Social Media Capitulation

I know, I know I don't write enough. Well here's an excuse: social media is making me dumb and lazy. For those of you who want to see me try my hand at producing irrelevant sound-bites within 140 characters - find me here.

P.S. I'm not that interesting, so you have been warned.

Rain

It was a dark and stormy night… No, seriously! Nowhere else does ‘dark and stormy’ as wonderfully as Hong Kong. I wrote this a while ago in the context of a Typhoon 3 warning, lots of rain and great winds culminating in a dramatic Typhoon 8 in the end.

Hong Kong has the best storms. I love the sheer theatre of them. The sky gets dark in seconds as if someone flipped heaven’s lightswitch. Then, the windy howl rising up against the windows – a ghostly audience waiting impatiently for the show to begin.

And what a show it is!

Not the stingy, chronic, low-budget productions characteristic of temperate climes. It’s practically a character-driven circus. First, the thunderous fanfare. Then craaaaak, the lightning crack of the ringmaster’s whip. And finally, the main event – the rain that spews, pisses, and spurts, blanketing a thirsty city with wet.

The bauhinia trees stuck in cement, the muggy slopes of the mid-levels, the faded building facades with their years of perpetual grime, I feel them rejoicing in the torrent. They wash. They drink. And when they are satiated, they create puddles and rivulets of their own.

Not everyone loves the rain though. All around us, Hong Kongers with their fancy leather shoes and diamante-studded umbrellas, are scurrying and hurrying. They crouch under little shop verandahs, expressing their fury with the elements with frantic text messages. "T1, T3, T8, Amber, Red, Black" – the lingo of the storm that I have to come to know well.

No taxis! No shopping! No high-tea appointment! Aiya!

********

We’re lucky. One of us (or rather, him) has had the foresight to bring an umbrella to dinner, but it never really stood a chance against the T3. We start off optimistic. Then suddenly, needles of rain bear down at us from an angle and we’re drenched. The umbrella turns itself inside-out, spokes all awry, and flies merrily down the street.

So we decide the best option is to kick up our heels (or in my case, kick off my heels) and make a wild, unco-ordinated dash for it. Numerous happy-splashes and a quick fumble for the keys later, we’re home.

We peel our clothes off, eagerly discarding them in a wilted heap. I fling open the windows and look out onto a landscape that glistens and gleams in the night-light. It’s beautiful. A wonderful peaty, mossy smell fills the apartment.

Then, we fuck steadily to the rhythm of the rain, my moans lost to the whistling wind.

********

“I love fucking you when it’s raining,” I say, somewhere between my sixth and seventh orgasm. “It feels sexy…and somehow, so right.”

“You know what I’d really love to do…is fuck you in the rain.” He thrusts himself deep into my core as he speaks, for effect.

I look out the window, observing the tempest. Things are hurtling down the street. I see a bin cover, the odd branch and plastic bag. It is bucketing down so hard if I close my eyes it sounds like I could be next to a waterfall. It is beginning to flood.

Then a sudden gust blows in, and the blinds fly up. I sneeze – it must be a sign.

“I think you’ve picked the wrong girl to say that too. Come on get your boxers on…” There is an unmistakable glint in my eye, a look he knows too well.

“Oh no. N-O. What, like right now?”

********

We’re outside by the stairs of the house – him in his boxers and t-shirt, me in my cocktail dress… or what is left of my cocktail dress. I’m not sure why, but one of us (or rather, him) even brings along an umbrella.

We are two drowned rats going at it. I can barely open my eyelids wide enough to see clearly, the relentless downpour running off us in sheets. I begin to bend over, but he grabs a gob of my wet hair and forces my face to the sky. I clamp down on the instinct to sputter, as he enters me fiercely.

I come – an outpouring of my liquid, steaming and pissing down his thigh – three times in quick succession. Although I think he only notices on the third time. After which... he marches me, umbrella et al, back home for a hot shower and a dry cuddle.

"Remind me to keep my big mouth shut next time," he murmers heavily, into my neck, as the storm begins to pass.

Change - or be Changed?

“Oh my god! It’s so weird to hear you, of all people, say you have a boyfriend!”

I was having drinks with an old friend from Singapore – someone who was familiar with the younger, more imprudent me, and whom I hadn’t seen in years.

“I know,” I said, glancing away quickly. “Weird. To be fair, I only started calling him my boyfriend slightly more than a year ago. Before that, he was just my…”

“Fuckbuddy?”

“Um, no, not really. Stopover fuck’s more like it.”

“Is that higher or lower than a fuckbuddy in the grand scheme of things?”

“I’m not sure. He was never a ‘buddy’ – I never really wanted him to just be my friend. I think he was in a special category all by himself.”

“Ok, so when did he become your boyfriend then?”

I thought for a long while. It’s hard to say exactly when A first became my boyfriend, in both name and spirit. There was no one momentous occasion with bells ringing and birds chirping, but rather, as these things tend to go, a culmination of gestures and intimations that seemed so natural at the time, I never once stopped to think what they all meant.

Was it when he first said “I love you”? Was it when he stopped sleeping with other people – or was it when I did? Or maybe it was the moment I gave him the key to my apartment, asking that he call it his own. Or could it have been the numerous little epiphanies that I got along the way writing about him on this blog?

Maybe the truth lies in the truly mundane. I mean how many times can a girl read, and re-read, and re-read, and re-read, and re-read a single text message? (Without losing her eyesight, that is.) Well in my case, a fair estimate might be…more than a few dozen? And I still smile too. I have over a hundred of his texts saved in my phone, and my favourite one dates from as far back as July 2006.

I tried hard to remember when I said my first “I love you”. Because surely that would have given me the answer to my friend’s question. But I couldn’t. (Admittedly my excuse is that I was highly intoxicated at the time.) But I’ve said it too many times to count since. And besides, I probably meant, showed and indicated it in a myriad of ways before my tongue got into the act of forming the actual words.

In that way, I think sometimes the body is wiser than the mind. Even from the first time, I marveled at how my body fit into his. How he took my hand to cross the road while we were walking back to the hotel and how I smiled, and curled my fingers around his without breaking stride. Or into a cold sweat.

How after sex, I knew exactly how to curl up him like a limpet, resting my head along the crook between his collarbone and chest, and letting our post-coital smells spontaneously mingle.

And how we kissed. Oh, how we kissed. We only started doing this later on in the relationship, him having never been too big on ‘the kissing thing’ when he was with other women. But the first time he decided to take me in his arms, using his lips to smother, suckle and caress me with wild abandon, I was lost.

More importantly, my body had stopped enjoying sex with other people way before my mind cared to concede. In fact, it took me a streak of rather unenjoyable encounters – including one where I had to literally sneak out of someone’s apartment like a thief while he was sleeping (leaving no note, and definitely no number!) – to make me sit up and think…

Waitaminute. Whatthehelljusthappened? That used to be fun.

So where does all this leave us? I suppose with the old adage that change happens – even to the unlikeliest candidate of us all. And the best kind of change feels natural, and organic, and not impelled by anyone else but yourself. The funny thing with change of course, is that it’s only when somebody shines a ‘blast from the past’ spotlight on you, that you realise it’s actually happened.

Otherwise, you’d just think you were being you.

Ever heard the phrase, “I love you, but I love me more?” It’s a phrase that maybe Sash would have used. Or anyone with a strong, uncompromising sense of self. And in all my previous relationships, I had always felt this epic tussle between the real me and the ‘me’ that the other person wanted me to be.

It never felt quite right.

Because how much can you truly change about yourself on behalf of someone else? A lot of people pretend, all their lives even, whilst scurrying away to hide their dirty secrets from prying eyes. But I never wanted to pretend. And I never wanted to compromise. And maybe that’s why it took me such a long time, and such a lot of tries to get it right.

Because finally, I’ve found someone that I can just be me with. Kinky, quirky, funny soulful me.

And that’s what changed. I’ve found my home, my family, my anchor and my truth in another person. And I suppose, for the first time, after 2 years and 9 months, I can finally say, with some degree of certainty, that I’m content in a way that comes from knowing indeed, there is someone out there for me. Yes, for even ‘difficult cases’ like me. So there’s hope for all.

Maybe that’s why I stopped blogging – because in a way, I’ve stopped searching. I’m still me but I can’t be Sash anymore. Not in the way you know me anyhow. Ferociously hunting for the next man, the next high, the next hedonistic adventure, the next blogworthy anecdote. Just because I could. And also because in a way, playing the game and exerting my sexual power had become my heroin.

But now, I’ve realised that it’s not the end of the world when I can’t get laid with that super-handsome, well-dressed, alpha-male of a man that’s looking sideways at me across the bar…

So you see, there is simply no more sexual pathos. Or so it seems for now, anyway.

Because when I do go out looking for sexual adventure – which still happens, mind you, pretty often – I go out looking in tandem. And boy is it fun to hunt in a pack. I know I have the best wingman I could ever ask for by my side, and the best fall-back plan if things don’t work out.

Someone who makes me laugh till my sides ache, fucks the living bejesus out of me, snuggles up in the morning when its cold, and treats me with the utmost patience, respect and forgiveness on days leading up to my period.

He is my biggest adventure. And even till this day, there’s a sense of newness to our relationship. Perhaps because every day with him is a revelation of the depth and nuance of feeling that I am capable of with him.

But I can’t risk boring you with any more details. Really, the last thing the world needs is yet another rosy-eyed romantic grandiosely espousing the life-changing power of love. And please, I beg of you not to put me in that category.

I don’t believe in happy endings, but there’s something to be said for happy beginnings, and middles.

Because they’re just wonderful. :)


P.S. And that pesky monogamy thing? We have a deal that I’ll stay faithful as long as he makes sure that I always have the most mind-blowing sex a girl like me could possibly want and have. And also, that he brings home guys for the occasional dp. ;)

P.P.S. To my beloved, thank you and happy 40th.

Top 10 Reasons why Sash is Rubbish at Relationships

Status: I love my life (absolutely), I love my man (madly) and I love my relationship (usually...um, marginally?...more than my singleserves lifestyle).

Sighs. Is it just me? Don't get me wrong. The guy is great, truly great, but this girlfriend-boyfriend thing is H-A-R-D!

I mean, I'm a reasonably good trophy. I have nice shoes and a pedicure every month. I get along socially with basically anyone who isn't a bigot about their earning power or an embittered expat housewife (or rather, they don't get along with me). And it has been said, that I can come across as rather witty and clever when I don't confuse my ozone with my CFCs.

So what's wrong? Why can't I make a graceful exit from the meat-market in a poof of romantic bliss? Why am I still writing?

Because sometimes, I just get this nagging feeling at the back of my head, a bit like a hangover, that I'm not quite the cat's pyjamas as a girlfriend. I really am trying my best, but there are a few things about me that are so fundamentally Sash, and that I can't (and won't) change, I'm not sure they quite fit in any relationship, let alone this one.

And really, the boyfriend, also occasionally known as 'the boyfwen' bless his heart, is so patient and accommodating about all my quirks (especially if they're the pouty-lipped, D-cup variety) it's as if he actually loves me!

Ha. Which makes it all so much worse, really.

It's not like me to be plagued with self-doubt but there are days when all I can do is think that I'm just wasting his time and one day the scales will fall from his eyes and my inner monster will be revealed in all its grubby glory. I can tell you right now I'd be gutted if that happened. Absolutely gutted.

You may or may not agree, but in no particular order, here are my top 10 reasons why maybe I'm just not cut out for this relationship thing. And yes, you have permission to laugh.

1. I am a monogamist's nightmare. I look at, and openly lust, after other women. And men. Black men. The ones with pecs the size of canned ham, metal-detector abs and thick, long um, johns. Preferably 2 of them at a time... But mainly, I try to keep it to women. Ahem...

2. If he gets jealous about my lust habit (see #1), my usual response is: "Don't be. I'd never do it behind your back. Don't you know that if I fucked someone else, you'd be the first person to know? Especially if the sex was really REALLY good? Maybe we can invite him over! Or give the guy a t-shirt that says 'I made Sash squirt' or something..."

3. If I get jealous...? Hmm, actually I don't get jealous. Why get jealous when you can get even? And his best friend told me once that he's hung like a coat hanger. So I'll just have to find out...

4. I prefer to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. In fact, the last time I asked for permission was maybe in Secondary 4 when I asked my parents if I could stay over at my then-boyfriend's house, to which they said no. I then went and did so anyway (but I swear we didn't have sex Mom!). On the plus side, I'm very good at feeling sorry and I bake a mean humble pie, with real chocolate chips and vanilla. Hungry, anyone?

5. I have a sordid past. And I can still bump into most of it at Attica on a Saturday night. (Note: this is after leaving Singapore for 2 years.) And no, that guy did not have that double chin / spare tire / withered look / cold sore on his lip when I was fucking him...

6. I don't listen very well. Nor can I read maps or follow instructions. Unless I'm being slapped around in a schoolgirl uniform, that is...

7. I admit, I'm a bit of an adoration junkie. (Everybody is, aren't they?) And I rather miss my bevy of besotted admirers who used to strew shoes, watches, jewelry, skincare and the odd laptop as tokens of affection at my feet. In fact, I still have their numbers, and we keep in touch from time to time. And if they insist on plying me with gifts in a transparent and shameless bid to buy their way into my heart, what can I do but accept? I'm just being polite...

8. I need a lot of sex. And I need it now. And no, we can't stop until after I've had 10 orgasms. If you have a headache, then go take a Viagra. I guarantee it'll make the headache worse, but you'll have wood and I can give you hand jobs for the rest of the night...

9. I'm sexually up for anything and I'll try anything once. Which is fine when I'm luring beautiful women home for some fun. But not so fine when I also suggest we try our hand at bukkake, bisexual boys, strap-ons, knives, rape fantasy, the odd enema and of course my lifelong altar fetish (don't ask, I can't explain it except to say that I have a seriously twisted imagination). You never know, it could be really fun...

10. I don't suddenly want babies. Or an HDB flat. I don't cook dinner every night. I don't call everyday (he calls, usually) even though I have been known to send a squealy text once ever so often. And I'm still awfully footloose and fancyfree. In fact, currently I'm thinking wouldn't it be a fantastic adventure to transfer to New York for a few months...

So there, the prosecution rests. Is there any hope for me at all?

Coming (Or Not)

Three whimsical little vignettes about the joys and perils of that physical phenomenon we call, coming.

I have finally(long story!) decided to go on the pill. And for the first time ever, tonight, A will leave a tide of his cum unobstructed and uninterrupted inside my pussy.

The most basic act between a man and woman, and the purest, yet it’s been years since I’ve felt open and committed enough with anyone to allow it. But now, I am longing for it, something deeply fundamental inside me aches for it. I am a blank canvas, an empty cup waiting to be fucked, filled. Finished.

Never have I been so excited by a man’s orgasm.

It will be over quickly, I estimate half an hour tops. My hands are gripping his back while he rides me. Each thrust is determined, deliberate. His climax is the raison d’etre of our lovemaking tonight.

I love watching his cock, plunging into my depths only to resurface moments later wet but triumphant. I follow the metronome rhythm of his thrusts and my moans rise in syncopated chorus – Yes. Now. Soon. Oh. God.

The veins on his neck swell and his face crumples with concentration. There’s no holding back now. I’m melting. His hips are grinding to the finish, and his head is next to mine now. The hairs on the side of my ear vibrate with his whispers:

“Do you know, what I’m giving…you? My life. My essence…I’m pumping you full of my sperm. I want you to feel it on your cervix, in your womb… I’m giving myself to you.”

He is gasping between breaths now, shuddering, his handsome face crumpled with concentration. “All I have…Baby, everything…do you want it?”

“Yes, I do.”

********************

A little while later, when I can no longer feel his tremors, he rests his nose on the side of my cheek and speaks into my lips: “I thought we were going to come together, Baby.”

“We are.”

“But you didn’t…?”

“Are you sure of that?” I give my clitoris a hard rub and propel myself off his detumescent cock, a clear unfettered stream of fluid surges forth and hits the carpet. It is followed by the more gelatinous drip of his ejaculate, sluggishly creeping down my thigh.

“See? Told you we’d come together.” I grin while he joyfully scrambles for a nearby towel.

********************

There’s an insistent stabbing at my lower back and I surface, momentarily, from sleep. I can tell from the milky way that light is streaming through my blinds, it’s early. Or at least earlier than my rightful wake-up time, which on most weekends I like to delay to as late as possible.

“Mmffphmmmff?” Obviously, a rhetorical question.

“Morning Baby!” comes the chirpy reply. I groan inwardly. Why is he awake? Why is he so energetic? We had only switched off the lights 3 hours before and I was feeling it.

“Go back too schlweep…” I mumble, the side of my cheek cracking slightly to accommodate the movement of my lips. I wade back under the shroud of nothingness.

Then, again. Jab. Jab. Jab. Lower this time, just grazing the skin above my arsehole.

He tries to pull me into a cuddle, or perhaps maneuver a better strategic position. But I curl up into a ball facing the wall, my body language clearly saying ‘GO AWAY OR ELSE’. It seems to work.

For a few minutes, the Morning Glory and Human Pincushion call it a truce, but not for long. “Baby, are you horny?” comes his voice, a mere few minutes later, pleading this time.

More pleading and prodding. There is no denying it. His cock is rock-hard, and dying to be emptied of its contents. Well that’s because the poor man has held himself back for an entire night of lovemaking with you, I think to myself, my sympathies rising momentarily to the surface.

God knows I don’t hold back. I never do. The bed is still wet with my juice, so much so that moisture has soaked through the industrial-size towels we laid down on it before going to sleep. I can never come up with a reasonable explanation when visiting friends ask, why a girl living alone has 25 towels in her closet.

“I’m not really in the mood,” I say in a small voice, half-muffled by the pillow. I don’t want to be uncharitable but it’s physically difficult for me to get aroused in the morning. Actually, it’s physically difficult for me to do just about anything in the morning except lie still and snore.

Not that this seems to deter him in the slightest. “That’s ok! Just turn around and open your legs slightly,” he says.

I do so, angling my butt towards him. I hear him uncapping the little blue bottle of lube and smearing some on his cock. Then the air whooshes out of my lungs as he plunges suddenly into me.

“Ohhhh, uhhhh,” I moan. His pace is ferocious, and I feel him chafing away at the tender skin of my perineum. My lower body starts to tingle and awaken, my pussy beginning to open and silken. I can feel the sprigs of pleasure growing through my blood.

“I’m coming,” he pants.

“No!” I scream in protest. But it is too late.

He makes a funny sound in his throat, half-groan half-splutter, as if he is suddenly drowning in his own spit. Everything grinds to a halt. He holds himself rigid for a few seconds, a look of astonishment on his face. I think maybe, just maybe, he might have caught himself in time, until I feel a weakening pressure against the walls of my pussy and his wetness leaking away.

“I can’t believe it! You just used me like a cum-bucket!” I turn to face him accusingly, my pussy feeling a familiar ache. I only get helpless laughter in return. “Now I’m horny!”

P.S. See You Later

I suck at goodbyes. I really do, which is why often I prefer to put on my running shoes and do a 400m dash, or in this particular case, a 3-month marathon. I know it's not the mature thing to do nor is it the kind thing to do, but it's compulsive, this need to put the world in a box and stare at it from a distance. If only to understand it better.

Besides you'd laugh if I told you that I took 2 months to compose the words to this post, to get them to look, sound and feel exactly right. But I did. Of course, the last month I spent just sitting around eating haw flake biscuits from the tin. But in the productivity stakes, 2 out of 3 ain't bad!

So to those of you who are still loitering on this site (I'm not sure how many there are left), but especially to those who started loitering right from the beginning, here is a little explanation for my absence, my metamorphosis from this creature called Sash and my eventual departure from this blog.

It starts with being in love. There, I said it.

And well, I'm not sure how or exactly when or why or even if I should or shouldn't be, but I just am.

Love is a state of being, and I defy people who reduce it to a feeling, a mere wisp of emotion. There is a strong, real difference between just feeling love and being actively involved in the process, even though it took me a long time to recognize it.

I suppose I've had a bad experience with love. (Hasn't everyone?) I've mistaken it for many things – for infatuation, for companionship, for obsession with an ideal. And I've mocked it, belittled it for being mundane, and for being weak.

Strongly independent women don't do love. It's beneath them, it destroys their character – I had made up all these strange rules for myself. One set to govern my pussy, and another entirely different set to govern my heart. It made sense for a long time to keep them strictly apart.

I secretly despised those who could only have sex with people who meant something to them. They were fragile little porcelain flowers who bore the burden of being unenlightened, the ones who cloistered themselves and held out their quivering, virginal quims for a statistical improbability.

I, on the other hand, was invincible. But hard in places I couldn't see. I struggled a long time with what seems in retrospect now to be my destiny.

I was torn in several different directions. I loved a man, but I loved my freedom more. I loved a man, but I did not love the situation we were in. I loved a man but in a self-protected, self-obsessed way, the only way I knew how, I loved him only if he loved me more.

It was difficult for me to reconcile these conflicts and the more I tried to resolve them, the more I made a hash of things. At times broody and sensitive, at other times spiteful and hurtful, I was self-sabotaging my chances for happiness because I was too scared of being disappointed.

For some reason, I thought that an emotional bogeyman dogged my steps, and that his chief aim was to gobble up my joy and turn it to despair.

It was only at the beginning of this year that I learned to stop worrying, and to just follow my heart.

And despite evidence to the contrary, I have one. You can imagine this comes as a surprise to me as much as it does to you.

I'm not a romantic, and I've known firsthand enough dysfunctional, destructive relationships to ever be one. So I'm not about to say that being in love has made my life better – I enjoyed a fantastic singleserves lifestyle with no regrets – but it has changed me.

It has helped me live deeper and richer. I experience life with an under-current of passion, generosity and groundedness that I never had before.

And in this way, I think I needed to fall in love. Or have a meteorite strike my building. Either way, I needed that epiphany; that it is possible for someone to be in love with me, kinks and all. And that I have the spiritual capacity to reciprocate in kind, when I honestly thought I had forgotten how.

Thus, I am endlessly comforted and inspired by this new phase in my life. Sometimes I think of it like a little red thread running through my arteries, holding otherwise random pieces of me together.

At other times, it's a mirror, and it illuminates my actions and quirks from the perspective and context of another person. In a funny way, I see more of me now than I ever did before.

Sometimes, I even surprise myself.

I remain remarkably stoic about my prospects though. I don't put much stock in the happy ending. Love ebbs and flows. In fact, it seems the more desperately one tries to hold onto it, the faster it pours away. And deep down, I know that this little mad ecstasy of my heart, as with all things, too shall pass.

But for now, I'm enjoying it.

I've never laughed so much in my life, for instance. I've never been as silly and goofy – having a made-up baby-vernacular with words like ‘Schmoops’, ‘Babby’ and ‘Wuv’ in it is not something to crow about, but well, us Singaporeans have made it a national habit to mangle the English language.

I've never been so open with someone – even telling my darkest, guiltiest secrets – and had it be alright. I've never been such an instigator of fun and sexual spontaneity. No public corridor is safe, no piece of furniture spared and no beautiful stranger unmolested.

Which all sounds very sweet and slightly nauseating, but what has all this got to do with blogging, you wonder?

Well here's the nub – I've changed. And in ways that aren't quite Sash anymore. I wouldn't say she's gone completely. She can still be counted on for things like, modeling lingerie in front of 200 lesbians, dancing with abandon on a podium at old haunts, persuading beautiful girls to be bisexual, having mad sex with multiple partners (except now it tends to be in the presence of a certain someone).

That's still me. But there are other parts to me now that need recognition. And to tell the truth, every time I have tried to post the latest developments of my life on this blog, I've felt constrained by the all-pervading themed persona I created. Even the tone and style doesn't fit anymore.

I'm still writing though. I will always write, it's who I am, it's just that for now I am trying to move my thoughts into another medium. So it's not a farewell, I sincerely hope it's a see you later.

Thank you for all your encouragement, well-wishes and loyal readership. It has given me confidence and has helped me find my courage when it comes to writing.

At its best, I hope this blog provided you with a dash of inspiration, some information, and plenty of wank-fodder while encouraging you to embrace your sexual side. Remember, your kink is what makes you special. Explore it, nurture it and don't be afraid to share it with somebody one day. I did, and still do. If anything, it makes for very interesting dinner conversations.

I will be leaving the archives up here for your reading pleasure. But before I hang up my stiletto on a shingle for good, I will be trying to finish and polish up a few orphaned Sash posts that I still have left on my computer. I will put these up at arbitrary intervals, as the spirit moves me, so expect the story mill to trickle down and dry up as opposed to grinding to a complete halt here in Sashville.

Questions or personal anecdotes, if any, are welcome in the comment box. Usual rules apply. If you leave your email address, I might respond personally.

All said and done, I had a wonderful, madcap time y'all. And again, thanks for being such a supportive audience. Now go forth and fuck your brains out. That's all for now, folks. :)

Tied Up

I wonder how long he's going to leave me here.

The wall is cold against my cheek and the bulb of the reading light incubates the side of my forehead. It casts large, distorted shadows around the room. A flickering candle becomes a beating heart, a stack of pillows become giant Lego-bricks and my own head is a clotted nest of writhing anemone.

I blink. And crane my neck as far as it will go in an attempt to catch sight of him. I feel the vertebrae on my spine uncoil protestingly, crick by crick.

It doesn't exactly hurt to move. Rather, it pinches, nibbles, and throbs. I don't know what sort of knots he's used but they're tight. I guess he wasn't joking when he said he used to be a Boy Scout.

My flesh is soft and buttery against the rope.

It's futile to escape. To tug awkwardly on the left is to feel a corresponding tweak on the right. Any attempt to roll or twist would mean the risk of over-balancing and landing on the floor in a cold, crushed heap.

That doesn't make me sorry for what I've done of course. He can do what he likes, but there's no way I'll crack. Or submit. Or beg.

Or cry out his name with pleasure.

He announces his return with a few sharp tugs of the rope and my limbs flail involuntarily up and down to greet him like a marionette. He chuckles and then pulls one more time for good measure.

Prick. I look at him sullenly, mutinously but say nothing. I know a bout of hysterics will most likely be punished by a pinch to my nipple or bruising spank.

'Last chance...' his voice drips honey in my ear. His expression gives nothing away but his eyes are dancing, flanked by grooves that extend to the top of his cheek.

'I told you, you can go fuck yourself.' I say the last two words especially slowly. For emphasis, I aim at his face and spit. But he recoils and my saliva spatters darkly on the sheet between us.

He chuckles. And his cock gives an involuntary quiver.

I realise too late that I've pushed it too far. His arm snakes round to grab a fistful of hair. My head snaps back and I start to wriggle about like a hooked eel. He's leaned in close and I feel his breath caress my face. His fingers burrow between my clenched thighs, rousing the swollen nub that's peeking out between my pussy lips.

The direct stimulation makes me more and more sensitive, pushing me to the brink of pleasure and tearing discomfort. I am sweating all over. I wriggle some more to dislodge his fingers, but in doing so, invite them to slip a little deeper.

And then, without warning two of his fingers plunge straight into my boiling cavity. My body instinctively jerks but the rope holds fast. Immobile, I feel the sensations shoot straight to my head, lingering behind my eyelids. My mouth has gone dry and all I can muster is a series of small unghs at the back of my throat.

Then for a brief second, relief.

He draws his glistening fingers out and holds them near my nose. I can tell how aroused I am by my smell – it's dense and almost feline. He draws back and licks his fingers seductively. I stare at him, happy to catch my breath.

Then he invades again, this time twisting and vibrating his fingers for extra effect.

And again. This time rougher and more vigorous.

And again. My insides are thrumming, my wrists and ankles are singing with a raw, keening sweetness. My moans are forceful and voluptuous. My limbs have long ceased their futile struggle. Instead I feel every pore in my body on fire, in open rebellion. His fingers carry on with their assault, except that he's watching me intently now, deep in his own arousal.

And then the final wave comes. It's sweet and explosive, as I knew it would be. I surrender completely to it. Taking my well-deserved pleasure. Savouring it, no, demanding it. Knowing that I'm free.

The scenario described above is purely consensual. If you want to role-play this way, do it with someone you trust and make sure you establish rules beforehand. Also, always use a safe word – something unusual (i.e. NOT 'Stop' or 'Enough') but easy to remember. Mine is ‘water-based make-up’! :)

Minus Libido

I wake up today and it is a relatively nice morning. We’ve been having a fair share of sunlight lately. And an unseasonably warm winter is really something that us Singaporeans can’t complain about.

I instinctively roll over to reach for my trusty vibrator, except…

Except...err Houston, we may have a problem.

I hold the implement with increasing pressure against my clit, moving it down to the lips of my pussy and then back again. Bzzzt Bzzzt Bzzzt the mechanical pulses resonate down my intimate tissue. I writhe urgently against the sheets, my mind flitting through its archives of favourite fantasies, longing, desiring, waiting… something…

Anything…

Hello? Is there life on Venus?

Evidently not! I blame God. I blame SARS. And I blame the antibiotics.

I finally orgasm after 15 minutes. (F-I-F-T-E-E-N minutes, people.) And then, only because I'm blue in the face and my clit has been beaten into resentful submission by my vibrator’s thriller speed Rotate-Whirl-Take-Out-The-Laundry combo.

Numbed nether regions aside, I discover that life really does suck with a drug-diminished sex drive for all the following reasons:

a. No urge to wank in the morning means I actually get to work on time.

b. No urge to wank mid-day means the office toilet seats have a fighting chance of staying dry.

c. No urge to wank in the evening means I can have sensible hobbies like vacuuming and stamp collecting.

Yes, no urge to wank makes Sash a very productive human being but a very sad girl.

So. That said, while azythromycin beats the crap out of my lingering throat infection and libido, I’ll be doing up some old stories from last year that I started but didn’t get to finish for one reason or another. So forgive me if the blog’s a bit chronologically impaired but everything will catch up at some point, I promise.

Until then, happy reading!

And Now, For Some Wank Fodder...

A new year, a new profile and a new perspective. At least now you get a facial.

I also wanted to customise a new look for the blog and got as far as turning everything a noxious shade of magenta before I realised the new Blogger template made all my Haloscan comments disappear. I reverted back to Missionary Minima in a huff.

Sorry to sound whiney but will somebody give this technologically-challenged girl a few clues?