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.

The First Threesome

I don’t mean to be a tease but I’ve been ridiculously busy at work which has (very sadly) eaten way into my writing time. This looks set to continue for at least another week or so but please bear with me. I have not abandoned you. Normal posting frequencies will resume when the sun breaks through the clouds.

Here’s a backdated entry to tide you over for now.

So I lost my threesome virginity. I can eat pussy. I presently tip the scales at 35% bisexual (from my former 20 – 30%). I absolutely adore women, in fact now more so than before. And I’m beginning to think I could adopt threesomes as a lifestyle choice. More on that later.

The thing is, I promised to write about my first FFM threesome experience a very long time ago but I know I have been endlessly procrastinating and pussyfooting around the topic. So here is the reason, which I submit – quite humbly – to you, faithful readers:

My first threesome didn’t quite turn out to be the incendiary, inspiring orgiastic encounter of my lifetime. Actually, it was just ok. I know I know, bran cornflakes are just ok. Giordano jeans are just ok. 5 inch cocks are just ok.

But threesomes are frenzied, Sapphic, porn fantasies! Uncharted sexual territory! Twice the pussy, three times the fun! They aren’t supposed to be just ok.

Alas.

If I must be honest, I suppose I was partly to blame for the undistinguished turn of events. Because whilst I can navigate my way around a twosome with a blindfold and handcuffs on, threesomes as you can imagine, are a whole different ballgame. And my lack of familiarity with the dynamic meant that I became quite passive and hesitant in bed; all very uncharacteristic for me.

But let me tell you the entire story in all its pedestrian glory, from start to finish, since you have waited so long for it.

It begins with a bright Sunday afternoon. And that should already be reasonably telling with regards to the context that it occurred. Lesson #1 my friends, first-time threesomes are best conducted in the wee hours of the morning of a Friday or Saturday, when everyone is sufficiently – but not overly – intoxicated and lubed up after a night of merrymaking.

This is the Singaporean in me speaking– but Sunday afternoons are really best left for that dining tradition we call brunch.

Anyway back to the event, Sunday afternoon notwithstanding. I was in bed with Felix. Sunlight was streaming into the room from a crack in the curtains. I groggily estimated it was about noon and pulled the covers defiantly back over my head in an attempt to chase whatever dream I had been having.

I woke again to the sound of Felix groaning softly. I sat up. Taking in the huge sunken crescents under his eyes and the general pallor of his complexion, I scurried to the kitchen to get him some water and Panadol.

“Samantha just called, I asked her to come over,” he murmured through sleep-crusted eyes when I returned, his head propped up reluctantly on the pillow.

I met Samantha at a party a week ago, where under the influence of some substance or other, she blurted out, “I’m bisexual and I think I’m in love with you”. So much for subtlety, but it was endearing in a semi-Tourette’s kind of way. I fell for it. And Felix, who initially introduced us, was quick to suggest that we all meet up again – under much less civilized circumstances, of course.

I opened Felix’s main door and there she was. In a pair of grey sweats and white t-shirt pulled tight over a bikini top. Her rosebud lips were still pink, and her skin baby-smooth, but her usually sparkling eyes were dull.

“Big night last night?” I asked.

“Yea…dizzy all morning. But I’m better after seeing you honey,” she said. I wasn’t particularly convinced but I gave her a hug and let her in anyway. She headed straight to the bedroom without ceremony.

“Err, give me one minute.” I rushed to the bathroom and gave my pussy a quick wash, guessing (correctly) that Samantha would prefer the scent of Satin Breeze hand-soap to Felix’s stale cock.

On emerging from the bathroom, I saw that Felix and Samantha already lay entwined on the bed, kissing. I watched them for a while. My pussy throbbed every time Felix fed his tongue to her mouth and her eyes fluttered closed in pleasurable submission.

Her bikini top had been pushed aside to reveal a set of lightly-nippled, D-cup breasts. Perfectly-shaped, they hung and quivered like dewdrops on a leaf. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
I shifted awkwardly, waiting, like a girl at her first school dance, wanting to join in the fun but not quite sure how. Or where. Or with whom. As if sensing my hesitation, Felix gestured for me to help loosen the knot of Samantha’s pants.

I did so, relieved to be of use finally. I traced my hand over Samantha’s buttocks – they were as impertinently round as her breasts. She shifted her position ever so slightly so that the cleft in between her legs winked at me.

I stroked her there. A virgin’s touch. Tentative at first, but slowly more insistent. The texture of her shaved private skin felt furry as a peach might.

She turned over on all fours and opened to me. I could see the lightly pink petals of her inner labia beckoning to me, glistening with promise. She had a pussy like a Georgia o’ Keefe flower – completely symmetrical and delicately rouged.

I suddenly felt self-conscious of my own pussy and its irregularities. How one lip hung lower than the other, how the skin folded roughly at the sides and how its vulgar redness tended towards carmine at the fringes. If she was a Georgia o’ Keefe, I felt like a Jenna Jameson.

And God help me, I had a bad case of pussy envy.

But I didn’t let it stop me. I was on a mission to get acquainted, so I positioned myself in between her legs, my mouth so close to her opening that I could smell the vapours of her excitement. I felt myself flush, perhaps with anticipation but more likely, with mild panic.

Now was the time of reckoning. It was right there. Pussy perfection. And I was determined to chow down – whether she approved or not.

The first thing I noticed was the softness. It took me by surprise. There is something about the construction and composition of a cock – its brutal erectness, its leathery sheath – that prompts a certain amount of roughness or vigour in the manner which it is handled. Think strong suction, twisting grips, pumping rhythmic movements.

Samantha’s pussy on the other hand, was unbelievably yielding and supple. As she sat on me, I felt like she almost conformed to the contours of my face. I could have burrowed into that warm crevice and stayed there happily for a long time.

As I worshipped – with my tongue passing over her like a feather, I also defiled – with my finger dipping deep into her well. But I lacked technique. And I knew it.

I’d been taken to the heights of ecstasy by some champion pussy-eaters, men who have licked / flicked / lapped / tapped / hummed / nibbled / twisted / tugged / and executed quadruple-combinations of the above techniques on my vulva and clit at the same time. But I had never taken the time to pay proper attention to the mechanics of what was being done to me. (Multiple orgasms do tend to hinder general observation and analysis, after all.) I hadn’t read any books on the subject matter. Heck, the last time I’d even watched lesbian porn was in college. I felt inexperienced and woefully inadequate. I was a mess.

She didn’t cum. And I didn’t blame her. Nobody would have cum from the lolly-licking that had been so doggedly administered. Least of all me.

The alpha female in me was disappointed anyway. If nothing else, I have always prided myself on being reasonably skilful in the sack. And orgasms all round were taken for granted when I was with a man. (Even if I had to help myself.) Being with women though, was giving me performance anxiety. I had been so intent on eating pussy that I wasn’t particularly enjoying myself doing the things I normally did.

I turned my mouth round to shower some attention on Felix in a bid to console myself and soothe my rather-bruised ego. I relaxed as the familiar sensation of cock filled my mouth and nudged the back of my throat. It was strangely comforting – and I sucked on it contentedly like a baby with a pacifier. I realized in that instant that as much as I was attracted to women, I could never just have lesbian sex with a girl.

I would miss cock entirely too much.

Then it was Samantha’s turn to eat me out. She was just as gentle as I had been. And I didn’t detect any particular technique either. Had I set a bad precedent? Were women always this soft and tender with each other? Or was I just hard-wired for cock and nothing else? There were a hundred questions I wanted to ask.

All I knew was that whoever said women naturally and intuitively gave better head to other women better than men got it wrong. I had been lied to.

From my admittedly limited experience, girls treated other girls’ pussies with much more respect. That was a good thing but I quickly got bored of all the gentle licks and delicate fingering. I didn’t want to be treated roughly but I missed the rhythmic thrusts, well-placed nibbles and even occasional slap that usually accompanied a pussy-eating administered by a man.

Don’t forget, this is the birth canal we’re talking about here. The pussy is able to withstand, respond and appreciate much stronger pressures than most people think. Consideration and respect are nice to start off with, but to take it up a level, a pussy needs hearty stimulation, action and a certain amount of filth.

Mine did, anyway.

But before I could say anything, Felix moved to suck on my nipples. And for a few moments, I just lay there watching the top of their two heads, Felix’s dirty blond and Samantha’s jet-black, moving down my body, tasting and savouring every intimate inch of me. It felt like one big, extended session of foreplay.

I could get used to this.

How different it was from the MMF threesomes I had done. It made all that high-fiving, ambidextrous-wanking, double-penetrating and spunk-collecting look like such hard work.

My time with Felix and Samantha seemed more artistic than pornographic. Physically, she was my ideal – beautiful alabaster skin, curvy in all the right places whilst being toned and taut in others.

There was also a giggly girlishness to being in the same bed with her, like we were at a pyjama party with no pyjamas. We cooed and stroked and mutually admired each other’s breasts. I promised to bring her to get her pussy waxed after she marveled at the smoothness of mine. She wore the most beatific smile as we kissed and cuddled from the front whilst Felix fucked her from behind. And then later, we showered together and passed soap all over each other’s bodies.

Everything felt strangely chaste. All that was missing from our little tete-a-tete was some hot chocolate and ginger biscuits.

I wouldn’t say my first threesome sucked. But like losing one’s virginity, the whole experience was a little disappointing. Nobody came. And I didn’t know if it was my performance anxiety, Samantha’s boredom or Felix’s hangover, but at some point somebody wisely raised the suggestion of brunch. And we all immediately stopped what we were doing and headed for the bathrooms, stifling sighs of relief.

Still it was a rite of passage, and as a result, I have reached a new level of sexual understanding. So no turning back. Upward, onward, forward. Onto bigger and better groups err, things. I am sure the next few threesomes I do will be much more inspiring to write about. After all when it comes to sex, I am nothing but optimistic.

Three's a Crowd (But we love crowds...)

Before I left Singapore, I had just the sweetest threesome to remember our over-manicured Garden City by. Two Qantas stewards (one Italian – Paolo, one Maltese – Mario), too many drinks at Attica and lil’ ole me.

It started off innocently enough, as these things do, with me dirty-dancing with Paolo. Paolo fit the profile of the typical mid-40’s Italian – leather-tanned, slightly oily, shirt half-undone, abundant chest hair, mellifluous accent, oodles of enthusiasm but relatively harmless. I didn’t fancy him, and was quite relieved to have my ass groped by his younger, more well-built, suave friend Mario.

Mario and Paolo had been friends for 17 years and they had just gotten back from holidaying in Italy together. A few sweaty sandwiches on the dancefloor later, they were telling me the most entertaining stories about nude beaches (how to find them), family dinners (how to avoid them) and Italian women (how much unnecessary energy is required to bed them).

It was getting hot on the dancefloor and I pleaded for a drink. Mario led me to the bar, ordered us the perfunctory drinks and then proceeded to ravish the living daylights out of me. We must have taken quite a while because by the time Paolo came looking for us, my lips were flamingly swollen, my hair haphazardly kinked and a small bruise was beginning to form at the bottom of my neck.

“Paolo! You’re just in time to see what I’m doing to our beautiful friend here,” Mario said before breaking into a stream of fluent Italian, most of which I thought sounded highly complimentary. (But then I don’t speak Italian, so this is a highly unjustifiable opinion).

“Oh? Show me again. I want to see everry-ting,” Paolo said, wide-eyed. Mario proceeded to accede to the request, but not before I broke off halfway and eyed Paolo mischievously.

“You like to watch? This is only Chapter 1. There’s so much more that I could do your friend Mario over here. It could go on for hours. But you won’t be around to watch it all. This is only the first act. You might miss…(staged gasp) the climax.”

I cupped Paolo’s chin, and pushed a finger gently past his lips. He sucked on it greedily and I turn my head to bite Mario swiftly on the shoulder. “I think your friend likes me.” We both laughed and Mario dipped his head over the swell of my breast, lapping at it sensuously.

Paolo could hardly contain himself. “Oh show me…that’s right, tease me, tease me. I love to watch. Can I watch, please? You can tie me up so I can’t even touch myself. That way, it will be the ultimate tease. I’ll be good, I promise.”

I pretended to hesitate. “Weee-lll, I guess you can watch a little bit. If Mario is ok with it.” I turn to Mario and say in a loud whisper: “Maybe he can watch up till the part where you fuck me. Then he has to go back to his room”.

The whole scene was turning very B-movie but they seemed like the sort of men who were suckers for over-acting and a cheesy script. God bless Italians (and their neighbours).

“Paolo is like a brother to me. We’re family. Any other guy I wouldn’t be so sure. But Paolo – he gets the best. And you’re the best chick in this club, bella. So let’s all go back.” And with that affirmation, Mario got the bill and left the club.

Once we were all nicely ensconced in the Swissotel, Room 1309, Menudo and Paolo broke out more drinks while I took a shower. By the time I stepped out, they were both naked, knocking back vodka tonics and comfortably chatting. It felt like a big pyjama party (sans pajamas).

They then took a shower - together. Actually, it was rather refreshing to see two men so comfortable with their bodies and each other (even in the unlikely event of any soap-dropping). And that was what made the whole threesome absolutely enjoyable for me. There was no competition, no attempt at one-upmanship, just two men with two not unimpressive cocks, and one combined desire to please me.

We did start off by tying Paolo up with the string of the hotel bathrobe. He was just so happy to watch. But as these things go, it would have been churlish to deny him a little action. So I crawled on all fours over to him and put his cock in my mouth as I was fucked by Mario from behind. Every deep cock-thrust in my pussy was matched by the appropriate audible suck of my mouth.

There was great chemistry in the room – and at some point we couldn't deny Paolo the joy of participating. He so actively wanted to suck, and kiss, and lick every inch of me, even though I’m sure he would have been just as content as a bystander.

Really, a girl couldn't have asked for much more...

Well technically, she could. But three is such a good number in terms of what fits where at any one time, and who gives head to who, and who sucks on who whilst doing doggy, that personally I wouldn’t mess with the dynamic. I was surprised to see that they both kept their erections reasonably well. For some reason I just expected there to be a lot more cock flogging going on, but maybe I'm just woman enough for two men.

Any more than two would not be quite a turn-on. I don't find it horny to have numerous men line up patiently and flog their cocks desperately just waiting their turn to use me as a spunk-bag. We all know of Singaporeans who have launched famous careers in this fashion. But I am neither bored nor publicity-hungry enough to follow in those footsteps. (If I ever get into the Guinness Book of Records, it’ll be because I was the first woman who inhaled the longest length of string or painted the largest number of bullfrogs on a single canvas. Or something completely eccentric like that.)

Besides, threesomes should be fun, intimate and off-the-charts sensory experiences. There’s nothing desperately dirty or soul-destroying about them if everyone has the right attitude and does what they’re comfortable doing.

Occasionally, they can even feel quite uplifting and dare I say, life-affirming. After we were finished and Mario had shot a load full of cum on my face, we all laid back on the two queen beds, panting.

Paolo turned to Mario and said exultantly: “So we finally shared a woman! Tonight has sealed our 17 years of our friendship! And now no matter where we are in the world, we’ll always have our time in the Swissotel to remember. With the sexiest bella in Singapore. We’re going to talk about this one for a long time. Even when we are old and our dicks don’t work anymore.” Aww.

That old Italian penchant for hyperbole, of course. But still, I was strangely moved by that little speech. I gave them each a massage whilst they continued to regale me with little vignettes that began with “Remember the time we…” until finally we all fell asleep one by one.

And only then, did I discover the one, big drawback to sharing a room with two inebriated men whom you’ve just finished having a mindblowing threesome with – the Snoring. It was like an orchestra of the damned. Winds on the left, brass on the right, and cacophonic madness everywhere. I slipped out early the next morning with a note left at the bathroom mirror to escape from it all.

So got a threesome on the cards? Make sure you’re well prepared. Lose the inhibitions. Bring lots of condoms. And pack earplugs.