Need for Speed

Every fast car needs a fast woman – and I am as fast and racy as they come. There is something about being in a vehicle hurtling along a street at 200 mph that stirs my loins and brings out the sexual beast in me.

My need for speed started off in the U.S. where I learned how to drive along 5-lane freeways and park in lots the size of hangars. I loved driving – and it seemed that the beautiful Californian indian summers and my general teenage bravado conspired to make me drive like a fiend everywhere I went.

Even 10-minute grocery runs in the suburbs would be executed at hazardous speeds, sometimes with nothing but my raised knee on the steering wheel and a very short skirt. After all I reasoned, one free hand was required to snap my fingers in time to my Missy Elliot CD whilst the other fiddled with my clitoris. (Dude, was I cool or what.)

It wouldn’t have been entirely accurate to say that I drove like a typical chick – more like a typical chick with a personal vendetta against pedestrians and a possible death-wish. Two totalled cars, countless tickets and a massive insurance premium hike later, I realized reluctantly that driving was better left to the experts – or at least the spatially-competent – and not to me.

I was heartbroken. And since then, I’ve constantly had to find men to fill the void and feed my speed addiction. Have a gut and mid-life crisis? A spanking new Ferrari? Let’s go to your place. Have a Ducati? Red? Let’s go to mine. I was the stuff that global marketer’s wet dreams were made of.

Alas, I quickly discovered that in Singapore as well as in Hong Kong, there is an inverse correlation between the price of a man’s automobile and the number of kilometers he does an hour. Tell me people, what is the point of buying a sports car with high-performance torque and even higher-performance bragging potential, and then granny-shifting it in and out of second gear?

Might as well buy an automatic. Better still, take a cab. Don’t mind me, I’ll just walk home in my 3-inch Jimmy Choos, thank you very much.

Suffice to say, I find the ability to drive well and drive fast, a very desirable quality in a man. I’ve always reasoned that if you can go full throttle in a vehicle, it would be likely that you uphold an equally no-holds-barred policy in the sack. And if you can power-shift like a pro, then surely you can bring me from a purr to a roar with a similar amount of finesse.

In that way women aren’t that different from automobiles – we’re all finely tuned machines that have a brake, a clutch, an accelerator, several gears that will bring us from 0 to 160, and damn can we make you look good when you rev us at the lights.

Adam was living proof of my hell-on-wheels-heaven-in-bed theory. He was one of those ‘good bad-boy’ (or is it ‘bad good-boy’) types that I just can’t help but have a complete weakness for.

A lawyer by trade, he used to race motorbikes in Australia before foot injuries compelled him to stop, and had that easy, effortless way of assuming control of any situation. You know, the sort that would instantly know what to do in any form of ‘crisis’ – say a friend in need, a brawl on the street or a sexy stranger offering him a blowjob in a cab. Needless to say, I was instantly infatuated. And he turned out of course to have his own excellent methods of shall we say, maneuvering his way around my gearbox.

I hadn’t seen Adam for a while, but as fate would have it we would be at the same place at the same time. A little beach destination off the Andaman. He promised to pick me up from the airport. And I promised to give him something that would alter his perception of commuting. Forever.

He pulled up in the parking lot in a rather innocuous Honda Jazz – with tinted windows. Chicken, I said under my breath as I pulled my legs up onto the seat and shut the car door behind me.

“You smell of sex,” he informed me, with a crooked eyebrow, perusing me lazily through his shades. His hands rested gently on the steering wheel, looking tanned and relaxed, the loosely-rolled up cuffs of his white shirt shone brightly in the sun.

“Well it was a 3 hour plane ride. I had to get started without you…” I retorted unapologetically. I rifled through my suitcase with deliberate nonchalance and inserted a CD – Gotan Project’s latest album, Lunatico - into the car stereo.

However, even I couldn’t ignore how the heavy muskiness of my pheromones, diffused with the spicy woodiness of his cologne, was filling the car with an unmistakeably rich, pungent scent. Compelled to inhale this vaporous concoction, we grew imperceptibly intoxicated. The car was transformed by our olfactory senses into a clandestine alcove, and it was as if we were a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde plotting something dangerous, something forbidden.

“Skip to Track 3. Now, drive,” I said, giving him a challenging look.

As we languorously pulled out of the parking lot, I began to fiddle about with the buckle of my left shoe. Oh fuck it, I muttered and lifted my legs, spreading them out on the dashboard. The husky, passion-drenched female voice that emanated out of the car speakers exhorted me to hike my skirt up even further and run my fingers lightly across my clit.

Thus, with my head pressed into the seat, my chunky heels making marks on the passenger-side windscreen and my freshly-waxed pussy wantonly exposed to the gaze of oncoming traffic, I began to work myself up the ladder of arousal.

“I’m creamy today,” I announced and languorously reached over to draw my soiled fingers across his lips.

Adam’s eyes strayed from the road frequently. I could see the tension tugging at the corners of his eyes and sides of the mouth every time I moaned. Occasionally, he would take a hand off the wheel to push my skirt up and give himself better access to my swollen opening.

I looked over at the speedometer. “60? That’s below the speed limit! Drive. Come on, show me what you can do.”

He did not reply except to make a slightly scornful sound and apply more pressure on the accelerator. 80 – 100 – 120 kmh. I leaned my body over, unzipped his jeans and found his already erect cock with my tongue. As I sucked away, my mouth gripped and loosened according to the humps and holes of the uneven island road.

130 – 140 – 150 kmh. My throat began to swallow his cock at a feverish pace and I could feel it swelling between my cheeks. Droplets of my spit splattered on the inside of his jeans as my fingers, tongue and mouth raced up and down the length of hiim. He made sounds low in his throat as he fought for control over both his body’s impulses and the oncoming traffic.

155 kmh and I removed my mouth sharply from its endeavours. His eyes were glued to the road but I knew that they would have registered momentary surprise and possible relief. I took off my seatbelt and motioned for him to reach over on his side for the lever that pushed his seat back. He complied willingly.

“You need to lose this timber truck up front,” I said matter-of-factly. Traffic was not heavy just irregular, but it required a certain amount of concentration for us to maintain the speed we were going at. I could still see his cock, red and veined, poking out from between the fly of his pants.

160 kmh and we were driving on the wrong side of the road, overtaking the truck. My erogenous zones were humming with the adrenaline of velocity. I took one of his hands off the wheel and slid over the transmission in a smooth motion to sit on him, blocking his line of vision momentarily. The car veered to the right, I could feel the crunch of gravel underneath us. He cursed and swung his head to the side to get a better view of the road, abruptly steering us back to our own lane.

I whooped. I had the best seat in the house; I had bent my body in such a way so as not to obstruct his line of sight and my head was pressed against the corner of the windscreen such that I looked out at all the action at extremely close-range. His hands were positioned around me on each side of the steering wheel and I could feel his breath hot on my back.

Then, I lowered my pussy onto his lap, coating his cock with my proprietary brand of creamy perfume and grinding away with my hips.

We fucked as we dodged slower-moving potential roadkill. Scooters, bicycles, trucks, animals, pedestrians flew by Daytona-style. I was not especially bothered. I had faith in his driving abilities and having sex at high speeds had made me embrace a new level of recklessness. Besides, I reasoned that our fellow commuters would have the common sense to just make way for the speedaholic weaving maniacally in and out of traffic and the woman in heat fucking him on the front seat. (I mean, who wouldn’t?)

We arrived at the hotel in one piece - suitably stirred (not at all shaken) and in superbly high spirits. His fly had been re-buttoned, my dress had been pulled down demurely to my knees and I smoothed my hair. We looked like any other respectable couple on a leisure getaway. There was nary a trace of bad behaviour.

Except the car reeked of sex.

The heady fumes of our bodily emissions (cum, sweat, pheromones) and respective fragrances (Issey on him, Agent Provocateur on me) had been recycled countless times by the rental car air-conditioning and soaked up by the upholstery. We realised this too late, as we were pulling up into the lobby. And no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t dispel the odoriferous cloud that we had built up with our misconduct.

The door staff stepped up to welcome us. A porter efficiently took our bags and an unsuspecting valet waited expectantly. Adam and I exchanged wry looks. He shrugged and dropped our keys into the valet’s outstretched gloved hand as I bent over double, convulsed in laughter.

Period Delay

In many ways I am very much a product of the 21st century. I understand why French women don’t get fat, I have 50 Cent on my iPod, I know the name of Brangelina’s new baby, I eke out a good work-life balance, my house has good fengshui and so on.

But there is a certain time in every month where all that gets thrown out of the window and I am reduced to being a hopelessly cranky, whingey, tetchy female. Like my generations of sisters before me.

The monthly curse, eumenorrhea, the menstrual period – call it what you will, its just one of these things that we women have to put up with on a regular basis. And spare us the scorn and pity guys, I’ve heard pattern baldness starts as early as 30, so why don’t you let that keep you busy.

Anyway, after mopping up more than 100 periods, I am thoroughly fed up with the concept. More pressingly, I am threatening to turn into a walking faucet right smack in the middle of one of my lover’s sponsored getaways (this time to Saigon), which is simply unacceptable.

I am not on the pill. And my half-hearted attempts at a few hokey old-wives’ methods to trigger / delay my period – from exercising violently in spurts to eating pineapples – predictably don’t work. Mars and Venus will not align. And I am fast approaching my 28 day deadline.

So I do what every self-respecting modern woman does. Stride into her GP’s office and offer herself up to the vagaries of medical science. I say I am ready to embed a microchip in my ovaries if it will solve the problem.

My GP assures me that my sacrifice, whilst noble, is a tad melodramatic and completely unnecessary. She is surprisingly sympathetic to my plight and calmly prescribes me a round of hormone pills (northisterone) to take 3 times a day, starting 3 days before my scheduled period.

And this is how I learn I can delay my period for restricted lengths of time. Just until after that much-anticipated birthday or that special holiday or that secret rendezvous or whatever. I feel incredibly liberated.

No more will I be a slave to plugs on strings, maxi pads with wings and extra-absorbent hydrogel! There is nothing sexy about having your man watch you waddle to the toilet once every few hours to stick a wad of cotton between your legs. Not to mention the little adjustments we have to constantly make to the offending pad with our legs crossed, our bums shifting imperceptibly on the seat, and the occasional hand down the back of our pants.

And no more will I swear violence on the fair-faced talent in tampon commercials that prance around in tight white shorts and wiggle their asses tauntingly at the camera. I’m sorry but one Vivienne Westwood skirt ruined, twice shy. Those innocent Tampex girls just annoy me.

Some of you profound types might scoff at using medical means to delay a period for the sole purpose of enjoying a holiday or more spontaneous sex with one’s lover, finding me both shallow and self-obsessed (and who am I to argue otherwise). And some of you traditionalists might think doing this subverts God’s master plan for a woman to bleed every month.

But it is now widely accepted that women don’t need to have monthly menstrual periods. In fact modern women endure up to nine times more periods than their great-grandmothers, who began menstruating later, married young and naturally suppressed periods for years while they were pregnant or breast-feeding.

Frankly, what this all means is that monthly periods are not necessarily by Nature's design. Rather it seems to be a means of punishing women of our evolutionary ilk for shirking our baby-making responsibilities - and we can get away with a lot fewer. And there is nothing to stop us from demanding 'period holidays' from our bodies. This is what has partially driven the popularity of contraceptive pills like the newly-FDA approved Seasonale.

So I am happy to see that nowadays menstruation is becoming optional, if not downright obsolete. As I, for one will not miss it. At this point, I’m still happy to bleed but only when I want to and not when I don’t want to.

Actually, it is not the bleeding I object to so much. Rather it is all the other nuisances that come with my period I detest – let’s call it Beached Whale syndrome – the bloat, the cramps, the occasional migraine.

Not to mention, that mistimed first gush. The most gauche of which would be in a man’s mouth as he is eating my pussy out hungrily. And oh yes, I’ve been there. It wasn't pretty.

I’m not squeamish at all about the idea of fucking with the flow – it’s a surefire way to alleviate cramps after all. But it sure is hell on the sheets. And blood just isn’t a very good lubricant for long periods of intense fucking. It dries out too quickly and naturally I’m not quite prepared to use the full faculties of my mouth or tongue to re-lubricate. Also, much as I adore giving head, a girl gets tired of doing it without any possibilities of reciprocation.

Now armed with my period-delay-in-a-packet, I’m off to Saigon.

To go commando under my linen mini-skirt, my neon bikini and my skimpy little fuck-me-here-and-now dress. To wank furtively in taxis and planes and feel my cum-juice trickle down my leg. To cream my guy’s cock in a public place and wipe it off with the underside of his fresh, white shirt. To have his best friend worm his fingers under my skirt and make me cum publicly on the barstool in front of an appreciative audience.

Ah. Bless thee Northisterone, you have made a 21st century woman of me.

Nature Takes Its Course

“Let me look at this…” he says taking the plastic object from my hands and examining it closely. “So this is what they look like. I always thought that they were these weird, nasty things that came with five tubes and a bag or something to put your shit in.”

I laugh. “Well there is that kind of enema, but those are, ahem, an acquired taste. Not for beginners like you. I prefer these, a bit more civilized, medically safe and readily available from your neighbourhood pharmacy. Clears you out and the best bit? No bags of shit to tote around!”

“So you just stick them in and it all comes out?”

“Yup! I’ll show you! In fact, you are going to do one with me!” I pronounce smugly. “That will be the rule from now on ok? If I do one, you do one – for solidarity! C’mon it’ll be fun! These are the things you do with someone you feel completely and absolutely comfortable with. The things you don’t see in porn!”

“For good reason…” he mutters under his breath.

I see him hesitate - caught between curiousity and dismay - and ruthlessly press my advantage. “Pwease? Pwetty pwetty pwease? Friends for life, right? And besides, it’s my birthdaaay…” Faced with all the earnest and enthusiastic cajoling, he knows his only option is to gamely capitulate.

I make him lie back and tell him playfully – and quite unnecessarily – to “just relax”. I lube up the tip of the plastic tube with my forefinger before carefully and tenderly inserting it into him, subsequently pulling it out in exactly the same fashion.

“See? Easy-peasy! Now you do the same on me!” I squeal, reclining horizontal on the bed and positioning my buttocks at an angle to give him the best access. He obediently returns the favour and looks suitably serious whilst admistering it.

“So now we wait.”

We stretch out on the king-sized bed next to each other. And wait. And giggle. And wait some more. It gives me great amusement to see him just lying there looking somewhat uncertain and vulnerable, anticipating what will happen next.

The irony of the situation is not lost on him. “This is a real bonding experience huh, waiting with somebody to shit!” he exclaims with great amusement. “Actually I could feel it working the minute you inserted it, like my insides were relaxing. Matter of time Baby, matter of time…”

The urge hits me first and I run off to let nature take its course, forgetting in my haste that he is still lying in bed a few feet away. My body begins to release and induced by the enema, I begin to make some reasonably loud and explosive bathroom sounds (subtext: farts that echo throughout the entire villa).

Suddenly I hear a loud yell of encouragement: “YOU GO Baaaby! YEAAAA. Giiiive it to me. C’mon, LOOOUUD! Just the way I like it!”

“FUCK OFF!” I shriek back in laughter, helpless to stop my body from completing the course of its natural functions. “I’m sooo fucking going to sit outside the toilet when you gooo!”

“Ok ok, I’ll switch on the TV,” he says, as a concession. I hear the sounds of the tube and I recognize the drone of a newscaster reading the news.

Great, I muse. Just great. Now I’m shitting to the sounds of car bombs detonating in Iraq. Poetry in motion indeed. I vow silently to feed his innards to the flies when I finish.

When I finally wander out of the toilet, he is nowhere to be found and I conclude (correctly) that it must be his time. Out of general politeness and the reluctance to intrude, I sit on the bed idly flipping channels, looking for something remotely inspiring on the small screen.

It doesn’t last long – my half-hearted attempt at courtesy and self-control - and after a few moments, I run over to the other room and press my ear to the glass door of the toilet. “Knock knock! How’s it going?”

“Good. The miracles of science are…miraculous! Everything’s coming out in a rush!”

“I don’t hear anything! Where are the fucking sound effects?”

I arrange myself cross-legged on the floor outside and wait patiently but receive no audio gratification for my efforts. I must have mis-timed it. Drats. He emerges from the cubicle a little while later, careful to shut the door firmly behind him. He chuckles when he sees me sitting outside. And this sets me off on yet another round of mirthful spasms.

“What will you say to the people who ask what you did on your birthday, Sash? Sat outside the toilet and listened to a guy shit,” he teases me, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Stop it! For your birthday next month, I’m going to make you carry a 2 gallon bag of shit around. You best not shoot your mouth off, buster!” I gasp out a warning, wiping the wetness of hilarity from my eyes and holding my sides tightly.

Thus, with our bowels so unceremoniously emptied, we have set the scene for an all-night session of hot, heavy backdoor action later on (subtext: no mess, no embarrassment and no need to call the hygiene police, people!) Just thinking about it gives me a quick pucker from anticipation and arousal.

But for the immediate moment, first things first – we head out for lunch. Chocolate fondant is predictably not on the menu.

Animal Sex

"Play with me," I commanded softly, pushing a leg against his chest as he attempted to move closer to me on the bed.

We were naked in our secluded little villa. It was a full moon that night. Everything was still around us except for the voices of various night creatures – the deep-throated hiccup of the frogs and the restless buzz of the mosquitos in particular - that made the night-air thrum with an expectant energy.

He looked at me curiously, trying to discern what mood I was in. I had been sick earlier in the night – something I ate – and he had patiently held my hair back as my guts made mutiny against me. When I had finished, he had laid down with me in bed, stroking my tummy as I laughingly railed against the indignity of retching in front of another human being.

Apparently though, I had recovered. “Come on, play with me.” I kicked again, harder this time. I taunted him from between the part of my hair, a challenge bright in my eyes.

He pushed at my shoulder, tentatively at first, trying to gauge my reaction. I landed another kick, this time on the side of his pelvis, close to his already hardening cock.

A split-second feint, and he had my arms pinioned to my side, the body weight of his chest crushed me to the bed.

"So this is how you want to play, huh?" he whispered huskily, his hot breath tickled my cheek. I growled at him from the back of my throat.

"Is this how you get all your women to sleep with you, old man?" I bucked my body against his, struggling to pull myself free. "You can't even get your limp excuse for a cock anywhere near my pussy."

"Why would you think I even want to sleep with you, you cheap slut?"

"I don't know and you know what, I don't fucking care," I hissed contemptuously. "But I've seen the way you look at me. You want me. But then we all want what we can't get."

We circled each other on the bed, panting and sweating. The blood was pounding in my head and my body flushed from the combination of physical exertion and sexual agitation. I could see the dilated pools in his green eyes and his stiff, red member standing rigidly between his legs.

I lunged at him, taking him by surprise. And as I impaled my pussy onto his cock, I gushed cum all over him.

He let me savour my presumptuous victory for a few precious moments. Then with one swift movement, he flipped me over expertly like a croupier with a full deck. He pressed my knees down such that I was forced spreadeagled onto the bed, naked and vulnerable. I gasped.

And then he did the unthinkable. He raised himself cobra-style between my legs and spat. A white projectile flew out of his mouth and landed squarely – warm and viscous – on the folds of my labia.

"That's what I think of your cunt," he sneered dismissively.

"Fuck you!" I screeched in outrage. I wet the back of my throat and before he could duck for cover, I expectorated back. Huge beads of my saliva splattered across his face and he flinched instinctively.

"Now we're even. Not feeling so great anymore, are we?" I said with as much scorn as I could muster.

Without warning, he plunged himself into me. Over and over again. Deep, hard thrusts that scraped my core as I shrieked for more. It seemed the more we hurled abuse at each other, the more savagely we fucked.

In fact, fucking was a barely adequate description for what we did. Homosapiens with opposable thumbs fucked. We on the other hand, tore into each other like savage animals that night – a wolf and a wildcat – driven by nothing but a frenzied, feral sixth sense.

We coupled. We mated. We bred.

I had never uttered so many epithets in my life. We called each other names that the respectable gentlemen Merriam and Webster would have thrown a conniption fit at. We battled on all levels. Physically, we bit, clawed, bruised each other for mastery. Sexually, we exploded over and over again – each time scaling new heights of ferocious intensity.

But the heart of the engagement was 100% mental – ultimately, the individual who had the most colourful vocabulary and who could strike the lowest (and most inventive) verbal blow won the day. Too late, I discovered that for someone reasonably well-mannered in real life, he was a surprisingly adept trash talker and indeed a worthy adversary.

And therein lay the illicit thrill of our little game – acute provocation as the stimulus with completely uninhibited animal sex as the stipulated response.

Even though he was bigger and stronger than me, I never felt like I was in any actual danger. I knew that he would never ever have hurt me. Even whilst we played, he always ensured that we were evenly matched and that he never brought his full physical advantage to bear upon me.

The verbal slurs we exchanged were never hurtful because they were underlaid with a fundamental understanding of the way we felt for each other. The idea that I was his "whore" and his "slut" was sacred because I knew no one else was, or could be.

There was also a raw, stripped down intimacy to the way we transformed into absolute beasts that night. It was so completely removed from the way we usually treated each other. Yet it felt entirely natural, as if we had each unlocked our rightful soul-creatures and set them free.

We continued to work each other over in this manner for an hour or more. It was only when the mattress threatened to topple off the bed that we stopped, slightly reluctantly, for breath. We gazed at each other warily for a second. And then I broke the spell – with a barely-suppressed giggle.

"Well that's a first," I said, my face luminous with a combination of mirth and incredulity as I mentally registered what we had just done. "Have you fucked like that before?"

"No only with you, you crazy nut," he shot me a crooked smile and we winked simultaneously.

He added: "I think I've never heard you make so much noise. And you squirted all over. I could feel your juice running down to my ankle!”

We ran our hands over the sheets, tacitly congratulating ourselves whenever we came across significant wet patches. I tidied up whilst he went to take a quick shower. The sheets had been half-pulled off and most of the bed was indeed, soaked. We would have to leave a big tip for housekeeping tomorrow.

I joined him a few minutes later, leaning lazily on the doorframe of the bathroom as I watched him dry off, his alpha-animal qualities sheathed partially in a fluffy white towel.

"Want some?" I asked, handing him a bottle from the mini bar. He walked over, took a swig and... artfully - ejected - a - big - mouthful - of - icy - Evian - all - over - my - breasts.

I stood rooted to the spot, dripping, my eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He grinned, amber devils dancing in his eyes. I continued to stare at him dumbly for a few more seconds. And then, a fire ignited in between my legs and blazed through my whole body with a blistering, defiant heat.

"You asshole!" I screamed and immediately sprung into action. "Fuck me. NOW." I put my hands on his shoulders and yanked him towards me sharply, intending to force his cock into me. He pulled away abruptly.

"Fucking's too good for you right now," he snarled. So instead of giving into my desire for penetration, he started to slap the length of his cock vigorously against my pussy. Huge, forceful smacks that only increased in vigour and velocity. I howled my frustration and arousal.

I had positioned myself on the nearby dressing table because it was the nearest platform available that could hold my body weight. And I half-sat, half-squatted on the varnished wood as a frog would if it were held upright with its soft underbelly exposed. In that position,the lips of my fully-bared pussy swelled and grew a dull red. My clit constricted up and down in time to the contact.

The sounds changed as his cock encountered a wetter and wetter surface – from tight, precise slaps to deeper, more mature cuffs. Then suddenly, I flooded the table with my essence. He entered my pussy as it was still contracting. A few deep thrusts later, he joined me in release.

Lathered and gorged on our own juices, finally we were still. We had acted out the horniest of our fantasies, plumbed the depths of desire for each other, unleashed our inner brutes and all that was left was just an incredible feeling of tenderness.

He brushed away strands of my tangled hair away and caressed my cheek gently, as if I had suddenly become a fragile flower. I smiled. This time, there was no need for words. The silence enfolded us like a warm fuzzy blanket. It bound us with a temporary truce and sang of our hard-won peace, honouring our efforts.

We ran our fingers over each other lightly and just lay there for a long while - completely immobilised and utterly satiated. It was close to morning when I climbed on top of him like a limpet and fell asleep.