Текст книги "Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 1"

Автор книги: O Thiam Chin

Соавторы: Stephen Leather,Alison Lester,John Burdett,Aaron Ang,Hari Kumar,Yusuf Martin,Christopher Mooney-Singh,Jonathan Lim,Erich Sysak,Annabel Pagunsan
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

NAKED SCREW
Alison Lester, Singapore

My apartment in Singapore is immaculate. All the walls are clean and white, except for the one with the naked screw sticking out of it, where I took the wedding photo down. I’m the one who took the picture down; I know what that screw is doing there. But every day it catches my eye, and my brain needs to reassure itself again that the aberration on the wall isn’t a threat, a spider or a cockroach, a thing-that-shouldn’t-be-there. The broad windows sparkle, the pale grey-and-white marble floor shines so well it reflects perfect rectangles of sky. Now and then, the Singapore Air Force flies its planes overhead, and the reflection of the tiny fighters mimics running cockroaches so well I always speed over to see if I need to stamp on them, just in case.

Once, the shouldn’t-be-there thing was bigger. Much bigger.

I’d had my swim and my shower, and was making my usual undressed trip from my bedroom to my kitchen for some juice and yoghurt. I enjoy the cold marble on my feet and the hot sun on my belly and butt as I move through the room. I like to air-dry.

I’d forgotten the building was being painted. Three dark men, South Indians or maybe Bangladeshis, were standing on a suspended platform, staring at me through my living room window. I stopped to think: go to kitchen for food but get stuck there until they descend to paint the lower floors? Or retreat to bedroom and return clothed but still naked in their eyes?

I turned and retreated, but I’d had a good look at them in my moment of indecision. One was so shocked his heavy lower lip hung open, practically flapping in the breeze. One looked wicked to the core. One stared calmly, apparently unruffled, with something just a little fierce around the eyes. As I walked back into the bedroom I felt a strange urge to let these three chocolate men in through the window, into the refrigerated air of my home, so that they wouldn’t melt.

I dressed in a khaki skirt and T-shirt and crossed the living room again, aware of the men’s shapes suspended behind the couch but not looking at them. Once in the kitchen, I fought the urge to close the door, since I couldn’t stay there forever. The alternative was to close the living room curtains. I spooned out my yoghurt and poured my juice, left the kitchen to put them on the dining table, and crossed the living room to the window. I went to the corner where the curtain begins and pulled it across. When I arrived in front of the painters though, I had to stop.

I’d never come this close to a foreign labourer before, window or no window. I’d bought vegetables and ginger from shopkeepers in Little India, but those Indians weren’t new to Singapore, or temporary. My gas man is a Chinese Singaporean named Jacky Chan, who complains of having no girlfriends while the movie star has so many. My plumber is a Malay Singaporean named Rosli, who prays in the mosque near my apartment and appears to have no idea that his ring tone is actually the tune to Hava Negila.

I pass foreign labourers in the car and glimpse them digging roadside ditches or pruning the magnificent fecund trees that divide Singapore’s expressways. In the evening rush hour, I see them being returned to their sleeping quarters in the backs of open trucks, even when it rains. They have the richest, silkiest hair in the country, and the best hairstyles. They have the roundest muscles. They trump the bespectacled locals for sex appeal. But we don’t meet, and we don’t talk.

They were so funny, this trio of strangers with paintbrushes. They were working on the stretch of stone under the window, so I could see them from their shoulders up, and their heads were roughly level with my breasts. That’s where Mr Flappy Mouth was looking. The devil in the middle was talking, smiling, flashing his white teeth, gesticulating; I understood he was trying to convince me not to close the curtain. The third worker continued to consider me calmly. Even when I looked him straight in the eye.

He’s the one who came to the door at lunchtime.

He didn’t take off his shoes and make ‘may-I-come in?’ motions. He stood and stared at me again.

“Hello,” I said.

“You offend me,” he said. “I am a married man.”

“What? It’s myapartment.”

“Cover yourself,” he said.

“I amcovered.”

“Cover yourself all day,” he said. “Every day. Everywhere.” Then he turned to walk back to the elevator. Turning around released the body odour from his clothes. He stank so badly it made my nose itch. It wasn’t a street-person stink; it was stewed spices and garlic oozing through his skin on waves of sweat. It touched me that he held his head so high while smelling like he was fermenting.

“Wait a minute,” I demanded, wanting revenge.

He turned.

“Was your marriage arranged?”

He nodded.

“Were you allowed to see your wife before you married her?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t it have been nice to see her through a window first?” His head started back as if I had thrust something at him-a snake, or a burning torch-and he turned the corner.

As I prepared my seminar outline that afternoon-I give a kick-ass workshop entitled “PowerPoint Perfection”-I kept thinking about the guys at the window. They live so far from their families if they are married and from potential partners if they are not. I just assumed that they were constantly randy. You can easily get that impression from their curly eyelashes and proud noses. They look imperious, ready to command a woman’s favour, even as they inhabit the lowest of the lower echelons of Singapore’s workers.

I never expected to be anything less than desired, particularly by guys from the sub-continent. Hindi movies make it clear that they’re not afraid of the bigger girl. And now here’s this guy telling me I’ve got it wrong. All afternoon, as I was getting the timing right on the section of my presentation entitled ‘Understanding the Human Attention Span’, I was thinking this guy must, from time to time, let his mind travel beyond the shores of his wife’s body. But I made myself drop the subject when it started feeling like that cliched argument you listen to at every third or fourth cocktail party in Singapore, the one about the superiority of arranged marriages or love marriages. Not only are these discussions boring, but I’m divorced so I’ve got no leg to stand on in either camp.

I didn’t plan to pursue the subject, with myself or anyone else, but in the early afternoon of the next day, I was walking back to my building from the parking lot when I passed the trio from my window napping on newspapers on the grass by the entrance. Well, the other two were napping. The offended one had his eyes open, and I stopped and looked down into them. I wondered if he’d been thinking about me.

“Why are you not married?” he asked after a moment.

I thought about it. “I’m too tall,” I told him.

He laughed. He actually guffawed. The wicked one’s eyes rolled a little, but he didn’t wake up. Mr Flappy kept on drooling into the sports section.

“Aren’t you lonely?” he asked. His consonants sounded as if he were bouncing them off rubber.

“Not really. Aren’t you?”

His face clouded over, and he looked away.

“Maybe you have pictures of your wife with you.”

He shook his head slightly.

“What about of other women?”

“Stop,” he said, and turned onto his side, facing away from me. Like my husband used to, at the end of a bad day.

I went inside. I hadn’t swum that morning because I’d been in meetings, pitching my workshop, so I hurried back downstairs in my Speedo, testing myself to see whether walking past him in a swimsuit and towel would make me feel ashamed.

He wasn’t there, which made me angry. I did twice as many laps as usual, took a bath, and had a cup of tea standing naked at the living room window.

Once I’d calmed down, though, I was ready to let it go again. He and the boys moved on to Block D, I shot up to Hong Kong to deliver my two-day intensive seminar to the sales team of a major clothing manufacturer, our paths didn’t cross. Then, when I got back, I saw him, coming out of the men’s toilet by the pool as I was approaching to do laps. When he saw me, he looked like he wanted to turn around, but pulled himself together. We walked toward each other and stopped.

“Hello,” I said. I had wanted to sound a bit cold, but it came out warm.

I was happy to see him.

“Hello.”

“Nearly finished with the painting?”

“No. It is ongoing,” he said formally.

“That’s work, isn’t it? It goes on.”

“You are not working.”

“I do work.”

“Sometimes.”

“It pays nicely. And I’m only supporting myself.”

“You are completely alone.”

“With my thoughts.”

He nearly smiled. We were quiet for so long that we either had to say goodbye or open a new subject.

“You went to university, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Technical college.”

“And what did you study?”

“Electricity.”

“Uh-huh? So, tell me, when you were studying, did they give you diagrams of electrical connections to help you understand?”

“Of course.”

“Pictures of women also help you understand.”

If his skin hadn’t been so dark, I’m sure I would have seen him colour in anger.

“We were having a nice conversation. Why did you ruin it?”

“We were having a boring conversation,” I said. “Think about it. Excuse me.”

I went around him and padded over to the pool. As I dove in and started to pull myself through the water, I had to wonder if I shouldn’t be a bit more respectful of his culture, a little more gentle with his sensibilities. But a few laps later I concluded that I was really thinking of his wife. I married a prude myself. They need lessons.

I was ready, then, when he appeared at the end of the pool as I approached for a turn. I stopped, and he asked me, looking straight down his nose, “What is it you want?”

I told him without hesitation: “I want to be your sexy photos.” He looked confused.

“Like in a magazine?” I said. “Do you understand what I mean?”

“I understand. I understand,” he said. Then he turned and left, pulling at his lip, looking at the ground.

“Wait!” I shouted.

He stopped without looking around.

“More like in a temple. Like in a Tantric temple.” He turned his head to speak to me over his shoulder.

“You know Tantra?”

“I went to an exhibit in a museum. I went twice actually.” It was a few seconds before he walked off again.

I was so excited by what I was proposing that I swam for longer than usual again. It wasn’t until I got in the elevator to go back home that I felt like the complete idiot I was. The headline behind my eyes read: SUPER-SIZED WHITE WOMAN OFFERS EDUCATION AND INSPIRATION TO INDIAN ELECTRICIAN, under which hung the tag line: He’s studied the Kama Sutra, lets her down lightly.I was red with horror at myself from forehead to shoulders by the time I closed my apartment door behind me. I should stick to multimedia presentations. I should go back to the States where we’re all as full of ourselves as I am.

And then the doorbell rings. This time I’m not at all prepared that it’s him; I’m sure I look just like his pal Mr Flappy when I open the door.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

He nods.

A beatific image forms itself in my head, and I know what to do. “Follow me,” I tell him, and lead him to the bathroom.

My bathroom is small, but pretty. You enter through narrow double doors and are facing the sink and mirror. Next to the sink is the toilet. If you sit on the toilet, you are facing the shower, which has two walls of tile and two walls of Plexiglas. I ask the painter to wait outside the door until I’m ready, and close the doors behind me.

Once I’ve stripped off my swimsuit, I brush out my wet hair so that it hangs down my back, and feel the need to adorn myself. I remember the Tantric statues at the Smithsonian-not only for their buxom figures, their hips cocked to rock against their consorts, and their peaceful, joyful eyes-

but also for the detail of their accessories. They were garlanded, with strings of beads or flowers which rested on the upper slopes of their breasts and hung around their rounded bellies, below the navel and above the yoni. I’ve never in my life seen stone breathe so forcefully.

I start putting on my jewellery, all of it. All my rings, all my bracelets, all my necklaces, pearls, Swarovski, gold and silver chains, and a long, green, beaded belt which I tie around my hips, the feel of which excites me more than a hand could right then.

I step into the shower, then tell him he can come in.

The painter sees where I am and comes to stand in front of the toilet, just a few feet from me. I’m a little nervous, but before I turn on the water, I remember what I teach all my clients about delivering their presentation with confidence and commitment. I look him straight in the eye, surprised to see that this is where he is staring at me as well. I hold up my hands so that he will focus on them, then lay them on my neck and glide them down my body, over my breasts and belly, just as I would have if I’d been allowed to touch the museum sculptures I desired so much.

When I turn the water on, I keep it tepid so that the Plexiglas won’t steam up and obscure me. The cool water assures that my nipples will stay erect and my breasts rounded. I soap myself luxuriously but naturally, thinking more of my own pleasure than of his, teaching him about women, about women alone. Then I take the showerhead off its hook to rinse myself. I pull my left leg up and press my knee against the wall, opening myself completely for view. For the first time in my life, I’m convinced beyond any doubt that my pussy is something sacred, something to be adored, worthy of sculpture and ceremony.

The painter thinks so as well. He sits on the toilet seat and opens his trousers, untangling his hard-on from his flimsy boxer shorts and letting his cock stand on view, like a statue, like me, before starting to stroke himself.

He watches as I move the showerhead all over my head and body. I want to touch myself as well, but I don’t. The sculptures don’t, so I don’t. They just look healthy and contented, so I am too.

The painter’s climax is a quiet event. I know that when I experience the pleasure of climax, my face shows pain. Ecstasy as excruciation. But his face remains calm, and his eyes stay on my body.

Whatever he feels when he comes, I certainly feel released from something.

While he cleans himself up, I turn off the shower and stand inside it, the light sparkling on the wet links and crystals, until he is finished. He fastens his trousers again, and stands in front of me with the clear door between us.

“Thank you,” he says seriously, just like a student would, and leaves.

Once I’m dry and wrapped in my towel, I go out to the living room, but he’s gone.

I don’t expect to see the painter again, and I don’t mind. He turned out to be a should-be-there thing. Like the screw. It’s an aberration, but it’s useful. I can put up a new picture whenever I want.

BODY DRAFTS
Rachel Loh, Singapore

After removing her bra, Michelle slowly slipped off her more reluctant panties, then stood there holding both. She looked over at Dr Narain sheepishly, the underwear dangling from her hand.

“Anywhere,” Narain said with a generous shrug. “Just throw them over there.”

Michelle turned and tossed first the bra, then the panties onto a tawny brown plush chair squeezed next to the bedroom dresser. She then turned back to Dr Narain, arms folded lengthwise across her front, as if to attempting to cover her breasts and crotch-though very little of either was covered.

“It’s more comfortable here than in my office, isn’t it?” said Dr Narain.

“Not as cold, I think.” A knowing smile filtered in. “In any sense.”

“Yes,” Michelle giggled. “It is much more comfortable here. Very much.” She laughed again, then let her arms fall to her sides. After all, this was hardly the first time Narain had seen her naked body. The only difference was that this time they were in the doctor’s bedroom, not the office. After exchanging conspiratorial smiles with Narain, Michelle folded her arms behind her back, shifted her feet, threw her head back and posed, showing off her work-in-progress body.

Narain beamed, stepped forward and started caressing the edges of that delicate Chinese face, finally streaming skilled fingers through the patient’s hair. “Admiring your work?” Michelle asked with a nervous smile.

“Admiring your beauty,” Narain replied, with a more confident smile.

Michelle closed her eyes and leaned her head back further, allowing Narain to caress her more easily. She did, indeed, feel comfortable in the hands of this doctor. From that very first time she stepped into the office and saw Narain, she felt surprisingly at ease, glad that she had taken her friend Tania’s advice and sought out this particular specialist.

Michelle had been going to Dr Narain for just over a year now. She had started with botox treatments, then went on to collagen infusions, before moving up to minor surgery to give her the double eyelid that all affluent Asian women seem required to sport these days. Only recently had she decided to ask Narain about more radical procedures: body sculpting, breast enlargement, vaginal tightening. Though still anxious about this next stage, she was nonetheless determined to press ahead with it.

Narain had moved from stroking Michelle’s hair and face and was now skimming the tips of well-trained fingers across the patient’s neck. “Yes, you can use a little bit of work here. Don’t worry, we’ll get these lines gone completely. Very simple. We can do it next week at the office, if you like.”

“Botox?” Michelle asked. Narain gave another generous, reassuring smile, along with a shake of the head. “No, that won’t work here. What we’re looking at is just a short deep laser treatment. Fifteen minutes, tops, for this lovely neck of yours. And no down time really.”

Michelle nodded, just as Narain started grazing fingers lightly over her shoulders, before slowly easing them down to the outer curve of her breasts.

Michelle again closed her eyes and took long, deep breaths.

“I think your breasts are just… wonderful,” Narain told her. “They are soright for you. Why so many women here want those big, lumpy Western appendages, like the things poor Pamela Anderson has to struggle around with, I just don’t understand. It’s terrible.”

“Yes, I agree, Doctor. But my husband says they’re too small-

especially for the wife of someone in his position. He’d like something a little closer to Pamela’s problem.” During this exchange, Narain’s hands had cupped Michelle’s petite breasts and were now fondling them gently, working the palms dexterously along the soft, pliant curves.

“Well then, whatever… But like I’ve told you already, I think your husband is an absolute idiot.” For emphasis on this point, Narain started fondling the breasts with vigour. Michelle breathed deeply, bit her lower lip, then whispered out her reply.

“You are absolutely right. He is an idiot, A-list idiot actually, but he pays all the bills. Including all your bills.”

“For which, I am eternally grateful,” Narain answered, then leaned over and placed an eager mouth to Michelle’s nipples. First, the doctor’s lips gently grazed against the broad aureole and nipples, already hardened, before an ardent tongue started flicking against them. Soon, lips and tongue both began sucking in soft, measured pulls, as Michelle eagerly lost control.

She started running her hands wildly through the dark tangles of Narain’s hair, then, as Narain nuzzled upwards and started planting deep kisses on the neck, she dropped her hands to the doctor’s hips and rubbed vigorously, before gliding the hands around to clutch Narain’s well-toned butt. Narain responded instantly: the doctor’s crotch was pressed tightly against Michelle’s. As Narain took Michelle’s face and the two kissed fully on the mouth, their loins started grinding rhythmically against each other.

Then, as the tongues lashed in slow swirls upon each other, the twists of the loins grew longer, slower, more charged with purpose.

When they broke to seize a few breaths, Michelle gave a light push and stepped back. “Maybe we’d better change tactics here, or you’re going to have to rush those pants of yours right over to the dry-cleaners. And I have no idea how easy it is to get out those kinds of spots.” Narain again flashed that soft, reassuring smile. “To hell with it: I’ll just keep them as a souvenir of a very wonderful time in my life.” As Michelle grinned shyly, Narain leaned over and planted a quick, affectionate kiss on her lips. “But you’re right; it is unfair that I’m always ‘in uniform’ while you’re in various stages of undress.” The doctor then turned and indicated the bed with a theatrical flourish of the hand. “Anyway, it’s time we moved on to the next phase of the examination. So… shall we move to the… examination table, Mrs Tay?”

With an enthusiastic nod, Michelle padded over to the bed. Narain, already barefoot, followed just behind.

“Oh, I really like this examination table,” Michelle said, climbing onto the bed and sitting up, as her shapely legs (no work needed there) slid back and forth along the length of the bed. “Especially the 40-thread cotton sheets you’ve got on it.” Narain nodded. “Much better than those cold, metal stirrups in your office.”

“All in the interests of making the patient more comfortable, of course,” Narain said, starting to undo those pants Michelle had been so concerned about.

“Of course,” Michelle echoed, watching captivated as the doctor shed the other articles of clothing. Within moments, all of Narain’s clothing had been dropped to the floor, and the doctor spread both arms out like wings, showing off that very enviable body.

Although they’d had sort-of-sex several times in the surgery office, Michelle had never before seen Narain completely naked. She now found herself thoroughly aroused by the doctor’s well-sculpted form.

“God, you’ve got a great body there.” She smiled impishly, like a schoolgirl having happened upon an adult’s locked-up secret. “Did you go under the knife yourself to get there? Or get lasered, or whatever you can do these days?”

“That, my dear, is a professional secret. It would be a gross violation of the plastic surgeon’s code to reveal such details about a patient-any patient.” Michelle laughed. “And isn’t it maybe a teensy, weensy violation of the surgeon’s code to have sex with a patient-one still undergoing treatment?”

“Hmm,” replied Narain, “Now that you mention it, I think there is something about that in the code. But we don’t want to violate too many parts of the code all at once now, do we?”

Narain had by this point shuffled to the edge of the bed. Reaching down with the skill, tact and delicacy of a doctor starting a probe, Narain took Michelle’s right foot, raised it about six inches, then-while staring right into her eyes-started stroking the sole. “Now, what about these? Is your husband satisfied with your feet?” Narain started running two deft fingers along the easy curve of the foot. “Sure he doesn’t want the arches raised a little, perhaps lowered a little?”

“No, I think he’s fine with the feet,” Michelle answered, as her eyelids slid closed in enjoyment of this impromptu massage.

“Oh really? So he doesn’t want me to add a few dimples to the toes?

Make them even more delectable?” At this, the doctor raised Michelle’s foot slightly higher and started sucking on those toes. This sent Michelle into a slow spin of ecstasy, which only intensified as Narain turned the foot gently and started slowly licking the sole. The doctors’ tongue flowed along the pinkish skin, paused to give one spot special treatment, flowed again. In muted rapture, Michelle herself raised the other foot and rubbed it against the doctor, from the strong chin down to just below the waist.

Narain put the two feet together, kissed each one, then slowly lowered them back onto the bed. Michelle looked up with keen anticipation. When Narain answered this look with a feigned quizzical expression, Michelle reached for the doctor. Smiling, Narain took her hand, caressed it, then slipped fully onto the bed, next to her. With head raised, supported by the left arm, the doctor gave a slow, appreciative scrutiny along the entire length of her body. It was clear that Narain took both pride and delight in attending to Michelle and all her needs.

“So, Doctor, do you think there’s hope for me?”

“Oh… much hope; much, much hope,” the surgeon replied, allowing a hand to roll slowly over the slope of Michelle’s thighs. “It’s just a matter of determining what we want and then, you know, setting out the proper body drafts.”

“Body drafts?” Michelle was obviously amused by the term.

“Yes, my darling-body drafts. We examine the basic material, sketch out a working topography, then decide what we wish to create out of that. The actual surgery is the hard part, of course; taking body drafts is much easier and, I have to say, muchmore fulfilling.” At this, Narain leaned over as if to kiss her, but suddenly stopped short and delivered a playful tickle instead.

Michelle, of course, laughed and in the middle of her laughter managed to say, “Alright, Doctor, let’s see how you carry out your drafts.” She pointed a mock warning finger at the beaming face. “And I expect a thorough job here.”

“Of course; you should expect nothing less from me. Let’s see: we can easily sculpt a more svelte curvature here…” the doctor’s hand slid up the thigh, all the way to the place where it met the other, lingering there a few moments “… and here.” Narain now began squeezing the hips, which Michelle had long considered too well padded.

“And there’s no problem at all shaping this luscious part.” Narain had just swung one leg over the patient and was now straddling Michelle as the trained surgeon’s hands did a quick draft of the buttocks, kneading the soft flesh as if about to sculpt it into a splendidly taut masterwork. Michelle elevated her hips slightly, allowing the doctor’s strong fingers to slip in and then run along the crack of the ass from top to bottom. The fingers gently rotated as they made their way down the soft cleft. Like that first time it had happened at the office, Michelle was amazed at how much pleasure she could take from this ‘disgusting’ manoeuvre-when done by someone who obviously knew what they were doing.

Still arched over Michelle’s eager body, supported by elbows and knees, Narain bent down until moistened lips hovered maybe an inch away from the breasts. “And there are just… so many possibilities with these beauties here.” The tongue, the teeth, the lips now swept all over Michelle’s breasts, sending the patient into deeper ecstasy.

“And as for that vaginal tightening your idiot husband wants…”

“Yes, Doctor, yes-s-s?”

“Well, let’s explore the territory in question.”

As Narain said this, two skilled fingers were already slipping inside Michelle, testing pleasure spots Michelle herself had somehow always neglected until Narain had taught her a month and a half ago. The very willing patient rose slightly and began swivelling on these two fingers as Narain, now repositioned, eased the same two fingers from the other hand in and began rotating vigorously in close rhythm to Michelle’s gyrations.

Her eyes shut tightly, fingers squeezed into Narain’s shoulders, Michelle thrust herself on and around the fingers until, within maybe twenty seconds, she came. Then, clutching the doctor’s wrists, she pushed down, intensifying the pleasure as she swelled into a second orgasm. Oh God, I always come with Dr Narain, she thought-even those crazy times in the office, where it was so cold and rushed, with a pack of other patients waiting impatiently outside.

Always came. She told herself it was simply because Narain was a doctor, a surgeon trained in handling those most intricate-and intimate-

parts of the body that she could… She didn’t dare to try on any other explanation for Narain’s unfailing success at bringing her to orgasm. After another few moments, Michelle opened her eyes and peered with a swirl of love-lust at this highly skilled healer.

“And your husband wants this lovely passage tightened?” The doctor’s brow furrowed in mock bewilderment. “I don’t know. It certainly works for me.” The fingers started churning around again energetically. “And most important, Michelle darling, it clearly works for you. Oh yes: definitely.” The fingers still there inside the patient, Narain bent over to kiss Michelle gently on the lips. As their lips brushed against each other, Michelle grabbed the back of the doctor’s head, pulled it in closer and turned that gentle kiss into a long, urgent, passionate embrace.

At the end of the kiss, Narain rose off Michelle slightly, pulling the fingers back until just the tips were still inside. As those tips started rotating gently, Michelle was filled with a fierce urge to give the doctor as much pleasure as she had just taken, more if possible… yes, more and more-for both of them. More.

In high arousal, she pulled herself up slightly and reached out-reached out to take Dr Narain’s breasts, pulling at those gorgeous tits, much larger than her own, then rose and, while still massaging the breasts, started sucking desperately at one dark nipple, then the other. As she sucked, she also moved her left hand to the doctor’s own vagina and started stroking along the moist slit, caressing its cushion of tightly whorled hair.

As Michelle pulled back to see the mounting rapture on her physician’s face, she managed to push this larger woman down on her back and whispered,

“So, Dr Narain, do you like the taste of your own medicine?” The doctor put her hand over Michelle’s and started pressing hard against it. “Oh yes, yes indeed. I think I’d even enjoy a little overdose, if you don’t mind.”

By now, Michelle had slipped her own fingers into Narain. She bowed lower and before starting to trace her tongue along the sweet curve of the doctor’s lovely left breast, she replied, “Well, we’ll give it all we can. But you’ll have to tell me if I’m doing everything right. After all, you’re the doctor, Dr Narain.”