Tuesday, October 24, 2006


Everyone should be a porn star at least once in their lives. It is healthy to actually see oneself immersed in the process of fucking, to discover through an objective medium exactly how and why people enjoy fucking you, and vice versa.

For best results, I prefer to have an external cinematographer present. Better angles. Better direction. And oh, here's a blowjob for all your trouble. However, filming each other can be a really rewarding and intimate experience as well.

He has brought a friend’s videocam with him and I am anxious to use it. We start in the afternoon when there is good light. It is a horny exercise being filmed. I am loathe to admit it but I have Paris Hilton syndrome – I am a camera-whore. I pout my lips and wiggle my bum trying doing my best to look suitably depraved and come-hither-esque.

We shoot for a bit and then review the footage. Ok so presumably my graceful cat-arch on all fours makes me look 5 months pregnant (and this is with me sucking my stomach in). And sadly, my bum isn't quite as perky as I think it is. But God bless him, he doesn't seem to notice.

Still, for all my over-acting and flouncing about, the on-screen result seems rather tame. My breast-palpation scene turns out well, nice in a bovine kind of way and documenting the journey of his lone follicled finger in and around the crevices of my pussy doesn't exactly lift the human spirit like we want it to. But hey, we're working on it.

We agree to move on to fucking, starting off with me lying on my back. He half-kneels, half-sits in between my legs, pumping his cock hard into my body. He zooms in on my breasts which bounce in response to the shock of each thrust. He then shifts the focus to my face. I have crazy half-slits for eyes, my hair is in knots, my mouth is contorted into a grimace of sorts, I grip hard into the side of the pillow, my fingers leaving compressions in the stuffing.

He then holds the camera behind his back to do a close-up of the actual entry. The curtain-lips of my pussy flank his cock and you can see them gleam as they vibrate energetically to accomodate him. His balls are tight against his body and make gratifying slaps against me as he thrusts.

Then I begin to cum and he shifts the lens back to observe the changes in my body as I hit my peak. I give it all I've got. The tightening of my stomach, the flush around my neck, the beads of sweat on my upper lip - these are things I do not or cannot see by myself but the camera doesn’t miss a thing.

We do a few more positions and then finally, tired of all the twisting and stretching to get a good shot, our inner narcissists call it a day. Or ahem, 'a wrap' for all you MTV-types.

The best part to filming one's own porn movie is then being cuddled next to him post-shoot, watching the finished product. Like film critics, we point out the parts we like and the parts that maybe need a little editing or improvement. Its interesting to see what he likes about me and what I like about him. And overall, we agree we're pretty hot. Predictably this little exercise gets me throbbing wet all over again.

Can I help it if I turn myself on? (Don't answer that.) My fingers stray towards my pussy and I begin to have a fiddle. I notice his cock is hard as well.

Then we both spontaneously realise the added benefit of filming ourselves - it is remarkably gratifying (not to mention, economical - and if you're in Singapore, legal) to wank off to one’s own porn. And the actors fuck in the exact way you want them to do. Fancy that.

We lay back contentedly in our cosy little hotel room pleasuring ourselves until the evening before heading out for dinner. I make sure to burn a CD for myself before deleting it off the videocam. Might make a nice Christmas present for Mom.

Saturday, October 07, 2006

Countdown - Five

Even though the events described all happened in the span of one very l-o-n-g night, I will post this series in parts to make it easier to read – and less intimidating for me to write! Here’s Part Number 1.

First there were five.

Two grown men, Anthony (yes, my Anthony) and Jon, bound to the chairs they were sitting on, facing the bed. They were our watchers and with their hands tied behind them, we had rendered them completely helpless, even to themselves.

My friend Bee, also in restraints, had her wrists strapped to the opposing sides of the bed, her torso laid bare for the plundering. She had clamped her legs shut though. If only she knew how beautiful she looked with her alabaster flesh registering ripple after ripple of miniature defiance. Or how her nipples presented themselves to our eyes like perfect little peas balanced precariously on satin pillows.

Then there was Jen, Bee’s friend and Jon’s girlfriend, whom I had met earlier that evening. I would soon find out that she was just as feisty naked as she was clothed. But for now, she looked extremely composed with her lithe compact body bent over the bed like a flower-stalk. Her head, a drooping blossom weighed down by a lush cornucopia of hair, was positioned precisely to plunder our birthday captive’s reluctantly-proffered bounty.

And finally there was me, standing around self-importantly pouring champagne, double-checking the restraints, making sure everyone was comfortable or well, as comfortable as they could be strapped to pieces of furniture.

It had been my idea after all, to get some bisexual girls together under the auspices of a surprise birthday party for Bee. And I suppose I felt somewhat responsible for everyone having a good time. The party itself had been a big hit. And we had pulled off the charade to every last choreographed detail. The entire event along with Bee’s completely unscripted 60-second scream and us getting warned at the bar for our ‘disrespectful behaviour’ would definitely go down in the annals of girly history.

We had dinner, drinks and some dancing but the sexual tension between five of us was increasingly palpable. The girls couldn’t keep their hands off each other. And as hands and tongues strayed, Jon and Anthony looked on protectively.

By the time we got to Jon’s apartment, we were all extremely giggly. Perhaps from the champagne but more likely from the absurdity of the entire situation. You try asking 4 of your friends – two of whom, recent acquaintances – to sit still whilst you tie them up in their birthday suits and you see that you all don’t end up laughing.

Once everyone was suitably secured and positioned, you could feel the air change. It was as if the atmospheric molecules carrying high-pitched laughter and silly banter automatically rearranged themselves into dense, vaporous clouds that settled around everyone’s parted lips.

The men stopped fidgeting and held their breaths, concentrating now as the scene unfolded before them. I could hear Jen exhaling noisily as she began to lick and nibble on her captive in earnest. Bee was gasping quietly, taking shorter and quicker gulps of air as if she was running out.

“I won’t run away…let me go…let me go,” Bee pleaded insistently. She looked adorable as she struggled, her head tossing from side to side, casting her tangled net of hair wide over the white cotton sheets.

“No, you’re the birthday girl and this is for you.” I rained kisses on her from her lips down to her shaved mound. I ran my hands along the inside of her thighs. They parted with less resistance than I expected.

Her mons was flushed and her intimate petals were glossy with promise. From the numerous explicit discussions we’d had over the course of our friendship, I already knew what to do. I angled my fingers on each side of her clitoris, pulling the hood back and zoomed in on her favourite spot with my tongue, flicking it lightly but rapidly just the way she liked it. Soon I had her sighing and moaning in ecstasy.

“Bitty bittee bitteee…!!” Jen exclaimed with satisfaction as she moved down the bed and sucked hard on Bee’s toes, pulling each little manicured member out of her mouth with a little ‘pop’.
“Come onnn…let me to play too,” Bee groaned out of frustration. Her body was really convulsing now and I could see the restraints beginning to get in the way of her enjoyment. I motioned to Jen to release the Velcro on one of the straps.

As if to make up for lost time, Bee attacked me with her fingers, burying the length of them deep in my wet cunt all at once. I gasped involuntarily and stopped what I was doing. Jen, seeing me momentarily incapacitated, wrestled me down and sat triumphantly on my chest, her knees pinning my arms to the bed.

I suppose I had it coming.

“Yea! You go Jen!” cheered Jon. And then turned to his fellow spectator remarking: “Nothing beats a bit of lesbian bondage.”

I had almost forgotten about the men. They had somehow untied themselves (ok so I’m a girl, I don’t tie very good knots) and were now the absolute picture of bohemian decadence – naked with champage flute in one hand, cigarette in the other and jaded, lustful looks in both eyes.

I heard Anthony yell out from his seat. “Baby, are you going to let her do that to you?”

“No! But well, it's a bit err, difficult,” I said helplessly. I was torn between the conflicting urges of breaking free of Jen’s submission-hold and regaining control of the situation, lying there and letting Bee’s fingers continue working their magic, or persuading Jen to move upwards and sit on my face.

I picked the third option. And eventually all three of us rearranged ourselves into a triangle of pleasure, such that wherever there was a pussy there was a mouth or a finger (or occasionally both).

We began to make sex noises in unison. And I discovered that there was nothing more appealing than the collective sound of girls moaning, grunting, squealing. I could have closed my eyes and listened for a long time.

But before I could get too carried away, it was time for Bee to go. And as we scuttled about getting our clothes together, I nestled my face in her hair and whispered: “So did you have a Happy Birthday?”

“It was wonderful! I love you so much,” she said with a big, beautiful Bee smile and then was gone.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006


“How many men have you had in bed with you at any one time?” one of them challenged, pinching my right nipple through my bikini. I had another one trying to give me a hicky on my left breast, another one stroking the crack of my arse, and the rest were circling hungrily.


“We could break that record tonight.” I believed them. And I suspected it wouldn’t have been their first time to do so either. They were half a professional rugby team from the UK and there was an easy familiarity (hugs, high-fives, back-slaps) between them that had probably developed from sharing the same locker-room as well as not a few women.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, laughing casually in their faces.

And I’ll admit that for a few moments, I did think about it. They were young, mostly my age or below, but they would have been quick, strong fucks with top quality, alpha sperm. Yum.

It was difficult to ignore the bukkake bells that had begun ringing madly in my head. I was imagining S-A-S-H sprayed repeatedly in cursive all over my face. I was projecting Jackson Pollock…in a harem…squirting mayonnaise…on a huge salami sandwich…Help, Dr. Freud!

I was getting horny and more than a little carried away. I looked them over. They were prime tenderloin – everything you’d want from a cut of meat and more – with solid six-packs, broad deltoids, good stamina and from what I could feel, bulging packages beneath their trunks.

Who better to lose one’s gang-bang virginity with?

And as I pondered, they tried their best to persuade me – hoisting me up, spinning me, dunking me and then fingering me in the water whilst I shrieked with mock-indignation. I even lost my bikini bottom to the pool at one point, but all annoyance shamelessly melted away when the perpetrator, who bore an uncanny resemblance to David Beckham, sidled up next to me and said “sorry, I love you” whilst feeling up my bare arse.

All the attention was very flattering of course. To start with, there was nothing that felt more helplessly feminine than being manhandled by a team of big, burly guys. My ‘me-Jane’ complex (read: oh throw me over your shoulder, if you must) was asserting itself in full force and I grew more and more embarrassingly giggly as the evening wore on.

Ordinarily they wouldn’t have been my type - too young, too obvious. But for someone who grew up reasonably nerdy in Singapore i.e. straight As, braces, drama club, scraped through 2.4 – enough said, the idea that I had a team of seven well-conditioned jocks eating out of my hand (and pussy – underwater) was doing a good job of exorcising every single adolescent insecurity I ever had about boys, especially the ones that played ‘Sports’.

Oh yes, I was enjoying getting the last laugh.

That was until one of them asked me, in his thickest Brummie accent: “Can I rub my love-butter all over your tits?” And I fell from my newfound pedestal of social posturing back to earth.

Because I realised that while in my wildest fantasies The Seven Studs would have been legendary lovers who treated me with respect and dedicated themselves to my pleasure i.e. made me cum as many times as they did, the reality would be very different.

I had always felt empowered by my sexual encounters even if they were only one-night stands. Everything was conducted in the name of fun and mutually-gratifying good times. But the empowerment in this situation started when the guys flocked around propositioning me in the pool and stopped when it was clear I would just be an ejaculation device for Mr Love-Butter and Co.

And I guess I had reached a point in my life where it was ok to say No. Not so much No to sleeping with seven guys but No to myself; No to my animalistic urge to act on every impulse without any regard for consequences, No to jumping on every sexual bandwagon for the hell of it, simply because I could and especially No to waking up the next morning feeling absolutely shit for sleeping with guys nicknamed Weasel, Curly and I-kid-you-not Poodle who I never really fancied in the first place.

Because dear readers, I can finally say with conviction, that I have been there and done (a lot of) that. And I don’t need to prove to anyone, least of all myself, what a dirty chick I am. I am a dirty chick. And christ, this is a dirty blog.

This doesn’t mean that there aren’t tons of areas in the sexual landscape that I am not dying to explore – having barely touched the surface of being bisexual, threesomes, orgies, toys, bondage, role-play etc. – but I think I have just developed better judgment on which ones are worth the effort.

And you know, it feels kinda comforting to know that even *I* have my limits. Even though, I did manage to store seven phone numbers in my phone before going home to wank furiously.

What? Just in case it's all a phase! ;)