Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 2

CLEAN SEX Ricky Low, Singapore

Hey, Jeff, what’s the matter? Why don’t you just get a maid in here, clean things up, lah. You can afford it now, man!”

Oh, please. Whenever my friends—or wannabe friends—have suggested this, I have just sighed deeply, raised my eyebrows in a cynical arch, and slipped into my above-it-all smirk—a look that says, “You so don’t understand what it’s all about.” It’s a look I picked up while studying at Stanford. They’ve really perfected that dismissive look over there. I can’t claim that I’ve mastered it quite as well as they do it, but I’m not at all bad.

While studying over there, I also learned the importance of self-reliance.

For example, no real guy lets someone else do stupid household chores for him. Even when you get married, you work out a system, you share those duties. That’s what being a full, responsible adult in today’s world means: sharing all those stupid things that just have to be done. Having a maid is clearly a symptom of some weak strands in your moral fibre, as I have always lectured my lazy friends back here.

I’ve never told them the full story of why I feel so uneasy about having a maid. Some of it is that I am still embarrassed that my first erotic episodes involved the maid my family had when I was a boy. But there’s more to it than that.

Like all fairly comfortable Singapore families, my parents engaged a maid soon after I was born. Actually, they engaged a few maids, but it was the third one who stands out in my memory: Hazniya. She joined us when I was about nine. She was the most energetic of the maids and, if I remember correctly, the only one you could even charitably call attractive. Like the other two, she came from Indonesia, had an enticing coffee-with-light-cream complexion and truly captivating eyes. She also had a prodigious set of boobs, the kind that assured she would never need to worry about drowning.

I guess I was always attracted to Hazniya, though at first it was just that kind of little-boy, prepubescent crush. As innocent as a plate of overcooked oatmeal with pools of skim milk. The sex part didn’t seep in until I was about twelve. As is also typical of many middle-class Singapore families, Hazniya was often assigned the task of bathing me. I mean, like standing over me while I did a cursory job of swabbing myself in the tub, then telling me to stand up while she finished the job, making sure that I got all the “hard-to-reach” places.

Hazniya had been doing this from time to time, starting from when she first joined us, but one evening, when I was twelve, it all changed, changed utterly. I had already started thinking how really stupid it was having a maid bathe me at my age and was being sort of deliberately peevish as I washed myself down in the tub. Then Haz asked me sweetly to stand up, she wanted to see how I was doing. I groaned and made a face, of course, but that was the deal.

As I stood up, Hazniya bent over. I’m sure there was no intent behind it, but on that day, she was wearing this very low-cut shirt and a bra which formed more of a suggestion than a support. As she started wiping my arms and my chest, I was fixated on those munificent breasts, now a glistening coffee-gold from the light sweat the bathroom heat had worked up. I wanted to lean over and take them in my hands, rub them, kiss them, lick them, see if they tasted like the toffee my uncle often brought me from Scotland—or maybe the coffee ice cream I loved. They were, after all, roughly the same colour as those two treats.

And then it happened, suddenly, without any prodding from me, I swear: I popped the first erection of my whole life. At least, the first one I can remember having. This was a shock to me, and I mean a terrifying shock. I didn’t even know what it meant, except that it clearly had something to do with Hazniya, and her bathing me, and that it had made this strange transformation in tribute to her. I stood frozen for a few seconds, and it seemed to get even stiffer as she continued twirling soapy concentric circles across my chest with the washrag. Then she happened to glance down and notice my boner.

I was appalled, hollowed out with shame. I wanted to say something, come up with some excuse, but I suddenly went dumb. While I was still choking on some words to spit out into this frightening situation, Hazniya got there first. “Oh, my, my, what have we here? Our little man has suddenly become a really big man, hasn’t he?” She then gave me that warm smile that had sparked my puppy love for her. But the whole situation had changed radically. I yearned to grab her, to squeeze those fantastic breasts against me, to rub my new-found power tool right up against them. I wanted her to take off all her clothes, right there, then join me in the tub. I wanted her.

Of course, I couldn’t deal with this at all, being just a spoiled twelve-year-old kid. I mean, this was my maid, dammit, who just two minutes ago was bathing me like I was a little boy. So my lust was instantly converted into anger. I scooped up two handfuls of water from the tub and splashed them fiercely across her face and breasts. I wanted her to look shocked, then enraged, to slap me maybe. She did none of that. “Get out! Get out of here! Right now!” I screamed at the top of my high-pitched voice.

And she, damn her, maintained her usual good spirits—she just smiled and said, “Oh yes, let me get out; I think Jeffrey is big enough now to take care of himself. Oh yes, I see this clearly.”

As she made her way out the door, I shouted a phrase I had learned the year before in school and was just waiting for the right opportunity to use in social discourse: “Fucking bitch!”

I underscored the bitterness of that curse by hurling the washrag at the door she had just closed behind her. I then sank back into the tub and started crying, crying like an eight-year-old. I looked down and saw that my cock had just about returned to its normal shape and size. I felt… saved. But just as soon as that happened, I started thinking of Hazniya and those gorgeous tits and the damn thing started stiffening on me again. “Hazniya, you bitch!” I shouted out into the ceiling, hurt and anger intertwined in my timbre. I then reached down under the soapy surface of the water and gingerly touched the thing. I gently rubbed it a few times, as if to console it, to say it wasn’t its fault that it had caused me so much embarrassment. “You bitch, you bitch, you bitch,” I whispered as I consoled myself a little more.

Luckily, my parents were out that evening, so they caught none of my little outburst. Hazniya and I said nothing about it the next morning, or ever again. We pretended like the whole thing had never really happened.

Of course, I never again let her near the bathroom while I was bathing—or even combing my hair, for that matter. She stayed with us for another six months and then was suddenly gone. She disappeared one week when I was off visiting an aunt and uncle in Hong Kong.

When I asked what happened, my mother shook her head sadly and told me that Hazniya had to leave abruptly because of some family crisis back in Indonesia. A couple of years later, my Dad confided that they had dismissed her because she had “taken some things that didn’t belong to her.” And some time after that, a close family friend told me he’d heard the real reason was that Hazniya got caught having sex on the living room couch with some guy while my folks were supposedly away. But I’ve often asked myself whether our little episode in the bathtub had anything to do with that sudden departure.

Whatever it was, we never engaged another maid after Hazniya left us.

Physically left us, I should say. Her memory stayed with me for the next few years. During the high-tide period of my masturbatory youth, I would invoke images of Hazniya whenever I wanked off: those warm smiles, the bubbly laugher, the wonderful eyes, those fantastic tits. The fact that I had never really viewed those tits in their entirety only made them that much more fantastic in my wank-off reveries. Of course, the fact that she was a maid, a live-in servant meant to meet most of our daily needs, only exalted my fantasies about her. It would take me years to grow ashamed of those fantasies and the exploitative relationship that underscored them.

That shame happened when I was at university. Political correctness ruled supreme at my school, and it was especially dominant in the Sociology Department. From my professor, Kander, and those plodding leftist texts he foisted on us, I learned what an exploitative system was embodied in the whole maid-and-master nexus. This was especially true when the maids were plucked from nearby, “less-privileged” societies—as Hazniya had been. Of course, all my classmates and friends at the uni subscribed to this view one hundred per cent plus. So I never volunteered the fact that my own family had kept maids from the Third World when I was a kid. I only confessed it to my closest friends there at the uni, and then only as a sign of how much I had grown during my short time at Stanford.

When I returned to Singapore with my nice, crisp MBA tucked under my arm, I fancied myself a completely transformed person, one damn enlightened guy equally well versed in business and life in general. I was also vehemently committed to self-reliance by then. Anything I couldn’t do for myself just wouldn’t get done. Period.

Of course, an MBA from an elite American school guaranteed that I could just about waltz right into any high-paying job and find a stack of perqs to perk me up. Then, two months after I started working, I started looking for a place of my own.

The complex that I moved into, the Chateau de Luxus, was optimal in many ways. It was right across from a big bus terminal, about an eight-minute walk from an MRT station, another short walk from a huge shopping centre, and it was populated by swarms of attractive young women. Admittedly, some of them had husbands or kids in tow, but a lot of them seemed to be single. The problem was, most of these women seemed to be staunchly single.

Watching them go off to work in the morning, or come back in the evening, or head off on weekend activities was an exercise in slow torture.

Here were these luscious babes, with expertly coiffed hair, long, exposed limbs, fall-on-your-knees figures, and yet they all bore a demeanour that screeched, “Keep your distance, dude!”

This was cold beauty in its purest, coldest form. I finally started thinking of them as just lovely works of art brought in to jack up the Chateau’s property values. Actually embracing one, I thought, would be like fondling a priceless statue or scratching on a painting in some museum.

Fortunately, this permafrost demeanour was only common among the sleek, polished women of my own class, mainly Chinese Singaporeans like myself. There was one group of attractive young women at the Chateau who were anything but cold; in fact, these ladies grew warmer and warmer after a few casual meetings and then regularly greeted me with a giggly friendliness.

And in contrast to the cold, stiff beauty of the career women, these girls exuded an earthy sensuality that filled the air when you passed by them. I’m talking here about the maids.

Not only did the maids always return my greetings, before long they would initiate them, even move into casual conversation when the situation allowed. Which usually meant when their employers were not around. With the employers there, they’d revert to shy, conspiratorial smiles.

And I have to admit, I found many of these maids cute, some of them very cute. More importantly, for my tastes anyway, they were alluring in a thoroughly unpretentious way. Unlike the Chateau’s career ladies, these “domestic workers” were not shrewdly wrapped in the latest expensive fashions with a heavy measure of makeup fine-tuning their features. These maids were more down-to-earth-more real, to put it plainly. No makeup I could detect. And their standard uniform consisted of short pants which only made their way down the top third of their thighs topped by tight tee-shirts or breezy blouses. Simple, straight to the point. Which, in my view, made these ladies much more sensual and alluring than the pampered lovelies of my class and race. If the latter were cold works of art, the maids were rich folk art made flesh.

I always exchanged greetings with the various maids I ran across, and there were a lot to run across in my complex. I sometimes got the impression I might be the only one without one. At the beginning, I convinced myself that my socializing with the maids was a byproduct of my liberal education: I wasn’t going to treat them as mere servants or act like they were invisible because they weren’t off in active pursuit of the five Cs.

But after awhile, I realised that it was not just my democratic instincts at work. I was actually pretty interested, sexually, in some of them. Just seeing them approach, I started to get horny. And finally, I had to admit to myself what should have been obvious: some of the appeal sprang from the fact that several reminded me very much of Hasniya. In about the second month at my new home, I started to imagine the unthinkable: having a little sexual dalliance with some of the maids. Okay, I imagined it a lot; I spun it in my head several times a day.

Actually, it was one maid in particular that sparked my fantasies—Liana.

Liana, what a great name, a sweet blend of Mediterranean mellow and sultry Sulawesi swing. She had—and you’ll soon learn that I had sufficient opportunity to observe—these lovely dark eyes, accentuated by thick, sensual brows. Her lips were full, dreamy, moist, with a pronounced tendency to spill into a smile. Her breasts were… well, I’ll get to that part later. Suffice it to say she had a fucktastic compact figure that cried out for closer inspection.

Except that there was, of course, no chance to carry out this inspection anywhere in the common areas of our condo complex.

And this wasn’t just a one-sided infatuation either. Liana had, right from the start, been the most forward of all the maids. She obviously had her eye on me. “I never see you with your wife, Sir. Does she spending all her time with the children? Or is it her job?” I told her I wasn’t married. Her smile seemed to brighten up about 100 watts when she heard that. “Oh. Well then, Sir must have many girlfriends then. So handsome, and with that beautiful car.” So, she’d noticed my wheels. Good, that’s what they were there for, right? And while handsome might be stretching it a few categories, I am sort of cute… in a subtle way.

“Well, no steady girlfriend at the moment. I’m sort of keeping my options open.” This phrase seemed to puzzle her, so I swung back to straightforward.

“No, I don’t have any regular girlfriend at the moment. Still looking for the right lady.” Again, that smile lit up like a fireworks display.

“Oh,” she’d say, “I think Sir is just being modest.” Unfortunately, Sir was not being at all modest. While I had dated a number of women over the half year I’d been back, I hadn’t had sex—well, you know, real live sex—since returning from the states. And six months without sex, that is not good for one’s health or one’s self-esteem. What good was all my independence really doing me? When I moved in, I thought it would be great: no sneaking a woman past Mom and Dad to get her to my bedroom. But not a single lovely had come anywhere near that waiting sanctuary.

However, Liana and I grew more and more friendly as the weeks went by. The challenge was how to get her back to my place. Fortunately, this was less of a problem than it would have been with many of the other maids.

Unlike most of the domestics prowling the Chateau, Liana did not have any high-energy kids to look after. Or bathe, I reminded myself with relief. She took care of some frail old woman who apparently lived alone in the complex.

Well, not really alone, of course, Liana was there with her most of the time.

Her actual employers, I came to learn, were the old woman’s son and daughter-in-law. They had their own condo over in the East Annexe of the complex. They would drop by quickly in the evening to look in on Mom, and occasionally swing by on the weekends to take the old lady and Liana off for some excursion.

The son always had this loose, distracted look about him. When we’d run into each other and say hello, he’d flash an embarrassed smile that looked more like a wince. Then he’d shrug, like he wished he could have given more to that smile, but had lost it somewhere along the way.

The daughter-in-law was going to be my real hurdle, the way I saw it. She was this perpetually wound-up bitch, who eyed me suspiciously whenever I crossed her path. Okay, she probably eyed everyone she came across suspiciously, she was that type. But I personalised it, as I tend to do with these things. Behind it all, I suspected that she might just be very insightful and could somehow sense how much I wanted to get my hands on Mom’s curvaceous caregiver.

But like I said, distracted Sonny and the Wicked Bitch of the East only dropped by for a quick peek each evening and were absent the rest of the time. That meant the only one between me and luscious Liana was the old lady. I didn’t see her causing any problem either, because this particular auntie was apparently not terribly aware of what was going on around her.

In fact, after a short time, Liana and I would flirt along the pathway or in the lift with the auntie right there, just staring out into space, evidently oblivious to my presence—or at least my intentions. Even better, the auntie tended to nod off for long periods during the day, which allowed Liana to slip out quickly and do personal errands or schmooze with her maid friends. Now I just needed the opportunity to make some arrangements with Liana herself.

Early one evening, we ran into each other at the shopping centre. “Is Sir buying something?” she asked, blithely ignoring the half-full shopping basket that I was lugging.

“Yah, I had to pick up a few things I need before the weekend.” We happened to be standing near the checkout counter at that point. A blush tinged her dark cheeks as she glanced over at one of the displays there, then turned back quickly, her eyes cast down towards the floor.

“Sir will probably have to buy some packages of those things for his weekend, I think.” I turned to see what she was referring to. The first thing I saw was what she must have seen: the condom display. A rather ample condom display actually. I was stunned, though clearly not in any unpleasant way. I just couldn’t…

When I looked back at Liana, she had just peeked up at me, a delectably impish smile on her face. Wondering what the fuck to say, I stammered out

“I… I think I have enough of those already.” I swallowed deeply. The next thing I said could carry me to either bliss or disaster. I had to be very clever, very polished. “You going back to the Chateau right after this?” Don’t smirk; it was clever enough. Liana flashed another of her bountiful smiles and said she had to pay first, holding up two cans of sugar cane juice.

I pointed out that paying would be advisable, then told her to put them in my basket and I’d pay for everything. We could settle up later, I added.

We then joined the queue, with Liana standing right behind me. It was like some guy shopping with his maid, I thought. Then I realised I wasn’t at all unhappy with that. If anyone saw us, they’d never think I was about to hit on a maid from my complex. They’d think we were just… hey, another maid and her well-heeled employer. But I suddenly decided I didn’t care what they thought. What business did they have thinking about us anyway? To hell with them, right?

As we strolled back to the Chateau, I asked Liana if she had any boyfriends here in Singapore. She told me the guys here did not seem to like her. I told her I found that extremely hard to believe. She just smiled sweetly, as if she didn’t believe it herself. I then asked if she had any boyfriends back in Sulawesi. She had a few, she told me, but they weren’t serious. “Just a bunch of stupid boys,” she said. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” By this time, I was finding it a little hard to walk since I was grappling with an erection that was caught in my boxers, jutting out sideways. This was no big handicap, though, as Liana herself was not able to move too quickly in her tattered flip-flops. Thanks to these two restraints, the stroll back was long and leisurely. We laughed and giggled a lot, though I can’t for the life of me remember what we were laughing about. As we waited for the green light just across from the Chateau, I decided to make my move. I asked her if she’d like to come down to my apartment sometime soon, maybe have some tea and cookies. She said she preferred the sugar cane juice. I told her I was friends with a major supplier. She asked when she should come. I asked when she could come.

We arranged for her to come over early Saturday afternoon. “Sir” and

“Ma’am” were going off to visit friends in Malaysia this weekend, and she said she could drop in when her auntie had her naptime. “Great. Oh, we should spend some time together over at my place,” I added.

“No problem,” she promised. “My auntie usually takes a long nap in the middle of the day.” I really liked the way she said “lo-ong.” My cock somehow managed to stiffen even more as it found another nook at the side of my boxers to snuggle into. I could barely move. But for Liana and me, it just remained to work out the logistics.

She had told me that her auntie usually dozed off right after lunch. That should be about a quarter past one, she thought. But it was almost three by the time she finally arrived. I was going crazy by then, scanning some of the DVDs I’d pulled out to try to distract myself while waiting for her. But it was worth the wait. When she finally stood there in the doorway, she was just so hopelessly lovely. She had done something special with her hair and even put on a bit of lipstick. As much as I loved her natural look, she was even more alluring with this little touchup. I had a hard-on within seconds.

I offered her some sugar cane juice. She said she would love some.

Then she shyly asked if I could add some alcohol to it. “Sure,” I answered, “no problem.” I reached into the back of my cupboard for a bottle of vodka.

She scooped up the glass, then downed the whole thing in one long swallow. “Sorry,” she said, “I was so thirsty.”

“Nothing to apologise for,” I replied, then asked if she wanted a refill.

She nodded, but added, “Just half a glass.” While I was still pouring, she turned and glanced at the kitchen floor. “Oh,” she sort of squeaked. “You really need your floor cleaned.”

“Oh yeah, but it’s alright,” I replied. “I… I always leave it until Sunday.

I look forward to doing it right after morning coffee and the Sunday Times.” I doubt she even heard me. She looked around quickly and then, as if guided by some preternatural instinct all Indonesian girls born to be maids have, headed for the cabinet under the sink where I keep what few cleanup items I have. She enthusiastically hauled out a rarely used bucket, a scrubbing brush, a couple of rags and some liquid that I guess you use to clean floors.

She was amazing; I don’t think I could have found those things so quickly.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” I said.

“Oh no, Sir, this floor really needs a good clean.”

“Just leave it,” I barked. “I’ll… I’ll take care of it later so you can get a good sleep tonight. I promise.”

Liana had moved to the kitchen sink and was running hot water into the bucket. “No, this is good, so. I really like cleaning floors. It’s so much fun.” While I moped, she mopped. And then things got more interesting. “I hope you don’t mind, Sir. But it always gets so hot when I do this work.” Before I could ask her what I was supposed to not mind, she had swiftly tugged off her tight-fitting tee and with one further, deft movement removed the bra as well. She stood there with those luscious coffee-toned breasts topped by dark nipples and a kid’s-party smile spread all over her face. She looked down briefly, as if to check what had me so transfixed, then looked back up, her smile conveying a sense of total understanding and agreement.

She then swivelled and flipped the bra and tee onto the kitchen table with all the grace and artfulness of a stripper.

Oh my God, she was a fucking work of art under that maid’s attire. Her skin was soft, light brown, the shade of coffee just the way I love it. Probably just as sweet, too, I was thinking. Although Liana was of small stature, her tits were fantastic: not as large as I imagine Hazniya’s were, but sizeable and perfectly sculpted. I wanted to clutch them in my palms and moved towards her with every intention of doing so.

Holy wake up, I couldn’t stand it. I had such a massive hard-on, I thought it might choke me. I figured if I couldn’t put it into her, and very soon, I’d probably start ramming myself against a wall until I collapsed from exhaustion and multiple abrasions.

But she seemed obsessed with getting that damn floor clean. Desperate to plunge myself into this lady, I moved to the very edge of the soapy circle and reached out for her. But she pushed me off. With a poised smile and a no-no shake of her head, she said, “Not yet, Sir Jeffrey. I have to start scrubbing first.”

Then she said something else that made me crazy. “Oh,” she said, “I wore my very special panties today, you know.” She unhooked her shorts and opened them to show me the knickers: a splashy swirl of bright colours. They looked like they’d been designed by someone whose usual job was turning out ice kachang. “I always wear them for special days. But I don’t want them to get wet. Would you mind it if I…?”

I guess she took my tongue hanging down over my chin as the closest I could get to “No, I don’t mind!” because within a few seconds she had pulled off both shorts and pants, then carried them over to the kitchen table too.

And, wah, could she sashay that perfect little tush as she made the journey. As great as her tits were, I’m ready to concede the ass may have even topped it. I couldn’t believe this was really happening to me. And then she turned around again, and I saw her pussy fully for the first time. Oh God. It was a beautiful crop of dark, wiry hair, as lovely, dark and deep as the Indonesian rain forest.

I felt like lunging over there, grabbing her and then carrying her off to the bedroom, like Tarzan bringing Jane to his boudoir in the trees. But I thought that might spook her, ruin the whole moment. No, I had to practice a little patience. At this point, however, my patience had an expected shelf life of about five seconds.

She was now down on her knees with a wet rag in her hand, but before she began scrubbing, she looked up and flashed me another quick smile. She then commenced with the cleaning. She swabbed the rag against the floor in small circles, her ass and tits rotating in syncopated rhythms to this entrancing motion. She seemed so concentrated as she applied delicate pressure to those circles she was making on the tiles.

I suddenly noticed that I was unconsciously making similar strokes with my right hand across my groin. I started to sputter out a plea—or maybe it was a confession of love. “Liana, I… the thing is, why I really wanted you to come down here today…”

She looked up to listen, then flashed the most knowing smile I’d ever seen and spun my life around. “Oh, this is such hard work. I don’t think I can do it all myself. Don’t you want to help me, Sir?”

“Help you? You mean…?” Without dimming her smile one click, she nodded towards the floor, with its sodden field of white-capped mounds. I tore off my clothes as quickly as I could; I tossed them back into the other room with the rest of my stuff, then rushed over to Liana and the bucket, sliding along the last stretch of the slick surface on my knees.

She handed me a rag and together we started working on the tiles. After a few moments, I started gently rubbing the rag along her ass. She gave a soft purring sound at this. I started to move the rag up the small of her back, making small concentric circles as I moved. Meanwhile, she had started rubbing my chest with her rag, gently rotating it the way Hazniya did when I was a kid. She put the rag down and used her finger to wipe behind my ears.

I was in high ecstasy.

But that was just the prelude. As my rag was making its way up around her shoulders, she put both her hands on mine. “Now we come to the best part of cleaning floors,” she said. And then she gave me a gentle kiss, as sweet as any kiss I can remember.

She pushed her rag a short distance behind her, took the other rag from me, then retrieved the third from the soapy depths of the bucket. She turned and laid all three out along the floor. After making sure they were all set at the right distance and fluffed up properly, she laid down across them, like they were some makeshift bed. She raised her legs in V-shapes, then stretched out her arms and drew me down on top of her. As I was sliding a little on the wet tiles, I was a bit clumsy about getting in just the right position. But I managed to get more or less right while Liana stretched out her hand, stroked my cock gently, then guided me into herself.

I was so horny by now, I almost came within seconds of entering her.

But Liana somehow arched her hips rather acrobatically, thrusting my cock into a new position that held off ejaculation. I looked down into her lovely face in surprise and admiration. Any thoughts I had had that she might be an innocent short on useful experience completely disappeared.

Her pussy felt fantastic, especially in the position she now had me wedged into. It was moist and warm and wonderfully tight, and we felt like a perfect fit together. If anything, I was the innocent here. I whispered that I thought this would be even better in the bedroom.

At this, she just giggled warmly. “But we have to get your floor cleaned first. This is how we get to all the hard-to-reach places.” Aha! Those “hard-to-reach places.” I wondered if that was a phrase they learned at Indonesian maid school.

I was also wondering if she knew what she was talking about when she started pushing with her feet, propelling both of us along the floor. We would glide along the slick, sudsy surface, twisting slightly, her pussy rubbing my cock deliciously, my cock deftly stroking her pussy. Although I was on top of her physically, she was clearly on top of the situation, directing our slippery voyage along the floor, or the rubbing together and thrusting of our respective pleasure packs.

After a short time, I discovered how I could direct our movements a little myself, using my knees to get short, thrusting jerks, then giving a push along the floor with my toes, sending us sliding along a few feet, still locked together.

A couple of times, she would say she’d missed a spot. And then she’d start sliding back, her hands and ass rowing us backwards. She would again start to move her luscious ass from side to side, then raise her hips slightly and swivel. I’d go crazy. So would she. She’d moan, “Oh yes, I think we got it this time, that hard-to-get spot,” and then give out that little syncopated squeal of hers that I found such a turn-on. So I would answer, “Let me give it some thorough rubbing, to make sure we’ve really got it clean this time.” And then I’d thrust myself down into her lovingly, again and again.

We moved all around the kitchen, shaking the table, knocking over a couple of chairs. A few times—yeah, I think it was three, but I like to believe it could have been four or five—Liana would suddenly sail us along a wall or into a corner. She’d be pinned there and suddenly thrust her hips back and forth energetically, reaching orgasm after about ten seconds. She’d clutch me by my neck, maybe pull my hair and moan in the most wonderful way, then slip into a mode of release with a deep smile. On the last corner stop, I joined in, my cock going at about five throbs a second, my semen flowing into her in full, rich jerks. We lay there on the floor for maybe another few minutes, wiped out and absolutely ecstatic. This, I realised, is what sex was supposed to be when they first came up with the idea.

After, like I say, a few minutes of still lying there locked together, Liana looked up at me with a slightly sad expression and said she had to hurry back upstairs to look after her auntie. I nodded just as sadly, and said I’d help her get ready.

Ironically after all that sloshing around in soap and water, we both needed to take a shower. Which we did together, of course. We also washed our hair, which was drenched in streams of detergent suds. Afterwards, as Liana dried her luscious body with a towel, I started to get at her hair with the hair dryer. When she finished with that great bod, she dropped the towel and took the hair dryer from me to finish the job. At one point, I took the dryer back from her, switched it to cool, and pointed it towards her pubic hair. After a few rounds with the dryer, I reached down, said, “Let me check that it’s really dry there,” and started stroking the bush. By this time, I myself was already as hard as a graphite rod, and I started to gently insert my middle finger up inside her. “The hair’s fine,” I noted, “but I think this is a little wet here.” She nudged me back gently and tsked.

“Oh, Sir Jeffrey is very much horny today. But I have to get back to my auntie or I might get in really trouble. We’ll be back to check on the floor in a few days, though.”

For the next two months, my kitchen floor was kept stunningly clean. Liana and I would attend to it at least once a week, sometimes even two or three times, depending on how often she could sneak out of her place and down to mine. It sparkled, that floor. I never realised the happiness I could feel just having such a sparkling floor to look at.

Usually, we’d proceed the way we had the first time, but sometimes Liana would ask if she could get on top. I would agree immediately; I learned while at business school how important it is that both parties be able to see things from the other person’s position.

I must admit that lying on those sopping rags was not the most comfortable of positions, but it was more than a fair trade-off for experiencing Liana’s additional skills and seeing the ecstasy she could achieve from above.

She’d mount me gently, then start pumping, sort of navigating our course around the floor. The best part of this arrangement was being able to look at her gorgeous tits as they dangled in my face. Okay, I’m probably biased, but they were absolutely beautiful with their warm, light brown tone highlighted by the thick, almost purplish nipples.

From below, I could reach up and take her breasts into my wet, sudsy palms, massaging them gently as she pumped her groin energetically on my cock. I’d start at the bottom, just stroking them with a pair of knuckles from both hands, then spread to full palms, taking the breasts first from the sides, then working my way to the top, then back down again.

Then I’d press my thumbs against her stiffened nipples, twirling them about while the rest of my fingers stroked the top half of her breasts. While this was going on, Liana would go crazy, pumping wildly and bringing herself to one, two and who-can-count-any-more orgasms. Her long, almost weeping squeal of rapture was the most fantastic thing I’d ever heard, and I’d often just grab her ass and join her in the rapture, sweeping into screaming orgasms.

The only problem with her up above was that a few times, we’d get so caught up in the heat of passion that she’d lower her tits right to my face.

Instinctively, I’d raise my head a bit and start sucking on those gorgeous melons-only to get a rich, soapy taste filling my mouth. I’d then start choking and spitting out what I’d just sucked in and we’d have to separate and take a little breather until I recovered.

After her first couple of visits, I started giving her little presents every time she came down to clean. At first, they were fairly simple—some new sexy underwear, a box of chocolates—just small tokens of my appreciation.

Before long, they got more elaborate—jewellery, a nice bag, designer underwear (none of which looked like ice kachang). As my little presents became more and more generous, Liana grew even more zealous in her cleaning. Sometimes the two of us would do the floor two or three times at one go, making it immaculate. Then she’d jump up, say she was late, rush in and shower, pull her clothes back on, give me a hurried kiss goodbye and rush out.

And, God, was she sweet. Often, just as we’d finished, while I was still lying on top of her, she’d look up and ask, “Are you really happy here with me, Sir Jeffrey?” And I would say yes, really. And then she’d lay her head back into a pool of blue foam and say, “Me too. I am so really happy. Really.” Towards the end of those two fabulous months, I made a major decision.

I decided that I was going to make this thing permanent. I wanted to go up to Liana’s employers and ask if we could make some deal whereby I could purchase her employment contract off them. I wanted her to be my maid full-time. Did not want to share her with anyone, not even some doddering old lady.But I didn’t move immediately on this urge. I wanted to give it some time, maybe two weeks, mull it over, make sure I was making the right decision. That was my mistake, one of the biggest of my life. Before that two weeks was out, so was Liana—out of Singapore.

She didn’t come as scheduled one day, and I was puzzled, well, a bit pissed-off actually. I tried without success to get in touch with her over the next few days and when I couldn’t, I grew quite concerned. I tracked down some of her maid friends around the Chateau and asked if she was sick or something. No, they told me; she’d been sent back to Indonesia by her employers. Ma’am had apparently found some expensive items stashed in her room: earrings, bracelets, necklaces. The bitch accused Liana of having stolen them from somewhere. Liana insisted that they weren’t stolen, they were presents. “Presents? From who?” asked Ma’am. Liana said they were from her boyfriend and admitted she had a boyfriend she snuck off and saw sometimes.

“Did she, uhh, ever say who this boyfriend was?” I asked. Her friends shrugged. Some guy from the construction site down the hill, they guessed, a Thai or a Bangladeshi. That’s what she told her employers anyway. Of course, this merely confirmed for the couple that Liana was lying, that she had obviously stolen those articles; no foreign construction worker could ever in his wildest dreams have afforded such presents.

The friends went on to tell me that before they repatriated Liana, the couple had confiscated all of her fancy presents. They told the poor girl that since she wouldn’t tell them the truth of where they came from, they were going to donate the gifts to some suitable charity. (Probably the dour bitch’s Office Show-off Charity, I muttered to myself.)

One of the friends had managed to go to the airport with Liana when she was flown back. The poor thing had cried the whole time while waiting to board, according to this friend. She also kept insisting, over and over again, that she really had this boyfriend, really: a real, true boyfriend, kind and generous, cute even, the kind she had always dreamed about meeting. And then she did, and he had become her real boyfriend.

At this, I could only nod and choke out a few words. “Yeah, I believe her. I think she definitely had a real boyfriend. A girl as pretty and sweet as that, she could have had anyone she wanted. Really.” I then thanked them for their help, said I had some things I had to attend to urgently, turned and rushed off. When I got back inside my apartment, I slammed my fist against the wall. And there was something harsh and stinging in my eyes for awhile.

Needless to say, my kitchen floor has never been so clean again. And I have never once since then known such pure, uncluttered happiness. Really.