

She had, in effect, surrendered any rights she might have as a young girl travelling alone in the night, a citizen of this country, a human being going about legal business. No, that was gone.

His strong hands pulled the black hem of her skirt up and took the elastic band of her panties and slipped them down. She gasped and wriggled. One of her hands dropped from the strap to curl behind her and place itself on the marvellous length of his dagger, and the feel of it was breathtaking.

The man was wasting no more time, an urgency was upon him, a grim need, as his hand took her wrist and assisted her in unbuttoning the buttons of his military type shorts with their safari pockets.

The buttons were swiftly opened and his weapon, smooth and helmeted, truly a warrior in the night, thick and veined, fell from his pants, jerking and twitching into her hand. She whimpered and turned and was lifted onto his suitcase, which was kicked under her by his booted foot, and she was now face to face with the enemy and her arms went around his sweet bony body.

She felt his ribs through the T-shirt and put her hands under the shirt to feel his muscular lean back, her hands hidden under the denim jacket… Oh, Jesus, he felt so good, his skin was like a baby’s, but so hot.

He was burning as she opened her legs like a shameless hussy, eager to be entered. His lips brushed her forehead and his fingers swept the black hair from her sparkling eyes.

She gazed with love, yes love, into his face, searching every wonderful imperfection of his features, her mouth hungry for the taste of his lips and tongue and… dear God… the helmet of his naked baton touched the soft hair of her snatch… the man was going to fuck her! Not here…please not now… we’ll be caught, she thought, her mind a turmoil. We’ll be seen.

The bus will stop, people will shout and point, the police will arrive and lock them up like animals in a cage, her picture will be in the papers, her mother, her sisters… no, worse, her poor father… will see her stupid face plastered over every journal in the land. She’d be a laughing stock, totally notorious like one of those starlets she liked to read about and criticize…

This was the end, she had to escape, she just hadto, and… it felt good, so good, as the length of his cock slipped one inch into her open, pulsating love lips. She stood on his suitcase, eyes glazed, lips wet, and eased slowly onto his cock.

She felt the ramrod enter her straight and in command. She was but its subject, its slave, two inches, three inches, and more, please free me from this pleasure, and suddenly he was all the way in, who knew how many inches now, and she felt the bigness and tightness, and felt she might die. It was too big, was she to be slaughtered by this animal, this white bastard was going to kill her, and then she began to pump with him, for him, around him, tightening her wicked quim, stroking his back, biting his mouth till she tasted salty blood, kissing him so she couldn’t scream, her heart pounding as her orgasm came to her without warning.

Her round bottom, naked and squeezed and probed by the man’s rough hands, was whipping back and forth as her orgasm grew and spread like molten lava through the pit of her belly. She felt her juice flow down the slippery sides of her secret place, she moaned in ecstasy and passed out for many seconds.

She didn’t know and would never know how long she fainted because the bliss was so surreal, the delicious pain of it so maddening that she lost consciousness, and the man held her up, supported her with his wiry arms, one hand on her bare bottom, the other around her waist as spasm after spasm now hit him.

His froth flowed into her in creamy streaks, and because of their upright position and the laws of gravity, began to drip from her honey pot, overflowing from her forest of want, and streaks of it fell between their legs to land in drops onto the suitcase.

In their frenzied orbit of lust, she had stiffened at the feel of his hot come, her eyes rolling back to show the whites, and they hadn’t realized that the bus had stopped at a red light and was stuck in a traffic jam.

The interior of the bus was now bathed in patches of moving light, for they had entered the city. Their frantic coupling must end and the cruelty of having their pleasure so abruptly taken from them was acute, but his dong, sodden and still huge, slipped out of her while the walls of her pussy tried to hold and clutch the big guy on its way out, pathetically attempting to prevent its escape.

But all men’s cocks eventually must leave that sweet wound between the female’s legs… oh, would that they could remain in the moist, sumptuous havens of pussies forever, never having to face the harsh world again.

But such a mean trick had been played, so the young buck withdrew from Lisa, pulled his whanger out and wiped it with the same dank cloth he had earlier offered to dry her weeping eyes. He released her. She stepped off the suitcase, pulled up her panties, pushed down her skirt, and tugged her red blouse together where the buttons had been torn off. Rivulets of perspiration coursed down her face. They stood there, dazed. The rest of the journey passed quickly.

The bus stopped at the main terminal on Avenue De La Paz. They waited until the other passengers had alighted. Several of the country folk who had travelled with them gave the couple curious looks. Was it possible their ardor had been less furtive than they had presumed? It hardly mattered now. No one had raised an alarm. They calmly stepped from the bus and wandered onto the wide avenue, which was quiet at this time of night, save for the occasional passing vehicle. A light rain fell, creating haloes of light around the well-spaced street lamps. They stood on the sidewalk holding hands.

CLEAN SEX
Ricky Low, Singapore

Hey, Jeff, what’s the matter? Why don’t you just get a maid in here, clean things up, lah. You can afford it now, man!”

Oh, please. Whenever my friends—or wannabe friends—have suggested this, I have just sighed deeply, raised my eyebrows in a cynical arch, and slipped into my above-it-all smirk—a look that says, “You so don’t understand what it’s all about.” It’s a look I picked up while studying at Stanford. They’ve really perfected that dismissive look over there. I can’t claim that I’ve mastered it quite as well as they do it, but I’m not at all bad.

While studying over there, I also learned the importance of self-reliance.

For example, no real guy lets someone else do stupid household chores for him. Even when you get married, you work out a system, you share those duties. That’s what being a full, responsible adult in today’s world means: sharing all those stupid things that just have to be done. Having a maid is clearly a symptom of some weak strands in your moral fibre, as I have always lectured my lazy friends back here.

I’ve never told them the full story of why I feel so uneasy about having a maid. Some of it is that I am still embarrassed that my first erotic episodes involved the maid my family had when I was a boy. But there’s more to it than that.

Like all fairly comfortable Singapore families, my parents engaged a maid soon after I was born. Actually, they engaged a few maids, but it was the third one who stands out in my memory: Hazniya. She joined us when I was about nine. She was the most energetic of the maids and, if I remember correctly, the only one you could even charitably call attractive. Like the other two, she came from Indonesia, had an enticing coffee-with-light-cream complexion and truly captivating eyes. She also had a prodigious set of boobs, the kind that assured she would never need to worry about drowning.

I guess I was always attracted to Hazniya, though at first it was just that kind of little-boy, prepubescent crush. As innocent as a plate of overcooked oatmeal with pools of skim milk. The sex part didn’t seep in until I was about twelve. As is also typical of many middle-class Singapore families, Hazniya was often assigned the task of bathing me. I mean, like standing over me while I did a cursory job of swabbing myself in the tub, then telling me to stand up while she finished the job, making sure that I got all the “hard-to-reach” places.

Hazniya had been doing this from time to time, starting from when she first joined us, but one evening, when I was twelve, it all changed, changed utterly. I had already started thinking how really stupid it was having a maid bathe me at my age and was being sort of deliberately peevish as I washed myself down in the tub. Then Haz asked me sweetly to stand up, she wanted to see how I was doing. I groaned and made a face, of course, but that was the deal.

As I stood up, Hazniya bent over. I’m sure there was no intent behind it, but on that day, she was wearing this very low-cut shirt and a bra which formed more of a suggestion than a support. As she started wiping my arms and my chest, I was fixated on those munificent breasts, now a glistening coffee-gold from the light sweat the bathroom heat had worked up. I wanted to lean over and take them in my hands, rub them, kiss them, lick them, see if they tasted like the toffee my uncle often brought me from Scotland—or maybe the coffee ice cream I loved. They were, after all, roughly the same colour as those two treats.

And then it happened, suddenly, without any prodding from me, I swear: I popped the first erection of my whole life. At least, the first one I can remember having. This was a shock to me, and I mean a terrifying shock. I didn’t even know what it meant, except that it clearly had something to do with Hazniya, and her bathing me, and that it had made this strange transformation in tribute to her. I stood frozen for a few seconds, and it seemed to get even stiffer as she continued twirling soapy concentric circles across my chest with the washrag. Then she happened to glance down and notice my boner.

I was appalled, hollowed out with shame. I wanted to say something, come up with some excuse, but I suddenly went dumb. While I was still choking on some words to spit out into this frightening situation, Hazniya got there first. “Oh, my, my, what have we here? Our little man has suddenly become a really big man, hasn’t he?” She then gave me that warm smile that had sparked my puppy love for her. But the whole situation had changed radically. I yearned to grab her, to squeeze those fantastic breasts against me, to rub my new-found power tool right up against them. I wanted her to take off all her clothes, right there, then join me in the tub. I wanted her.

Of course, I couldn’t deal with this at all, being just a spoiled twelve-year-old kid. I mean, this was my maid, dammit, who just two minutes ago was bathing me like I was a little boy. So my lust was instantly converted into anger. I scooped up two handfuls of water from the tub and splashed them fiercely across her face and breasts. I wanted her to look shocked, then enraged, to slap me maybe. She did none of that. “Get out! Get out of here! Right now!” I screamed at the top of my high-pitched voice.

And she, damn her, maintained her usual good spirits—she just smiled and said, “Oh yes, let me get out; I think Jeffrey is big enough now to take care of himself. Oh yes, I see this clearly.”

As she made her way out the door, I shouted a phrase I had learned the year before in school and was just waiting for the right opportunity to use in social discourse: “Fucking bitch!”

I underscored the bitterness of that curse by hurling the washrag at the door she had just closed behind her. I then sank back into the tub and started crying, crying like an eight-year-old. I looked down and saw that my cock had just about returned to its normal shape and size. I felt… saved. But just as soon as that happened, I started thinking of Hazniya and those gorgeous tits and the damn thing started stiffening on me again. “Hazniya, you bitch!” I shouted out into the ceiling, hurt and anger intertwined in my timbre. I then reached down under the soapy surface of the water and gingerly touched the thing. I gently rubbed it a few times, as if to console it, to say it wasn’t its fault that it had caused me so much embarrassment. “You bitch, you bitch, you bitch,” I whispered as I consoled myself a little more.

Luckily, my parents were out that evening, so they caught none of my little outburst. Hazniya and I said nothing about it the next morning, or ever again. We pretended like the whole thing had never really happened.

Of course, I never again let her near the bathroom while I was bathing—or even combing my hair, for that matter. She stayed with us for another six months and then was suddenly gone. She disappeared one week when I was off visiting an aunt and uncle in Hong Kong.

When I asked what happened, my mother shook her head sadly and told me that Hazniya had to leave abruptly because of some family crisis back in Indonesia. A couple of years later, my Dad confided that they had dismissed her because she had “taken some things that didn’t belong to her.” And some time after that, a close family friend told me he’d heard the real reason was that Hazniya got caught having sex on the living room couch with some guy while my folks were supposedly away. But I’ve often asked myself whether our little episode in the bathtub had anything to do with that sudden departure.

Whatever it was, we never engaged another maid after Hazniya left us.

Physically left us, I should say. Her memory stayed with me for the next few years. During the high-tide period of my masturbatory youth, I would invoke images of Hazniya whenever I wanked off: those warm smiles, the bubbly laugher, the wonderful eyes, those fantastic tits. The fact that I had never really viewed those tits in their entirety only made them that much more fantastic in my wank-off reveries. Of course, the fact that she was a maid, a live-in servant meant to meet most of our daily needs, only exalted my fantasies about her. It would take me years to grow ashamed of those fantasies and the exploitative relationship that underscored them.

* * *

That shame happened when I was at university. Political correctness ruled supreme at my school, and it was especially dominant in the Sociology Department. From my professor, Kander, and those plodding leftist texts he foisted on us, I learned what an exploitative system was embodied in the whole maid-and-master nexus. This was especially true when the maids were plucked from nearby, “less-privileged” societies—as Hazniya had been. Of course, all my classmates and friends at the uni subscribed to this view one hundred per cent plus. So I never volunteered the fact that my own family had kept maids from the Third World when I was a kid. I only confessed it to my closest friends there at the uni, and then only as a sign of how much I had grown during my short time at Stanford.

When I returned to Singapore with my nice, crisp MBA tucked under my arm, I fancied myself a completely transformed person, one damn enlightened guy equally well versed in business and life in general. I was also vehemently committed to self-reliance by then. Anything I couldn’t do for myself just wouldn’t get done. Period.

Of course, an MBA from an elite American school guaranteed that I could just about waltz right into any high-paying job and find a stack of perqs to perk me up. Then, two months after I started working, I started looking for a place of my own.

The complex that I moved into, the Chateau de Luxus, was optimal in many ways. It was right across from a big bus terminal, about an eight-minute walk from an MRT station, another short walk from a huge shopping centre, and it was populated by swarms of attractive young women. Admittedly, some of them had husbands or kids in tow, but a lot of them seemed to be single. The problem was, most of these women seemed to be staunchly single.

Watching them go off to work in the morning, or come back in the evening, or head off on weekend activities was an exercise in slow torture.

Here were these luscious babes, with expertly coiffed hair, long, exposed limbs, fall-on-your-knees figures, and yet they all bore a demeanour that screeched, “Keep your distance, dude!”

This was cold beauty in its purest, coldest form. I finally started thinking of them as just lovely works of art brought in to jack up the Chateau’s property values. Actually embracing one, I thought, would be like fondling a priceless statue or scratching on a painting in some museum.

Fortunately, this permafrost demeanour was only common among the sleek, polished women of my own class, mainly Chinese Singaporeans like myself. There was one group of attractive young women at the Chateau who were anything but cold; in fact, these ladies grew warmer and warmer after a few casual meetings and then regularly greeted me with a giggly friendliness.

And in contrast to the cold, stiff beauty of the career women, these girls exuded an earthy sensuality that filled the air when you passed by them. I’m talking here about the maids.

Not only did the maids always return my greetings, before long they would initiate them, even move into casual conversation when the situation allowed. Which usually meant when their employers were not around. With the employers there, they’d revert to shy, conspiratorial smiles.

And I have to admit, I found many of these maids cute, some of them very cute. More importantly, for my tastes anyway, they were alluring in a thoroughly unpretentious way. Unlike the Chateau’s career ladies, these “domestic workers” were not shrewdly wrapped in the latest expensive fashions with a heavy measure of makeup fine-tuning their features. These maids were more down-to-earth-more real, to put it plainly. No makeup I could detect. And their standard uniform consisted of short pants which only made their way down the top third of their thighs topped by tight tee-shirts or breezy blouses. Simple, straight to the point. Which, in my view, made these ladies much more sensual and alluring than the pampered lovelies of my class and race. If the latter were cold works of art, the maids were rich folk art made flesh.

I always exchanged greetings with the various maids I ran across, and there were a lot to run across in my complex. I sometimes got the impression I might be the only one without one. At the beginning, I convinced myself that my socializing with the maids was a byproduct of my liberal education: I wasn’t going to treat them as mere servants or act like they were invisible because they weren’t off in active pursuit of the five Cs.

But after awhile, I realised that it was not just my democratic instincts at work. I was actually pretty interested, sexually, in some of them. Just seeing them approach, I started to get horny. And finally, I had to admit to myself what should have been obvious: some of the appeal sprang from the fact that several reminded me very much of Hasniya. In about the second month at my new home, I started to imagine the unthinkable: having a little sexual dalliance with some of the maids. Okay, I imagined it a lot; I spun it in my head several times a day.

Actually, it was one maid in particular that sparked my fantasies—Liana.

Liana, what a great name, a sweet blend of Mediterranean mellow and sultry Sulawesi swing. She had—and you’ll soon learn that I had sufficient opportunity to observe—these lovely dark eyes, accentuated by thick, sensual brows. Her lips were full, dreamy, moist, with a pronounced tendency to spill into a smile. Her breasts were… well, I’ll get to that part later. Suffice it to say she had a fucktastic compact figure that cried out for closer inspection.

Except that there was, of course, no chance to carry out this inspection anywhere in the common areas of our condo complex.

And this wasn’t just a one-sided infatuation either. Liana had, right from the start, been the most forward of all the maids. She obviously had her eye on me. “I never see you with your wife, Sir. Does she spending all her time with the children? Or is it her job?” I told her I wasn’t married. Her smile seemed to brighten up about 100 watts when she heard that. “Oh. Well then, Sir must have many girlfriends then. So handsome, and with that beautiful car.” So, she’d noticed my wheels. Good, that’s what they were there for, right? And while handsome might be stretching it a few categories, I am sort of cute… in a subtle way.