He only needed the long fingers of one hand to spread her buttocks; Mi-chan was always crazy for anal sex. And her sexual hunger was so great these days, in the second trimester, as the hormones heated her skin and turned it to velvet, thickened her hair, and engorged her nipples and the tender membranes between her legs.
As usual, Eduardo paused for a moment to enjoy an intimate look at the woman he was about to take.
And was startled to see something sparkle between his wife’s buttocks.
He was puzzled for only a few moments.
Pushing his nose and mouth deep between her cheeks, Eduardo prickled and grazed her briefly with his stubble as he worked his teeth around the edges of the small round diamond and platinum stud covering her sphincter.
He tugged gently with his mouth, drawing out a small platinum plug so slowly with his teeth that Ayumi’s knees trembled; his hand had moved to the front of her crotch and was very busy there.
Rising to his feet, Eduardo held his wife’s chin gently as she received the plug from his mouth, the contact between their lips making him so aroused that he left the jewellery between her teeth, braced his hand across her throat, and felt the vibrations of her moans through his fingers as he pushed his penis deep inside her back entrance.
No lubrication; he barely allowed her the time to adjust to his cock’s rude entry before he began to take her with long fast strokes, vaguely aware that the hem of her skirt was brushing against the base of his penis, increasing his pleasure. Eduardo knew that the sounds coming from her were a mixture of a bit of pain and a great deal of pleasure.
The arm around her waist shifted to her chest as the rhythm of his thrusts became quite fierce; Mi-chan was having to rise on tiptoe now with every stroke. The fingers he was keeping between her legs were signalling to him that she was shivering on the verge of a very nice orgasm.
Biting his wife’s shoulder hard enough to make her yelp once as she squirmed against that big cock in her butt and began to come, Eduardo swung his hips firmly upwards twice, thrusting roughly between her cheeks as he spurted inside her with such force that he began to feel a slow trickle of himself ooze out between her tightly-stretched muscles and his shaft.
Panting, Eduardo stopped thrusting so that he could enjoy the sensation of his cock throbbing inside her as it softened; both husband and wife could feel the baby kicking. He kissed Mi-chan and thanked her for the nice welcome home.
They had at least one free hour to themselves before they had to dress for the next meryenda at the mango wood table on the patio. His heart pounding as if he had just completed a fierce and aggressive session of kendo with his Japanese business partner, Eduardo fondled his wife’s breasts and listened to the white cockatoos quarrelling and making love outside the finely carved ventanillas of the room which was home to both him and Mi-chan during his honeymoon in Cebu. He felt very contented.
Night at Passion Touch
I open the door of my flat and step into my living room. It suddenly looks small and depressing. And lifeless. In this little slot in the sky, I am nothing more than a claustrophobic pigeon. Depression rules me within these four walls, which seem to be inching closer day by day like a sinister army, a tightening noose. My tiny apartment is known by the number 15–75, which fills me with a deep longing for homes that had names, religions, moods, ghosts, personalities, attitude … Here the walls creep in, the furniture grows, the air rots and silence splits my head slooowly. My block is a giant filing cabinet. Of people filed away to be forgotten.
In the last few months after my estranged wife Nisha had got this job she would be travelling often, leaving me within these carnivorous walls to get hypnotised by the TV. Not that Nisha was great company; our home had become an art-house movie in the recent months, with monosyllables hanging in the air like the Sumatran haze. But she was a presence nevertheless. She was a scent, a grunt, a flash of colour, a shuffle of feet, a word, an incomplete line … We spoke through Post-it Notes on the fridge.
When the TV became unbearable I got drawn into the Internet. Like God, I had 108 names in the many chat rooms I stalked. Like God, I could become male, female, genderless. Like God, I felt powerful, omnipotent. But the topic was always the same. The people were always sick. And the world was such a fake. I soon got sick of it and wondered how anyone could be addicted to this cyber-madness.
Of course, there were the plus points of the Internet, like email and free pornography. But then again, my email account started receiving more and more spam than regular mails. Daily emails promised me fourteen inches of masculinity; all-I-can-eat Viagra; a thousand “sure-fire” ways to make money, lose weight, grow younger, get out of debt, etc. Even the pornography became boring. There are only so many ways the human anatomy can be arranged and juxtaposed. To me, the Internet was just a shooting star.
So when the television and the Internet died their deaths in me, I started wandering after work, in order to avoid the frozen shadows of home as much as possible. I drove past the seedy underbelly of Singapore: places like Geylang, Desker, or Changi Village where the transsexuals were prettier and curvier than the female prostitutes. But that was as far as I could go with those night creatures.
But the massage parlours, “health centres” as they were euphemistically called, were a different thing altogether. Since most of them were located in shopping malls, they bore a facade of respectability. My first such “healthy” experience was in a massage centre in the fourth floor of a shopping mall off Orchard Road. For almost a week, I had been loitering around the mall mustering up the courage to open that door of Passion Touch Health Centre.
On that night I had downed two pegs of whiskey at a nearby pub, so I had some courage flowing fast through my veins.
After spending twenty long minutes gazing at the lingerie on a mannequin in a boutique next to the health centre and getting some dirty looks from the boutique’s salesgirl in the process, I held my breath and turned the door knob of Passion Touch. The opening of the door immediately set off some kind of chime that startled me for a moment and made me want to run away. The brightly lit lobby, though small, was, to my surprise, quite plush and even pleasant. I had expected a dark and dingy place with women hanging in the shadows, smouldering cigarettes between their lips.
The cheerful old lady behind the reception desk was watching a Channel 8 Chinese drama from a small wall-mounted TV beside the door. She looked at me and gave me a very bright, “Hallowelcome.” She opened a register and asked me to write my name and identity card number. I hesitated for a moment, feeling suspicious as to whether this was some kind of a blackmail racket. “No worry, lah,” the lady said, slapping my arm. “You so malu, hor.
Everyone write, see. You go any health centre, also write.” She flipped the pages to show me lines and lines of scribbles, most of them unintelligible.
I scribbled “D. Nair,” and for my IC number, I jumbled up three digits.
Thankfully, she didn’t bother to ask for my identity card.
“You first time, haah?” She gave me a motherly smile.
“First time in Singapore,” I said proudly, pushing out my chest and placing my arms on my hips. “I go London, Paris, New York, Bangkok.
Everywhere I go massage,” I said, looking at her over the tip of my nose.
“You tourist, haah?”
I nodded impatiently.
“So how come you have IC number?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.