Fetish also fetich (fe-tish) 1. an object (as an idol or image) believed to have magical powers (as in curing disease) 2. an object of unreasoning devotion or concern 3. an object whose real or fantasized presence is psychologically necessary for sexual gratification. ——The Merriam Webster Dictionary
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Sara and I, two American ex-pats, live by the rhythm of our sexual needs in our salmon colored manse near the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve in Singapore.
During our playtime Sara’s nom de plume is Veronique, mine is Brick. Normally everyone calls me Reuben, Reuben Smoke.
Veronique has fucked a troop of clowns. Brick has fucked a pugilist slick, shiny with oil in the middle of a boxing ring’s stretched canvas floor. Veronique has sucked “The Cuban” proud owner of possibly the largest cock anywhere. Brick tried. Brick fucked a mother and daughter in combination on a feather bed in Amsterdam’s Red Light District, the “Walletjes.” He did a rotund woman. She wore a flowing sequined caftan with huge mothers of breasts, magnificently distended udders the locus of all his lust. Of such immense proportion these lodestones attracted his semen filings as so much metal grit. It was like fucking Mother Nature. In an abandoned Quonset hut near a long unused slab of airplane runway in southern Arizona choked with weeds, Veronique fucked 17 leather clad bikers, first Moro, the leader, all the others and then finally, Brick.
Veronique and Brick have done it all. Veronique with one man, one woman; Brick the same solitary fun. Shared pleasures too, doing delicious things with a third bedmate or gangs of lubricous orifices in tow between them as a team.
Both of us naked in our bed; I tie her slim wrists and slender ankles to the four banyan posts carved by the skilled hands of a leathery looking old man with Buster Keaton’s gloomy mien. A vivid blue scarf secures her left arm, a garish red square of cloth binds her right arm, a cavalry yellow neckerchief is tied around her left leg and last but not least, a daring pink piece of silk circles her right ankle, lashes her to the bed. I wrap a piece of black satin over her dark brown eyes; bind it about her glossy ebony hair falling down on her shoulders like a nun’s outer black veil. Hell’s bells, Brick has fucked Veronique, she in the full regalia of a fully tricked out almond eyed Chinese nun, he a hellish beast an appropriate satanic mask covering Brick’s tow head and white Anglo Saxon Protestant facial contours; a hard rubber sleeve covered with sharply raised bumps, ranks of groves and rows of ridges, the nasty looking cylinder mounted over his cock. That was so hot fucking her like that.
Flat on her back in the midst of the queen sized firm mattress covered by pale blue satin sheet, Veronique’s modest yet magnificent breasts unaffected by any density imposed by gravity. Çankaya Escort Her flat abdomen tight enough to bounce a quarter on its hard plain; her hips swelling out, the silver thong she often favors glorified by this woman’s expansion as is the silver bra string graced by her boobs. Her bust’s erect nipples hard as stacks of coins against my busy fingers, the delta between her wide spread legs beckons like heaven for a homesick angel.
Room air, cooled by a quiet pump outside the house next to one of our dwarf Ylang-Ylang trees blooming gold, snakes about the hard head of Brick’s cock, covers him in bumps of goose flesh quickly gone away pressed against Veronique’s hot bed bound body.
My left hand fishes inside a red enameled box purchased in Chinatown from a trembling, frail looking amah, a sullen old broad clearly a beauty in her youth. Kept in the nightstand, now sitting in the open under the bamboo shaded lamp. I hook a cool to the touch, cool to the eye piece of Pyrex, a butt plug shaped like a tear drop. Blue at its point, amber at its swollen end mounted on a clear glass pedestal, I smear K-Y on its pointed business end; ram it in Sara’s anus. Excuse me Veronique’s anus.
Against the headboard’s two posts Veronique’s hands dangle down. Brick loves her magic fingers doing salacious things such as holding his cock, tweaking her nipples, jabbing one index finger in his supple asshole. Now, these fingers resemble a carrion bird’s eager talons craving to shred meat, cart it to her hungry mouth. At the foot of the bed, her bound ankles, red painted toenails remind me of a barefoot gypsy wench in a long peasant skirt, shaking a tambourine, dancing in candle lit dirt.
I kiss each of Veronique’s toes. Her soles I give a good clobbering with my tongues no different then a kid attacking a frosting covered tablespoon. I kiss each round smooth heel, she flexes against my tongue. Removing a blue feather from the box, I tickle her feet. I tickle more. She laughs loudly; an occasional moan.
As Reuben, Sara’s mate or Brick, Veronique’s fantasy man, I am hung up on this woman’s bare feet. My cock happy as the proverbial clam merely watching Veronique walk on her naked feet, quietly sitting on the sofa one foot crossed over the other, her heels resting on the coffee table or standing, stretching on the tips of her toes, reaching for something too far back in a kitchen cabinet, a book up high in my study. For hours I could think of nothing better then to apply lotion as batter to Sara’s sensuous skin, Veronique’s sexy feet. Rub cocoa butter in to her callous free heels, squirt the stuff on each instep, and pack it deep between each one of her ten toes. I often stroke my cock as I do so.
Now, I focus on Veronique’s long legs, take the tip of a burnt orange feather, slide it ever so softly across Cebeci Escort her tanned pliant skin. Brick want the feather’s caress felt within her womb just as seeing her, touching her, fills his cock with such want, and feels so good in every part of him.
The feather eventually back in the box, Brick removes a silver sewing needle, jabs its snout against various points about her skin. The pin’s point not meant to inflict pain not at all. No, I as Brick have found Veronique or Sara’s most special place, the point where pain and pleasure intersect. She loves the feeling, the needle’s pressure in the midst of that intersection. The blindfold helps immeasurably since she has no idea where the pin’s thrust will next go.
Veronique licks her lips; Sara did the same delivering our two children, Veronique curls her hands into fists, the needle’s point dabs into the flesh just above her cleft. A stream of moans from her mouth, a cacophony of noisy screams energizing my errant cock. I pause to stroke myself, take time to feast my blue eyes on this charming scene.
In the box the needle goes. I rub my hands together in anticipation. Take pride in my perfectly tied square knots, her figure an X covered in sheen of sweat, her turbulent movement about her bounds like a boat bouncing up and down in a choppy sea.
Her gash shines with dew drawn from the lining of her honey pot. She drops her butt down against the bed, feels the plug shoved in more.
On my elbows and knees, I push several fingers inside her. Find her clit, tease it. With my other hand I squeeze her nipples, scratch her breasts. She moans for more. In my crazy mind the picture of Oliver Twist as a plaintive Olivia instead, pleading for more porridge, actually my pleasuring. Her nipples find a way to snake out more.
An unholy Trinity might see it: my tongue, lips, teeth savoring her pussy, pleasing it, pleasuring.
Lifting my head, time to apply sterile surgical gloves to my hands most often used for white collar work, the occasional pruning of a rose bush. Pour a white crystalline substance on the index and middle finger of the left glove, a chemical substance pops, sizzles, feels icy cold and simultaneously hot as hell when making contact with Veronique’s interior. Dry matter meets wet matter, interacts, and froths out of her like Draino erupting from a clogged drain.
Evanescence fizzes, bursts in big bubbles about her loins. Veronique bounces off the bed falls back, the butt plug jammed full in. Quickly the substance’s effect subsides but not before hammering pleasure out of her clit as though a dozen hefty cocked men had soundly fucked her all at once.
“My God, please fuc…,” she screams. Her words are effectively blocked by the plunge of my cock deep into her rose bud of mouth.
Fucking her mouth, Çukurambar Escort I remove the gloves and toss them in the waste bin always filled with the refuse of our playtime activities.
For a good ten minutes she feels the residual after effects of the pleasure powder. She continues to suck my cock.
Her breasts slick, pussy steeped in wetness, she spreads her legs wider, she craves something else down there now.
“Suck that cock baby.”
She does and does and does.
Her saliva coats my cock. Suction, the plant of her mouth around my dick tight enough to threaten the rupture of capillaries, she has done that before.
Brick, I ejaculate, remove my member, semen dripping from its nozzle, free falls on her full lips, her opened mouth.
I need your cock inside me.”
“Right now baby, you get the old love muscle. But first I need to do something else.”
I pull the plug from her anus; it pops out, reach into the magical enamel box, find a hard rubber ebony dildo fourteen inches long, modeled on “The Cuban’s” cock, smear its shiny, ribbed surface with a good deal of K-Y jelly, jam it deep into her ass.
Veronique moans, it is the squeal, the sound of a lively, fat pig making a vain protest in the instance of death by blade.
“Give me your cock, baby.”
How many orgasms has she had? I have lost count.
I untie her bonds remove the silk from over her eyes.
“Now, for the real thing.”
The rubber cock remains in place.
Real cock unreels inside her with ease, no more effort then I might give to breaking wind. My penis chops into Veronique, pushes deep inside her vault. In a steady rhythm I fuck her. My cock is in a vagina clutched tight as a vise. I could shoot this very instance but I hold back. Stall my release, let the pleasure for both of us last.
We kiss. I kiss her nipples too. Then I am on top of her my chest against her breasts. Her arms circle me. She uses her long nails, scratches my back. I fuck her.
I give her a goose with the dildo.
Our sexual frenzy is not sated yet.
“Veronique, my Sara I love fucking you.”
“Keep fucking me Reuben Smoke.”
I do. Me, the troop of clowns, Moro and his bunch of hell raisers, “The Cuban” all for one, one for all instilled in my cock.
Veronique, the mother and daughter in Walletjes, a brilliant schizophrenic sex scene on her part, the fighter in red boxers, Mother Nature the fuck fiend, she is all of them, so many more.
Sitting in the elegant and cool Long bar at Raffles hotel, I wear one of my permanent press white linen suits, a crisp white shirt, drink a Singapore Sling or Planter’s Punch. Sara sits next to me wearing a cheongsam covered with a cherry blossom design demurely sipping a colorful cocktail.
In public I am a respected management consultant, an astute import-export dealer; Sara a skilled professional photographer. Our sex life is subterranean, covert just the way we like it. Our friends know nothing of our proclivities, our pleasures in the privacy of our bedroom.
Such contentment, what a happy marriage we have.