Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 2

1

Penny would never have described herself as a lady of the night, and, since she was white, British, and never walked the streets, neither would anyone else. In her heart, though, she admitted that for quite some time she had lived off men who would not have paid her expenses if she had not rendered a reasonable performance in bed.

She felt no guilt or degradation, only a mild anger. Not toward men.

If anything, it was feminism she blamed for her situation. She adhered to the outdated female archetype who, in past times, settled down with a big-hearted man who forgave incompetence in housekeeping, cooking and the acquisition of money in return for an infinite tolerance combined with an unlimited affection for him and their children. In her dreams, she saw herself in a big untidy house with a big untidy garden (probably Bloomsbury between the wars: she had a fondness for history), a husband with a comfortable beer gut and scruffy kids who chased each other around the house and loved her.

But in the twenty-first century, the chances of meeting any guy with a decent income who was not stressed out of his brain were as remote as winning the lottery.

So, in the way of the English today, she lived for vacations. Through hints and prods, she had induced all of her last five boyfriends to take her on holiday, three times to the Med and twice to Morocco. The ending never changed. She would give him a great time, and through subtle female techniques ensure that he relax, let go, share his heart. She would assure him she was not looking for a marriage that would enable her to grab half his assets. Once he was suitably mellow, she would even allow herself to start to love him. Then the vacation would finish, they would fly back to London and within twenty-four hours he was a stressed-out, insufferable maniac all over again.

The last one had differed only in that she had seen failure coming. It had been her first time in Greece and, despite the excessive tourism, the islands had seduced her like nowhere else. She told him she didn’t want to go back. She just couldn’t face London anymore. She was sorry. He seemed to understand. He even financed her for a couple of months and flew out for a weekend, which she made sure was as dirty as could be-pulled out all the stops, so to speak, rolled, licked, sucked and humped the nights away until she felt as if she’d worked out in a gym; but they both knew it was the end of the affair. Keeping a mistress on a Greek island was almost as financially ruinous as marriage itself

So she hung out first on Crete, then on Mykonos, then on Lesbos for a few months until money started to get really tight. She became almost blatant about her pickups, made it clear that although no way was she on the game she was rather short of the readies if you know what I mean, love… And so made her way slowly west.

She knew that in Gibraltar there were Brits with dough who worked there. It seemed ideal, and only twelve miles from Morocco, where she had had a great holiday with number… Well, she’d stopped counting, but it had been a great vacation.

She was disappointed. The Brits on the Rock were of the yobbish, loutish sort, many of them army or ex-army. Only by chance she made a contact who got her invited to a party given by a man from South London who was a prince of offshore gambling. It was a big, loud party in a big loud mansion in Sotto Grande, which is where rich Gibraltarians invariably live.

The host had little conversation and less manners, but he introduced her to Mike. Mike had no conversation at all and probably no manners—it was hard to say, he was so intense about an Internet game he’d invented that was earning him millions, something to do with dropping virtual balls into virtual boxes. He probably figured he didn’t need any social graces. If she hadn’t been desperate, she would have slapped him, his come-on was so crude. But at the same time, she could see he was honest, as the emotionally retarded can be. He really did think that people were basically computers and would do what you wanted if you clicked on the right spot. He guessed—it wasn’t difficult considering how worn her best jeans and T-shirt were—that in her case he only needed to click on dough.

From the party mansion, it was only a short walk to his mansion, but he drove her in his Porsche. She knew the first night was a test; if she performed right, he would be quite generous. So, feeling like a real whore for the first time in her life, she pulled out all the stops. Next morning, he offered her a contract and left her, open-mouthed, to think about it while he drove over to Gib to make another million.

Sitting in the great big kitchen of the great big mansion, she felt suicidal.

Had she really come to this? Out of sarcasm she wrote down the deal he had offered her in his snappy, take-it-or-leave-it, barrow-boy voice before he’d dashed out of the house without even a peck on the cheek.

She was not of the self-destructive kind, though, and knew very well there was a price to pay for everything. Considering how she’d pretty much sold her body for peanuts up to now, it wasn’t really such a bad deal. Once she accepted the no-frills attitude, she realized he was being quite generous.

She had trained as a legal secretary, but had proved unable to endure the tedium. Now she translated his hurried, staccato offer into legalese: Between

Penelope Smith (‘the Service Provider’) of the first part and Michael James Hope (‘the Client’) of the second part, it is hereby agreed as follows:

When he dashed in again that night, he said, ‘Still here then?’

She showed him what she had written, expecting a laugh, or a snigger, or at least some sign of humour. Instead he nodded, took out a pen and signed.

When he gave her the pen, she signed as well.

2

All went according to plan. She thought of him as an over-sexed robot, but was able to tolerate the arrangement mostly because he was out of the house for at least twelve hours a day, working the phones and the email from tax-exempt Gibraltar, and thinking up more stupid ideas for making money out of still more stupid people. At night, she stayed in her room watching DVDs and Sky TV. When he wanted her, he called her on the house intercom. When he was finished, she went back to her own bed.

She came to understand the reference to drugs in the contract. He used some kind of speed while he was at work, and in the evenings when he wanted to slow down he used some kind of muscle relaxant. And, of course, like all good geeks, he loved marijuana. On Friday nights, he would take something stronger: a morphine-based tranquilizer which made him almost catatonic. His penis was the only organ still functioning. He would lie on his back with a deeply smug look on his face and tell her what he wanted in a hoarse whisper.

Even the bondage and flagellation were not as humiliating as she’d expected. That was because she was a tad partial to both, so long as they were done right. She’d once had a boyfriend who was adept at making a girl horny. He had whispered in her ear, whilst working her clitoris, about how he was going to tie her up to a tree and rape her; make her meet him in a dark alley wearing only a raincoat and have her against a rough brick wall; put her on all fours and whip her while he plunged deep inside her. In the event, he had done none of these things, perhaps because the stories and the finger work made her come in less than five minutes—but the seeds had been sown.

So when the Robot decided it was time to enforce that part of the contract, she wasn’t too fearful. She was surprised he had the good taste to purchase thick velvet bonds with which he tied her hands and feet to the bed—she had been afraid thin nylon string would leave telltale marks. With all responsibility for everything taken from her shoulders, she found she could relax while he plunged away. Not for very long, though, the process raised such a stalk on him, he was finished in minutes.

The flagellation was the same, only more so. It seemed to her she had hardly roused herself to get on all fours and receive a half dozen tentative slaps with the whip—not more than harsh caresses really—when he expired in a heap and called for his dope. It was, of course, the state of dominance he craved. He was a control freak but not a violent man at all.

She did not know any other prostitutes, so could not compare experiences. She admitted that in terms of the retail of flesh, her situation was more Harrods than Tesco, but speaking only for herself, she had never had an easier job. Most of the time he was able to stimulate her enough for intercourse. When she was dry and not in the mood, she applied KY Jelly immediately after the fifteen-minute warning. He never lasted a full hour no matter what the variations.

She really didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Surely women had been doing this one way or another for the hundred thousand years humans had been on earth? She could imagine herself in a previous incarnation as a cavewoman giving head in return for boiled mammoth knuckle. It was money for old rope—and best of all, she didn’t have to cook or clean the house. He always ate takeaway from the box, and a Spanish maid, whom Penny supervised in an indulgent way, came three times a week. In return, the maid accorded her the full respect due to a rich man’s pampered mistress.

The months passed, she spent not a penny of her salary and enjoyed passing time on the beach during the day reading romantic historical novels to which she was addicted. Quite a few men showed an interest in her when she lay in her bikini on a towel—she was under thirty, pretty with a voluptuous body and owned that magic something which said ‘good in bed’—but she brushed them off, not only to keep faith with the contract, but because most of the time she was sexually exhausted. He may have been a sprinter more than a long distance runner, but the Robot was perpetually aroused by having a non-nagging sex slave at his command, and—looking at it from a slightly deeper point of view—obviously had no idea what to do with his fellow human beings other than to fuck them, whether virtually in Gib or literally in Sotto Grande. Only one thing intrigued her. He had made group sex a specific requirement, but so far there had been no sign of it. She was soon to realize why.

3

‘We’re going to Bangkok,’ he snapped.

‘When?’

‘Day after tomorrow. Got two first-class ticks from Rabat via Dubai—better than bloody London. We’ll get whatever’s going from here to Rabat.

Ferry, then a limo, prob’ly. Start tomorrow.’ He looked at her. ‘See, I don’t have the energy for threesomes while I’m working. This is vac time. Don’t worry, I only go for pretty ones. Might want a few holiday pix though.’

‘I’ll start packing.’

‘Carry-on only, I don’t want to hang around waiting for check-in luggage. I’ll buy whatever when we arrive. Silk’s cheap over there. Might buy some for bondage.’ He rubbed his hands.

The Robot had been to Thailand before and knew where to go. He took her to Patpong where they watched young brown women remove ping-pong balls and razor blades from their private parts, but this was only the warm-up.

Later they went to a place called Nana where near-naked girls strutted their stuff on stage and a man could take his pick.

On the plane, he had told her what he meant by group sex. It would be her job to explain it to the girl once they got back to the hotel. To her surprise, he wanted to discuss with her which girl to choose. She found they had opposite tastes. He tended to go for the slightly taller, more assertive types while she liked the cute, petite ones.

At the end of the day though, for him it came down to tits. He hired one with large, firm mammaries and they took her back in the taxi like a pet.

It was strange the way they both went out of their way to be nice to her—kindness itself, actually. She spoke almost no English, though, so Penny had to use sign language to explain:

Phase I: blowjob for Boss by guest worker while staff member gets licked by Boss;

Phase II: guest worker licks staffer while staffer gives head; Phase III: Boss takes pix of guest worker lubricating staffer with her tongue;

Phase IV: guest worker gets under staffer to lick Boss while Boss rogers staffer.

When it was over, Mike slept between them and for the first time seemed to be at peace.

They repeated the exercise a couple of times with different girls, then Mike decided he wanted to spend a few days in the country. He’d done the beach thing too many times before; he wanted the mountains. Of course, if it was going to be for more than one night, it would have to be the right girl.

On instinct, they chose one who was slightly older, perhaps late twenties. Her name was Om and she was from the mountains herself, so she would be a good guide. The Robot bought first-class tickets for all of them and off they flew to Mai Hong Song.

He found a hotel with large rooms and immediately demanded an orgy.

Penny and Om already knew what to do from the night before, but this time everything had slowed down, perhaps because of the journey, the heat and the proximity of the jungle.

She didn’t know why she thought the jungle made a difference, it just came into her head. When the moment came for her to lay on her back with his hard-on in her mouth and Om gently, patiently working her vagina with her tongue, she too felt an extraordinary serenity, a sense of relief of flesh surrounded by friendly flesh. Afterwards, Om grinned at her for coming so quickly.

By the next night, Penny had realized there was something very special about Om. The young Thai woman remained friendly and unfazed by anything they did together. She treated Penny as a pal and would tug at her breasts in a chummy way, as if they were sisters. She liked it when Penny did the same back. Om even gave Mike’s cock friendly, non-erotic tugs from time to time, always with the same serenity, never losing her dignity.

This had a strange effect on Mike. He became even quieter than normal, watched Om with an increasingly gaping mouth, as if she were some kind of superior alien being.

It wasn’t supposed to last long. Mike had planned for a ten-day vacation and had booked the return trip, but just when they were due to leave Mae Hong Song, he contracted some kind of stomach infection that left him pretty much nailed to the bed. He postponed the flight home.

He was fine in a couple of days, but strangely reluctant to leave. He asked Om where her home village was. She told him it was on the border with Burma, just a few miles away. He asked if they could go there. She said they could, but she could not have sex with them there—it would be strictly a case of her acting as guide. Penny was surprised that Mike agreed to this.

Om’s village was really a collection of smallholdings where her kinsfolk grew rice and—secretly, up in the hills—opium. So there was no problem finding opium for Mike. Now he was really relaxed. The only problem: he wanted to sleep between Om and Penny. Om said that was okay, they would be like family—so long as there was no sex. How would anyone know if they were having sex or not, the three of them? Om seemed surprised at the question. She said it was obvious if three people were having sex together or not.

‘But you’ve both gotta be naked, right?’ Mike said.

Om said that would be okay; it was so damn hot, she only wore a sarong anyway.

So they ended up in a bamboo hut with a springy bamboo floor, on the edge of dense jungle, with Mike smoking his opium and gratefully—blissfully—lying between them like a baby, wallowing in the proximity of unlimited naked female flesh.

For the first time, he began to talk like a real human. How awful his home life was: an alcoholic father, hard bitch for a mother, brothers all in prison, mostly for burglary and armed robbery. A hell he’d only escaped thanks to his gift for computer science and Internet games. ‘You think I’m weird? That lot can hardly talk at all,’ he said.

When he was in an opium dream, Penny talked to Om. She told the guest worker about her contract with Mike.

‘He’s not so bad, really. Very screwed up, but actually honourable. I mean, he does everything he promised under the contract, he just can’t seem to relate to people, that’s all.’

Om said she didn’t see anything different about him from other farang.

Penny took this to include herself—did she strike Om as a female version of Mike?

‘Of course,’ Om said with a smile.

‘You mean a total mess, don’t you?’

‘I mean very sick,’ Om said.

She then explained that she had only gone on the game for a short while to pay off a debt her mother had incurred purchasing medicine for her father who had recently died. Thanks to Mike, she would be able to pay off the debt.

When Mike and Penny had gone, she would become a mai chee: a Buddhist nun. She wanted to spend the rest of her life in meditation.

Now Penny thought she understood Om’s dignity. As far as the Thai woman was concerned, she was not practicing a form of debauchery so much as administering therapy to two pink-faced psychotics.

When Penny thought about it, she tended to agree. She had looked down on Mike as being sub-human—but was she really so different herself? It was the leap of imagination that was hard to make at first, until you got used to it: the West as the source of a world psychosis that was destroying humanity.

When you put it like that in so many words, it seemed obviously true.

Look at how people were today: spoilt brats at best, enraged loonies in their hearts most of the time.

‘We all hate each other,’ she admitted to Om, with a gasp.

Om nodded and told Penny she should meditate. She explained that Mike had to have opium because he was too far gone to meditate, he would never break through the reinforced concrete of his ego, but for Penny, a woman with a good heart, there was a chance.

Now Penny found herself encouraging Mike with his opium habit, so she could stay on a few more days with Om and learn to meditate. Both women made sure Mike had plenty of fin to keep him quiet while they went to temple and sat in silence in a semi-lotus position. Penny knew she was slow in spiritual matters, but not entirely without talent. With Om’s help, she developed a vague understanding of the ancient teaching and an appreciation of the peace it could bring to the heart.

When Mike was able to walk, which happened for a couple of hours in the evening of each day, he would wander into the jungle and sit on a fallen tree trunk. That must have been where he caught cerebral malaria.

Penny flew into a panic. She didn’t want a person’s death on her conscience; she wanted to get him to a hospital in the UK straight away, but Om wasn’t so keen. She thought that if Mike died there in her village surrounded by monks whispering into his ear, there was a chance he would be reborn as a human, maybe even as a Thai Buddhist, so he would have a great chance of personal evolution in his next life.

If he went back to the West, on the other hand, even if he was in time to be cured, he would just go back to his old ways and be reborn as a rat or something even lower down the scale.

Penny gulped. This was another leap she was not prepared for. Her mind immediately thought up a good old British compromise: suppose they got him to Bangkok and, when he was better, introduce him to Buddhism? Okay, he might not achieve a human rebirth that way, but he could maybe reach monkey or chimpanzee level—further up the scale than rat, anyway. She hardly realized how her thinking had changed under Om’s influence.

‘I’ll do whatever you want,’ Om said with a smile.

Penny understood this was some kind of test the Buddha was putting her through. Had she got the message strongly enough to dare to do let Mike die?

Mercifully, for the Buddha was nothing if not compassionate, the decision was made for her. Mike succumbed to the particularly virulent form of the disease in just over thirty-six hours. Om made sure that nine monks sat around his deathbed connected by a piece of white string and chanting in a way that his spirit could hear and understand.

After they had burned his body in the temple oven, Penny said: ‘I want to stay here, but I could never be a nun—I don’t have your kind of strength.’

‘I know,’ Om said.

As it happened, one of her brothers had recently lost his wife, also to malaria. He was a good big-hearted guy, if a bit lazy, with a huge beer gut and a big sprawling house full of scruffy kids just down the road…