Not anti-nationalism propoganda, but...

What is it about Singaporeans, that we're so bloody obsessed with politically correct? We must be civil, we must be decent, we mustn't stray from the cleanly-sanitised safe track. And heaven forbid we ever get found out, otherwise... what would people think!

I do believe Chris has never unveiled this side of himself to anyone before. That's the privilege I get from being his dirty litle secret, and I take pleasure in claiming credit for leading him to come undone (slightly at least) from the carefully constructed persona he's built as the reigning goldenboy of the court whom everyone commends as an affable, super decent chap. Good family, flawless credentials and those looks to boot..
The quintessential local dreamboat whom the girls-next-door clamour over to bring home to mummy and daddy, who in turn take one look at him and start planning wedding preperations.

I however, simply challenge him in how he looks at himself. For every time he walks out of my place, his pristine reputation has suffered yet another stain. And my, how he does enjoy being stained...

His requests can be tangibly urgent, at times almost as if he's ashamed of the very words he's saying but can't just control himself from uttering them. And the explicit things he texts late at night are far raunchier than my subtle daytime sms teasings.

I indulged him by tying him up last night. I had already intended to do it at a slightly later date, but he wanted it there and then.

"Put it on me" he urged after I'd brought him to the brink and back, jumping the gun.

"No.", I smiled sweetly.

"See, the thing about tying you up is that I get to do whatever I want to, and I'm not done with you yet." I informed him, smacking his ass and returning to my administration. "Your cock and I are still getting to know each other, so don't interrupt."

I don't even think he's the type who enjoys licking, but no matter. He did a fairly good job of it, straining up to lap at me as his hands remained bound to the bedpost above his head. I even regretted their immobility as I slipped my own finger into myself while he did it.

Halfway through riding him, he managed to free himself and sat up, pounding me with a vengeance. He didn't come even after I did, and I was suitably impressed. I think that as he and I get slightly more accustomed to each other's presence and physical reactions, we also tend to move more in sync, which is great.

Another of life's great pleasures is witnessing a man's pure, uninhibited moment of orgasm. With Chris, he starts moaning with more and more urgency, and cries out just before his release. "Oh god, oh god!", to be specific.

It's charming. I love a man who's vocal.

I wonder if he made it out of bed in time this morning to see the wholesome family friends of his he's supposed to visit. The ones who aren't aware that he goes out drinking, let alone home with someone he's not even anywhere close to dating.

And I wonder too, whether he's grinning to himself in the knowledge of why he looks so tired, or just caught up in making sure no-one sniffs the smell of guilty pleasure still seeping from his pores.

I know that all men are capable of neatly compartmentalising the different facets of their personality... but once you've tasted the exquisite sweetness of the forbidden fruit, you might grow tired of plain vanilla after that right?

So having planted the seeds of deviance off from his straight and narrow path, will they ever blossom into a nice sinful apple tree in the middle of the perfect garden of his soul in the future? I'd hate to think that after we're through, he'll renounce this bad behaviour and simply return to a sedate, government-approved existence of marrying a nice sweet girl and having 2.4 president's scholar children.

One can only hope.

Red is my favourite colour

The year of the dog is upon us, and its my convenient excuse for feeling like a bitch in heat.

With so much of the colour red all around the house at this point in time, (my 2 flat-mates take CNY very seriously) it's evoked my imaginary, inner Asian-sex-goddess. The one who teases you from behind the billowy drapes of sheer fabric on her four-poster rosewood bed in nothing but a scarlet slip held together by ribbons.

And so to celebrate her, since my wardrobe consists largely of black and I'd sooner choke on a pineapple tart than be seen in public during cny in any form of red clothing, (other than maybe a garter belt) I'd painted my nails the colour of blood. Any brighter and it would border on tarty pornstar.

This of course, is after my last tryst with Chris. I'd applied a similar shade to my lips, (trusty Chanel, which smudges like crazy) to leave a distinct trail of where they'd been on him. By the time we were done, I'd drawn a virtual roadmap of his body's erogenous zones.

Perhaps its the underlying homo-erotica factor coming into play, but I find it rather arousing to see a man with obvious lipstick smears over his mouth from kissing.

Now picture said man covered in similar, hickey-like lovestains and you've got a real piece of artistic expression.

Basking in afterglow, I'd sat back to admire my handywork: Chris, lying on his back looking at me slightly dazed, his naked body still glistening with sweat and an explosion of cum on his belly, with delicious red lipstick stains everywhere from his face and the pulse point behind his ears, down to his throat where the collarbones meet, to his chest and nipples, the sides of his ribcage just under the armpit, in and out of his navel and down to his crotch where the thighs meet the groin.

I should have taken a picture, but I doubt he'd have let me anyway.

In the meantime, I've nothing but my short scarlet talons (and toenails) to remind me of the experience. I look at my nails and instead of just a manicure, my mind sees the same hand with its brightly painted tips, wrapped around a certain erected body part, while its owner's tiny, involuntary shudders coincided with the flickers of my tongue.

The nails are starting to chip slightly, but I think I'll keep the colour on till the end of the festivities..

Slowly, slowly

Chris was supposed to come over for some fun last night, for what better way to start the long weekend break and all. But he's still on unfamilliar ground with me, and treading quite carefully.

At 3 a.m he sent me a text asking where I was, then another to check if I was awake, followed by one more enquiring what I was doing, and a last one finally asking if I still wanted him to come over.

All this even though I was the one who'd invited him over in the first place, hours earlier.

Then after another twenty minutes he kindly informed me that he'd had a bit too much to drink, and was afraid he wouldn't be of much good. (I like to think it was considerate of him.) By then I was thouroughly exasperated and quite happy to just roll over and fall asleep.

Instead I asked him to call me and log on.

"So, do you like the totally-bare-down-there look?" I purred.

"Yea, I prefer it clean shaven. It's sexier." He responded.

I'd taken off my bra while he watched me online.

"Don't you think you should remove the other thing you're wearing too?" He promted.

"You mean my thong?"

"Yea. Take it off."

"Ask me nicely." I commanded.

"Take off your thong.. please?"

I slipped it slowly over my thighs and off my knees and dangled it in front of the camera.

"Happy now?"

"Very. Now spread your legs, I wanna watch you touch yourself."

I slid my hand down and obliged. I could hear his breaths getting shallow.

"Guess what I'm doing right now." He offered, as if I couldn't tell.

"My guess is that you've taken off your boxers and you're touching yourself while you watch me." I whispered, between soft sighs.

I was right, of course.

"..You're really good at using your mouth. I had to stop you the last time cos I almost came." he admitted sweetly.

"Why, thanks. I really like to do it to you too, cos I can hear how much you like it as well. And I love being appreciated."

"Tell you what, you can shave me while we do it in the bathroom next time."

I feel touched that he trusts me enough to literally put himself in my hands while I wield a blade close to his skin.

And so thats a plan. Unfortunately, Chinese New Year is cluttered up with family and social activities galore, so I won't be seeing him just yet.

In the meantime, I wonder whether my Schick Silk Effects ladies shaver is going to be effective on all of his contours, seeing how it was probably designed specifically for use on legs, and whether I should replace the blade with a brand new one. I don't want to be nicking him by accident!

I don't suppose you'll have any suggestions?

Open letter

Why are you so insecure about me fooling around behind your back? I really don't understand. Are we not after all what one would call, simply a casual affair?

You don't care for me that way anyway. Why should it matter who I see and what I do when I'm not in your company. More importantly, why do you continually insinuate that I've other lovers?

Could it be that you are insecure of yourself, or that you cannot bring yourself to believe the situation between us? Because it cannot possibly be that you're being possessive, much as my ego would love to believe. That simply has no basis.

I may have a weakness for your face, and your body. And I may have given you my intimate access rather too soon than is probably deemed appropriate, but I am the sort who acts as long as it feels right, and on the contrary, I do not give myself freely.

Sometimes, it just really is that simple: I like what I see, and I know what I want. And that's you, in my bed.

No complications, not many expectations, just a want.

One would think that a man in his prime would have no problems with this, but it seems that you do. I'm aware we practically live on different planes, but some things transcend culture, and our little situation is one of them.

I would go as far as to suggest that you look deeper within yourself, and stop subliminally pointing the finger at me as the eye of your storm, your social and moral undoing. I only bring out what's already inside of you, the side you probably prefer to pretend didn't exist.

The only real difference between us is that I embrace what you don't wish to acknowledge: our basic human nature, and the law of attraction. I find no need to cloak it with any pretext of dating. Of course, I would be happy to have your companionship now and then for casual activities. But so far, neither of us have felt any form of compatibility outside of the bedroom, and you haven't given me the impression of wanting to start, so I haven't bothered either.

It offends me that you keep fishing to know if I've been with anyone else since we began, even though I have. For the truth of the matter is that you're the only one I'm really lusting for. For all I know you've been seeing other girls as well, not that I care. But I have a feeling you probably haven't, or you wouldn't be quite as neurotic as this.

It doesn't matter though. I forgive you all of it. I still want to see you, and do the things we do. I still want to familiarise myself with your body until I can feel it in my mind, I want to hear the moans escape your lips as I run my tongue along every inch of your skin. I want your scent on my pillowcase, taunting me with the memory of you even after you've left it.

I want so much, and I promise I'll make it worth every second of your time.

I know you want it too, and I'm right here waiting...

One of few exceptions

She doesn't flinch when my arm accidentally brushes her chest when I reach for something, and she holds me oh so tenderly while we're standing still.

We wrap our arms round each other's waists, kiss each other absent mindedly on the cheek as we talk, she's felt me up on the dancefloor before, and we've taken long, languid baths in the nude.

I watch her beautiful, lush lashes fan up and down as she speaks, her mind so lost in thought.. and marvel at her porcelain skin, brushing the occasional wisp of fallen hair off her cheek. She's so luminous and yet oblivious to the stares from people as we walk past them. People say the same of me from time to time, but with her I see it clearly and I feel ridiculously protective.

The lines between friendship and love are so blurry sometimes.

It feels like the most natural thing to do, to lean over and taste those sweet lips, and I'm almost surprised I've never done it so far. I'm certain it would feel right to make love to each other, and it would be unlike anything as we know it. Women's kisses always feel slightly more erotic anyway, perhaps because their lips are far more delicate, their touch more sensitive.

But I don't think she could handle that. Not yet, anyway. And I wonder: if she knew my true predatory nature, would she still love me as unconditionally? Or might she be flattered and nonchalant?

Either way, my ignorance is her bliss. I know I'd only want a mere extension of what we have now, and not the real thing. So this way everyone's happy I guess, and we'll never have to hurt each other the way people inevitably do once they dare to take the risk.

I know one day we'll kiss... And when that day arrives, it will be a little gift from heaven.

Pour some sugar on me

I know I'll likely get crucified for this one, but recently I've been toying with the notion that goes somewhere along the lines of "wouldn't be great to have a sugar daddy?"

*Could that scrambling sound I hear actually be mud being scooped up for eager slinging..?*

Of course, this has everything to do with the fact that I spent the evening shopping with Celestia.

"someday", I sighed, "I'll mozy into Cartier, lean over the glass, point languidly and purr, 'I'll have that one'."

It could happen.

But considering I'm still eligible for neither a credit card nor income tax, it may not happen quite as soon as I'd like to hope for.

Enter: the sugar daddy idea.

As we trawled the upper storeys of the mall looking at the Celine's and Jimmy Choo's of our dreams, it dawned on me that perhaps I've overlooked one of the most obvious solutions to my shopping inadequacies.

After all, I won't enjoy the privilege of youth forever, nor the physical luxuries that come with it. Not to mention the fact that I do a mean girlish giggle, among other things.. Why, as it is I quite happily slip on my garters and thigh-highs upon request, imagine how much more pleasurable an experience it would be if there were money involved? I love one as much as the other, may as well kill two birds!

Immediately my brain started going down a list of potential benefactors. As my brow started to knot from imagining what they might possibly look like naked, she interrupted with the question: "But could you sleep with a fifty year old?"

Well Richard Gere is around there, isn't he..

Anyway, we came up with some imaginary groundrules: He'd have to be no more than twenty years older, with a body that hasn't gone south yet, and he'd have to be someone whose company we actually enjoyed.

But wait, wouldn't we run the risk of being seen out with our uh, uncle, by people just waiting to connect the dots between him and our swish new Chanel outfits? This is Singapore, after all. You can only walk around Orchard Road so many times before you start bumping into your colleague's friend's brother's girlfriend.

Then she started telling me about how she'd met a man in New York who'd offered a private, all-expense paid extension on her vacation. And then it clicked: What the hell am I still doing here when I could be meeting the sugardaddy of my dreams in another country where no-one would give a damn, and I'd enjoy the status of being tres-exotique as well?

~~~

"Oh yes, I'd love another glass of Verve as we sit here sunning naked here on beautiful Mykonos island, ma cherie!"

(Viagra would have to be the name of the pomeranian he'd buy me to carry around everywhere.)

~~~

And for that matter it suddenly it doesn't seem so impossible that I'll win the big sweep either... Sigh.

Damnit Celestia! Next time we go shopping we're sticking to Far East Plaza, okay?

stumbling into intimacy amidst civilised coldness

I've always fantasized about having sex with a stranger. Cliched, I know, but thrilling as hell nonetheless. I suppose I came close enough when I had my first one night stand:

We'd locked eyes at a function and felt an immediate bolt of attraction. Within an hour we were leaving together and I suppose we both instinctively knew how the evening would end. We probably talked for a collective total of 30 minutes in the four hours we spent partying, what about exactly I can't really recall.

The second my bedroom door clicked shut we were going at it in a frenzy. Arms around his neck, his hot tongue kissing me deep, fingers fumbling shirt buttons open as he leaned down over me on the bed.

"wow, you've got condoms" he remarked. It told me it was his first time impromtu as well. How apt.

I didn't bother switching on the lamp, and I don't remember passing out eventually.

What I do recall was the incredible thrill of having him in my home, in my bed with me, breath heavy and bodies heaving so soon after we'd met. An instant, primal connection between two people on earth.

I remember clambering onto him, riding his cock, and him sitting up to plunge his tongue back into my willing mouth, him bending down to suck on my nipples while my body rocked with orgasm. I remember falling back, limp, and him pushing me down, lifting my legs and flipping me over.

He fucked me from behind and then the naughty fellow tried to put it in my ass. I considered it for a moment but it started to hurt past a certain point, and I pleaded softly for him to stop.

I remember he put it back where it was supposed to go, and I think he finished off there before we both fell asleep.

~~~

I haven't seen him since, and I don't think it's likely that we'll meet again. But I remember the fleeting rush of ecstasy like it was yesterday: the pure, raw, satiation of need, and I can't help wanting it again.

But I want the experience sober for a change, which is much trickier to pull off without the excuse of inebriation, as I'm not as comfortable being that direct yet. But that would most definately bring the flow of events to a whole new level of unfamiliarity, and if and when that ever happens, then I'll really have brought my fantasy to life.

Size is so overrated

It really is. Especially when it's four in the morning and he's pounding away from behind.

Wang is capable of injuring me with enthusiasm, given the length and depth of his member. At 6.5" and measuring the same in width, it may not technically sound gigantic, but I am a girl of petite proportions.

Down there at least.

I had brought him home out of sheer drunken nostalgia. And regretted it the instant he flopped onto the bed. You know how it always seems like a good idea when the music is playing and the lights are low, and then in the peace and quiet of your own home you realise you've made a big mistake because the sexual buzz has died and all you would really like is some sleep? Unfortunately the words "maybe we should take a raincheck" failed to come out of mouth, and I suspect his expectance had everything to do with it.

Wang is always intent on two things: having his monster as far down my throat as is humanly possible for as long as he can get away with, (which is usually not something i enjoy, given the fact that my oral cavity is not anything near 6.5" long and my jaw muscles start to ache after the first minute) and his dream of one day sticking the damned thing up my ass. I shudder to think of the potential injury that would entail, given that the god-intended orifice has problems as it is acomodating him.

I refused both, adamantly half-passed out with my eyes barely open. He's always been the sort who can easily entertain himself, and my non-participation didn't stop him from diving into my newly waxed pussy with gusto.

By the time he flipped me over i was feeling raw. He'd thoughtfully gotten up and located my tube of lubricant after some rummaging through drawers, but that more enabled me to be able to get up and walk this morning than lessen the sting. Besides, that position gives him furthest access to my cervix, which can actually feel getting pounded.

Getting fucked by him sometimes feels like my cunt has just taken a beating, even when I'm not tired and having second thoughts about my actions. On the rare occasion we go for seconds, I have to stay lying down for a good fifteen minutes while I recover.

So tell me. What is it some women go on about when they wax lyrical about the bigger, the better? I'm perfectly happy with the average chinese male's proportions of about 5 inches, give or take, and something just wide enough for me to wrap my mouth over without straining my muscles. It's practical too, just think of all the future wrinkle lines I'm preventing.

Of course, I write this somewhat bitterly. It wasn't Wang's cock I was craving last night, it was Chris's. His is big enough to get me off, with skin so smooth and silky I could literally savour it for hours if he'd let me, with a very slight curve to the side that I find quaint but suspect he might be rather conscious of. But the boy is ignoring me, it would seem.

So I still have to spend my night feeling dejected, because cock is just not a commodity that can be happily replaced.