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’! :)

Video

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.

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.

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.

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.

Stop. Start. Squirt.

“God can you hurry up, I really need to fuck something…” I pleaded with a moan. I stood propped up by the doorframe, tearing my skirt away from my waist and peeling my lace halter-top down from my shoulders.

It was a sultry Hong Kong night – the air was dense and implacable, making our clothes stick like paint to our bodies. I was glad to be the first one naked. My skin, slightly mottled and moist to the touch, was only too grateful to be liberated from its restrictive accoutrements.

“I know you’re horny, Baby. But we’re going to take you up level by level tonight –but we’ll only let you cum if you cum all over the bed.” Anthony sat at the edge of the bed still in his jeans, casually fiddling about with the battery of his video camera.

I looked over at him with lust-addled eyes and made a bestial sound at the back of my throat. High on an intoxicating cocktail of alcohol, sleep deprivation, dirty talk and pent-up lust, I was not in a patient mood.

But that night, I had an audience. Anthony’s friend Seth, had agreed to film us fucking. The premise / plot / raison d'etre of the video was exceptional porn-star sex. Now it only remained for me – and my pussy – to put up a good show.

“Oh she squirts, does she? I love girls who squirt. I had an ex-girlfriend who used to do that,” Seth said, increasingly relishing his role in the upcoming activities.

Besides being our cinematographer, Seth was also my designated ‘fluff-boy’ for the night. (And if you don’t know what the term ‘fluff-boy’ makes reference to, you haven’t been watching the right kinds of movies. Tsk tsk.) I undressed him whilst Anthony tested the camera.

“Put your two fingers like this and position them on each side of her clit. Just rub her up and down,” Anthony, the night’s self-appointed artistic auteur, called out directions whilst demonstrating to Seth exactly the way he wanted me touched.

Seth’s fingers began working magic on my clit, flicking back and forth, pushing the hood back and stimulating it with increasing rapidity. We were all naked by that time and Anthony sat up against the wall watching, pulling his cock away from his body and playing with it.

Under his instructions, Seth brought his tongue to play in the same fashion as his fingers. A sheer runoff of juice seeped out of my pussy, coating everything from my labial lips to the tip of Seth’s tongue with a slick, milky veneer.

“Ok, stop, stop, stop…don’t let her cum,” Anthony said as he saw my pleasure mount. Then, he turned to me: “Now calm down, and we’ll start again.”

I must have called out several colourful names as I gritted my teeth in frustration. We rested a few minutes. My throat parched, I tipped my head back and took a miscalculated swig from the bottle of cold water next to the bed, spilling a significant amount down my neck and onto my hair in the process. Stop.

Start. This time, we got to the point where Seth’s stubby fingers filled my pussy and probed tantalizingly at my g-Spot. Stop.

Start. This time, I am allowed a period of g-Spot stimulation and the tip of Seth’s tongue furiously dabs at my clit. I have worked myself up into a considerable lather by now. My body is flushed, I am soaked with sweat and I can feel the blatant heat radiating from every pore of my body. Stop.

Start. “This time I want you to use the width of your tongue and give her a long, hard lick from her pussy to her clit,” charged Anthony. He still held his cock in his hand but I could see its head was darkening with blood. Beads of fluid were forming at the tip. I stretched my body out on the bed and laid my head on his thigh. With leisurely strokes, I began to lick him off, occasionally moving my lips away such that he could see the thin trails of silvery pre-cum that clung to my chin.

At the opposite side of the bed, I ground my mound into Seth’s face, as he, like a dedicated soldier, did exactly as was instructed. My molten pussy was beginning to explode, giving out little ‘pops’ of air as its slippery walls clamped down tightly in spasms. I arched back and sat down hard on Seth’s fingers, my moans began to take on a familiar cadence.

“Take your fingers away, Seth. Now.”

My hips writhed against Seth’s fingers in defiance of the orders to stop. Seth hesitated for a split-second and that was all I needed. As he pulled his fingers away, a thin rivulet of clear juice trickled out to follow. Stop.

Start. I clambered onto Anthony’s cock. I knew I was ready. And it only took me a few minutes of rocking myself back and forth before an immense pressure within my pussy began to build up. My whole lower body felt engorged and distended – as if I had taken a deep breath and held it until I turned blue. Powerful contractions were rippling through me. I began to gasp and shudder. I cried out. I pulled myself off Anthony’s cock abruptly, thrusting my mound upwards, my body seized up taut as a bow.

And then, I erupted.

It started as an incredible wetness in between my legs, as if I was a pitcher of hot nectar tipping over. Pools of warmth diffused from my core. I looked down. A jet stream of clear fluid shot straight out of me. Even I was surprised at the distance and strength of its trajectory.

And all I could do was repeat incoherently “I’m wet I’m wet I’m wet I’m wet” to no one in particular, which given that there was a dark wet spot about the size of my palm left on the sheets was pretty much stating the obvious.

I flooded myself again and again, my body buffeted by consecutive peaks of pleasure. This time there was no letting up in the pace or pressure. Each orgasm was just a cue for Anthony to shift me to a dryer spot on the bed and pound himself harder into me.

When he finally pulled away for a quick break, I had surrendered so completely to the river inside me that I continued to gush and flow even without the need for direct penetration.

“Let me drink you up honey,” he said as his fingers flicked furiously at my clit. “Tell me when.”

“Only…if you let me…kiss you after…I want to taste myself,” my words punctuated by short staccato breaths. Within a few minutes, I felt the familiar spasms of a liquid release overcome me.

“There you are…Mmmm…Mmmm…” he murmured, rubbing his face into my mound and slaking his thirst with my juice.

When he came up for air, I saw his features were glistening wet. Not just his lips, but the bridge of his nose, his chin and the sides of his bristled cheeks. It was like a layer of dew all over his face. It gave me a brief animalistic thrill, to see the evidence of my emissions so blatantly mark him in such a manner. (See boys, I get the cumming on the face thing – I get it.) I lapped lovingly at the sides of his mouth as a kitten would, before pulling him down for a deep tongue-kiss.

Then completely spent – with sweat evaporating off my back, a lattice of hair matted around my face and hardly any strength left in my bones – I melted into him and slept. Stop.

In this day and age where self-help masturbation manuals become bestsellers and vibrators fly off the shelves at Watson’s, the female orgasm has become commonplace. Nobody bats an eyelid when we touch ourselves during sex or choose to spend Wednesday nights with The Rabbit instead of with our boyfriends. It is expected, nay desired, for a woman to be comfortable with her body and openly orgasmic with merely the aid of some water and Clairol shampoo.

So it is only natural that most of us who count ourselves as part of the sexual liberati aspire to – or at least express a healthy level of interest and curiosity for – the Mack daddy of orgasms, female ejaculation.

And rightly so. Female ejaculation is hot. Intensely horny. A head rush for a girl. But also an absolute ego trip for the guy she’s with. One little 5CC squirt is the most irrefutable testament of how much he pleases her in bed. It does the job of 120 decibels of screaming, a contortionist’s lifetime of writhing and entire decades of vigorous protestations. Because when it comes down to it, there is just no faking a gushing, squirting, spurting orgasm.

Having the ability to ejaculate on command is also an empowering act. And since men do it, women should be allowed to as well, if only in the name of egalitarianism. I can tell you firsthand that there is immense sexual gratification in being able to make a mess of one’s partner. To see a geyser of hot cum hit a man in the lower torso and stream down his balls is an intensely intimate and dirty experience. And the best sex always consists of a combination of these two qualities.

However aspiring to female ejaculation and achieving it are two different things. Female ejaculation is a curious phenomenon, a bit like the Loch Ness monster or that six-pack under your belly – you’ve read about it, you know it’s there and you can spend your lifetime trying but somehow you can’t quite persuade it to come out of hiding. Then one day when you least expect it, either if you’re very very lucky or very very well-behaved, it rears its head and you’re hooked.

To embrace one's inner Niagra, you first need to understand the fundamental science behind it. Female ejaculation is caused by the swelling and secretions of the urethral glands, usually during / after prolonged stimulation of the g-spot and the clitoris. The orgasms that accompany ejaculation are usually deeper and more intense because the contractions originate around the uterus, as opposed to clitoral orgasms that originate only around the pelvis.

In my experience, the best positions for hitting the g-spot jackpot and thus maximizing your chances of gushing are: doggy-style fucking, fucking with your legs help up above your head, anal penetration or dedicated manual motivation (a la fingers AND a helpful tongue on the clit). It goes without saying that sometimes, a little patience is in order and time and effort go a long way.

And if ejaculation is the Holy Grail, then one's cum-juice must be the elixir. The first night I tasted myself I was slightly salty. The next night I was sweet. The flavour of female ejaculate like all cum, depends on a woman’s time of the month, the number of prior ejaculations she’s had and how many chocolate truffles she’s eaten with dinner. It does not possess the musky, syrupy qualities of male semen. Rather, it is more akin to champagne – a burst of lightly acrid bubbly on the tongue.

There is much debate about the nature of the liquid expelled during orgasm. Female ejaculate is a clear, odorless, alkaline fluid. However seeing that it emerges from the urethra, it can sometimes contain traces of urine but there is no way to discern the exact proportions (it can vary even within a single sex session) without taking one’s soggy bedding to the medical lab. And to be honest, we all have better things to do with our time – like working on releasing that next 5cc cupful.

Besides, what's a little bit of pee between friends. There's probably more of it in a handful of bar-snacks than there is in a cupful of cum.

Now I hope you’ve enjoyed this wet and wonderful post as much as I have. If you want more information on the topic, please read more here (this one has pictures) and here. And of course, anecdotal evidence rates highly on this blog so let me know if you have any wet stories of your own to share.

I would say the only drawback to female ejaculation is that it really raises the bar in terms of what I expect from my own body in bed. This of course, translates to how I evaluate the skills of the men I shag. The poor things – as if trying to impress me in the sack wasn’t difficult enough.

Multiple orgasms, bah! Somebody tell them multiple ejaculations already.

And for all of you who think I’m going ‘soft’ or becoming boring or riding off into the sunset of coupley-bliss, please you are invited to steal my mobile phone and watch the aforementioned video. For educational purposes of course. You can be sure I’ll be demanding a generous cut from all bootlegged copies.

Too much Whiskey & Champagne...

...do not a turgid cock make. But is the modern self-serving woman really complaining? Not really. I had one of my best nights of sex recently with Felix, who had consumed both of the abovementioned beverages in reasonably significant quantities.

Felix and I have a running joke called "Truffle Night", which usually takes place on Thursday. Because that was the day he initially invited me over to his house on the ostensible reason of helping him consume his stash of Godiva truffles, washed down with ample amounts of champagne albeit. And we've just made a habit of it. Now he sends me text messages with the words "Truffle" or "Thursday" in them and instantly I perk up.

However this being Hong Kong, Felix and I have friends in common and we bump into each other at all the usual public entertainment venues. In these instances, we are friendly but leave the other enough breathing room to pursue fresh game as necessary. Such are the joys of a good fuckbuddy. It is an enjoyable arrangement.

It is on one of these so-called unscheduled nights - a Friday I believe - that I see Felix and instantly as he approaches to greet me, I know he wants me. Or maybe I want him. I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it is the unhurried assessment we give each other the once-over from head to foot (although for him it is more accurately described as foot to chest). Or maybe it is the teasing way he whispers in my ear. Or the way I let him "accidentally" discover I am not wearing any underwear.

Whatever it is, at some point of the night he leads me to a remote area of the club and starts playing with my clit under my skirt. By the time we are in a cab, we are busily thrusting against each other and he gives the driver an extra tip for being so "quiet and discreet" about the frenzied punishment being borne by his back seat. There is no question that Felix is incredibly turned on by the time we get back and I am ripping his clothes off (we find out the day after that half his shirt and belt are caught in his front door) busily sucking, kissing and licking.

Except that he has a raging non-erection. We speculate that someone might have put a pill in his drink. Or perhaps he is suffering from post-marathon fatigue. Or simply - and most likely - we have drunk too much whiskey and champagne. This is the first time his member has been so strangely uncooperative but undeterred, he flips me over and says the magic words, "its your night tonight - just let me please you".

Now boys, if there is any surefire way to make a girl your eternal love-slave say those words and really mean them. (She will thank you kindly the morning after - regardless of whether she is a morning person or not - and for as many successive mornings as you two deem necessary to work off any endorphin deficiencies.) It makes such a difference from just humping her like a piece of plywood and then slumping over her semi-consciously slurring, "God, I'm so drunk".

Oh sure I feel sorry that he didn't have a hard-on and wasn't going to be able to fuck me (not immediately anyway). There, there baby. And then as with all these little setbacks in life, I recover. I know, what resilience.

It feels great to be liberated from the preoccupation with the male erection and orgasm once in a while. It is ridiculous how much we pander to it and measure our success in the sack by it. Me included (but this isn't due to any insidious socio-anthropological gender conditioning I swear, I just love cock). It dictates the rhythm and tempo - and indeed, the start and finish - of the majority of sexual interactions between men and women. Such that, an erection is taken as an unspoken cue to start having sex. And consequent ejaculation means time to dim the lights and ask for that extra toothbruszzz...zzzz.

But true to his word, Felix was on fire that night. I showed him exactly how to nibble at my nipples with his teeth, how to stroke my g-spot with his fingers, how to flick my clit with his tongue. I never had more of an apt or willing pupil. He got so good he could get me worked up to a gasping-tear-at-the-sheets orgasm within 2 minutes.

And all the time he keeps his eyes open. Again maybe because he doesn't felt the need to hold back his orgasm (read: close his eyes and think of granny). Nor is he at all fussed with reaching his own climax (read: close his eyes and grunt with effort). We would kiss, fingers would stray, tongues would quest, and all the while, his blue eyes would drink me all in. He would watch me orgasm and lose control. And as my own eyes slowly opened and I came slowly back to earth, his chin would be propped up against the side of my thigh, and he would be watching and smiling. It was sexy as hell.

I would turn the spotlight back onto him. I know he is extremely aroused, but a non-erection is a different kettle of fish. It needs to be handled delicately. Indeed, almost deferentially. I put a glob of cold lube on my fingers and spread it over him, gently pulling back his foreskin. Slowly, sensuously, my lips lock up and down his shaft. I find it is also a good opportunity to lavish attention on his other erogeneous male parts, the underside of his balls. The rim of his arse. In the absence of an erection, he has grown extremely sensitive to me touching him. Its like being with a virgin. The feel of my teeth against his nipples sends him into shivers. When I gently ring my fingers round his cock, it drives him crazy.

And then he makes me lie back and decides to kiss and lick every single inch of me. "Like the way when we first learned how to make love." He is unbelievably gentle and takes his time with me ("lie back, you don't have to do anything") such that it becomes a complete torment. My toes start to tingle and soon enough my whole body has turned into a writhing erogeneous zone, I beg for release. He indulges me, and I surrender in a gush of desire, such that my juice drips down his chin and onto the sheets. "I love the way you taste," he says and licks his lips.

We play like that for hours. Perhaps because there is no full-on penetration, we don't get tired. There is no beginning or end. The hours merge crazily into each other until we realise the sun is rising and we laugh. One of us reluctantly checks the time. It has been almost 5 hours. I am so tired after cumming for the upteenth time, I am beginning to just lie there hoping for the curtains to fall but of course, we find we both can't sleep.

So I make him lie down facing me and stroke his hair with regular motions as one would do a restless child until I hear his breathing steady and deepen. I listen to him breathe for a good period of time and then some time later kiss him slowly to rouse him. At this point, his cock also emerges from its inebriated slumber (thank God for the humble but trusty 'morning glory'). And the rest of the story is quite predictable really. ;)

In Recovery

I love the feeling of being well and truly fucked – the state of being utterly sated and of absolute no use to anyone. It’s better than chocolate. It’s better than a new pair of Balenciaga shoes. Hell, maybe even a few pairs of Balenciaga shoes.

The thing is, nowadays sex is everywhere. Everyone’s talking about it from desperate housewives to professional relationship gurus; and everyone’s doing it from your baby sister to baby boomers on Viagra. It’s all very fashionable to be self-actualised about one’s sexual habits. And the ease and availability of getting laid in the 21st century has almost made sex into a non-event. (Unless of course one accidentally falls in love, but that gives rise to a whole host of other problems.)

I have nothing against the commodisation of sex – in fact I think it can only make the world a friendlier place – but it only serves to underscore the fact that real quality shags are hard to come by. And I’m not talking about attempting a few variations on the usual cock-pussy routine either. Anyone with a reasonable imagination and access to decent Internet erotica can shag like that.

No, I’m talking crazy, earth-shaking, spine-tingling, no-holds-barred quality fucking. As I had yesterday evening. And then again late last night. And early this morning as well.

I came so many times I lost count. Bone-shaking, mind-numbing orgasms that made me gush and squirt copious amounts of pussy juice onto the sheets. Orgasms that made me bite down hard on the fingers that were forced against my teeth to contain my moans. Orgasms that drew blood as I dug my nails into the nearest available expanse of male flesh.

“You’re going to wake the whole hotel baby,” he whispered huskily as he tugged my head back with a fistful of hair.

“So? Why don’t you stop talking and show me how a real man fucks pussy?” I taunted him, my voice part-moan part- growl.

We fought each other like wild cats. Him on top, me on top. Me hanging off the bed with no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist while he drove his cock home at a relentless pace. Him at the verge of coming with my finger at his prostrate and my mouth at his cock, begging me to stop. And when he did come, it was with enough force to hit the opposite side of the bed.

His cock stayed hard for a long time even as we lay there panting, completely spent. Our bodies pouring with sweat and our limbs interlocked, his fingers gently traced patterns up and down my calves. We said nothing, just faded in and out of consciousness as our bodies stopped quivering and our heartbeats steadied. His snores woke me up some time later and I crept to the bathroom to clean up.

I looked around. We had fucked all over our boutique Philippe Starck hotel room and it showed. Mojitos half-spilt on the carpet, stained sheets pulled off the bed, articles of clothing and condom wrappers strewn willy-nilly, magazines in the sink, cutlery on the floor. I liked the room better that way. Not so showy. Not so severe. I’m sorry, Mr Starck, but a perfectly space-maximised room just isn’t conducive to fucking like animals.

When I got home last night I slept for 12 hours straight. And then woke up today, inhaled a three-course lunch and a 500ml bottle of cranberry juice before starting to write this.

As I sit here in a crowded coffeeshop sluggishly stringing sentences together on my laptop, no one around me can tell that my inner thighs still ache from being held almost 180 degrees apart a day ago. Or that my body feels taut under my dress like its undergone traction (not too far from the truth really). Or that my knees can’t quite support my body weight with confidence.

I half-smile to myself as I shift in my seat. I can still feel the rawness of my pussy from being fucked dry and then wet again. And the tenderness of my ass from having melted ice-cubes put inside it. It would only take one careful look from a curious passer-by to spot the knots in my hair that even the most vigorous brushing couldn't defeat. And the bruises down my thighs and tell-tale marks on my back that will take days to fade.

But for now, I am too lost in my post-coital wonderland to care. I’ll mourn the moment when my body recovers and I have to resume the search for the proverbial needle in the haystack of plain vanilla sex.

Presently, I can’t contemplate contacting the assortment of overeager namby-pamby boys I’ve collected in Hong Kong who come too quickly and shag too meaningfully ever again. That's the thing with too much quality, it really spoils the market. And in this case, my shag diary for the rest of the month. Ouch.

But if anyone knows of a better way to balance quantity with quality (without offering me a CV of their bedroom abilities or eponymously labelled pictures of their cocks), let me know. Alas, my freshly-fucked bruises won't last forever.