Mid-Levels

Straight up from Central, the heart of Hong Kong, via wide, well-worn stairs, the Mid-Levels hang on the steepness, in a crazy lego patchwork; you feel that if you just pulled out a single building, the whole set of blocks would cascade down in a child’s play pile of rubble. Stiletto heels everywhere, even on these narrow, crooked, cobbled and steep streets. We enter a store that sells curios – hundreds of cheap Chinese teapots and glass ornaments imitating jade. She wants a tea set, not that she will ever use it, but to remind her of these moments, this air. To remind her of how she looks, the store dusty and brightly lit, tawdry, and the street outside garish with multi-coloured neon signs; a thin black shawl hangs loosely down from her bare shoulders which are creamy, mottled with a few freckles. Her breasts strain against her red tank top, spaghetti straps biting slightly into her skin. Her skirt looks like it is patched together with irregular swatches of gauzy rags, in a variety of lengths of red, purple and yellow. The way she is standing, with one leg straight and locked, the other leg bent at the knee, cocks one hip higher than the other, and extends one foot forward. Her heels are thicker than stilettos, and across the band over the top of her foot there are little crescents of silver on the black leather. Her toes are painted the same bright pink as earlier.

The Peak

The Peak. The day down below had been sunny and humid; on the Peak it was fogged in. We had taken the tram up, bemused by the steep angle of ascent. Now up at the Peak, through the fog, we had glimpses of expensive cars, the houses of the very wealthy. Many tourists, like us, were milling around, making the best of a disappointing situation. The sun occasionally suggested itself as a faint bright dot in the fog. Later, I was fucking her ass, she was spread-eagled on the bed and my hand was wrapped under her, fingering her clit. It was one of her favorite positions. I love to feel the contraction of muscles inside her ass when her orgasm erupts. Her gasps and cries when she came were muffled into the pillow, and I suddenly thought again of the fog, as if the guttural animal sounds were coming to me through some dense cloud, and I couldn’t see anything, and only knew it was her because of those familiar tremors from some deep volcanic part of her.

Bus to Stanley

The bus to Stanley twists over and around the hills, and then along Repulse Bay. We will shop at the market, finding cheap ties we will give to friends back home and loose silk trousers we will wear around the house back in Canada. Months later, we will feel the silk trousers against our bare skin, and once again be enveloped in the smells from the meat shop where orange dusted chickens and rabbits hang in the window, again feel the wending of our bodies through a crowd. Once our shopping is finished, we will eat at a restaurant serving Australian pizza and hamburgers, which don’t taste too different from the pizza and hamburgers we are used to. We will each drink a can of Foster’s lager. On the way home on the bus, we will decide that tonight we will take the ferry over to Kowloon, and find the restaurant whose name we can’t remember where we had Peking duck last time. She is dull with sleepiness after the beer – she sleeps easily. I watch her face relax against my arm, eyes closed, as we descend toward the incredibly crowded streets below, where the cars are massed and move like corpuscles of mechanized blood.

The Peninsula

We have arranged to meet at 11:30 for lunch, but I delay a bit, watching from behind a pillar. I like to observe her. Natalie sits on one of the plush chairs in the lobby of the Peninsula Hotel, where women fresh from shopping sip coffee together and beside their LV and Prada bags, where businessmen from many countries meet to discuss money. She is wearing a pale pink silk dress, which looks like it could come from one of the fashion boutiques attached to the hotel, but it really came from a rack of a hundred dresses at the market on Nathan Road last night. Ten dollars. She will throw it out, possibly before we leave Hong Kong. The dress has a relatively modest cut, showing a few inches of leg above her knee as she sits, showing her bare arms, the candy pink of her fingernails resting on one thigh. Her legs are angled and bent at the knee, ankles crossed. One of her heels is lifted away from the sole of the bright pink sandal, the arch of her foot duplicating the arch of her shoe; her toes are painted the same candy pink as her fingernails. She looks like she belongs, sipping her tea languidly, her mind lost in the middle distance, privately enjoying being the object of the perusal of those who enjoy a woman’s lines: the slope of neck and shoulders, the concave and convex of waist and hips, pretty legs and feet.

Sugasm #118

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #119? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

An Erotic Story…Samson and Delilah

“Now how exactly does one go about seducing a preacher?”

A Kiss

“Then, the lulling low roar of your voice falls away and we are both leaning forward, transfixed.”

Clif & Lydia Drop Over The Edge

“She nervously giggled and lowered her lashes. ”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

The Secret of Playboy Legs

Editor’s Choice

The Carnival of Feminists 53: Call for submissions

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

Erotic Angels (1)

Erotic angels are like other kinds of angels: their appearance is subtly different from the visits of purely human creatures, which is why you don’t recognize them at first. Non-believers are stubborn about asserting that in fact they are humans, nothing more, and that the serendipity associated with their presence is just coincidence. Such people only believe in what they can see and touch. You might as well say gravity doesn’t exist. Or love, for that matter.

Those of us who ponder our sexual selves, and who set sail to a sexual shore that will feel like an exotic, undiscovered land, and like home at the same time - we sometimes do find that harmony between our inner rhythms and the rhythms of our partners. Out of our experiences, our reflections, and from the cards fate has dealt us, we gather the past and present into our minor supernovas. Erotic angels, though, don’t come from the past like that; they visit from the future. They come from somewhere we haven’t been yet, and open the door to rooms we were unaware of. Nor do we realize, at first, that an erotic angel has visited. I have an erotic angel right now, for instance, but I was hardly expecting her.

My first erotic angel visited the summer after I turned seventeen. I was working just outside Montreal for the summer, speaking French all week, and on weekends I would go into the city and stay with a married couple who were distant friends of one of my teachers. I had a girlfriend, Janet, back in Ontario, and we had started having sex about eight or nine months earlier. Janet and I loved sex, it was new to us, and we had strong teenage libidos, but Janet was not an erotic angel. First loves are rarely erotic angels; most of the time they are just fellow explorers, and novices.

The couple, Frank and Melanie, lived in the old city, right opposite the old Church of Notre Dame. They were about ten years older than me. Frank was a movie director, with one documentary to his credit. Melanie was a model, who appeared frequently on television and in magazines. They were wonderful to me. They welcomed me into their bohemian apartment with open arms, and an open fridge. I would sit out in the square in front of the church, just below their apartment, and watch the sunny world go by. Frank was explosive and emotional; Melanie’s armour against him was her prettiness, which she wore with a smile, along with the detailed decoration of her painted fingernails, her carefully made-up mouth, and her silky skin.

Frank was in the middle of finding backers for a movie, and spent a lot of time interviewing set designers and camera crews and all the other people you need for a movie. He was hardly ever home, and when he was there, he was entirely full of his movie, how powerful it was, how ridiculous people were, how he was going to be brilliant. I had never really seen adults fight like they did. Tooth and nail, dishes flying, no surrender, grudges maintained for an entire weekend.

You have probably guessed that my erotic angel was Melanie. Because I had a serious girlfriend back home, I honestly wasn’t looking for sex. That’s often how it happens – you think you’re doing pretty well in your own sexual present, and then the future arrives.

Frank didn't come home for two weekends. The first of those weekends, Melanie pulled out some pot and we smoked. It was muggy hot as only an inner city can be in July. I remember clearly the Vivaldi violin concertos that flowed all around us, and seemed to sparkle all along her limbs as she did her impromptu dancing. The second weekend I was looking forward to smoking pot again, and I wondered if Frank would be there. He wasn’t.

Friday night I arrived, and Melanie greeted me laconically, her brow a thunderhead. It was impossibly hot again. I went down to the little corner grocery below their apartment and picked up a couple of Italian sandwiches. We ate them, drank beer. Then she rolled a joint, and we smoked it. She put on the Vivaldi again, and stood there moving randomly, swaying, her eyes heavy-lidded, a half-smile on her face. She extended a hand in invitation, which brought me to my feet, and we danced together in this odd, swaying, irregular improvisation. She said I was such a teenager. Those exact words: “Such a teenager.” She loved that, she said, and then she said, “don’t you want to kiss me?” She didn’t wait for my answer, but spread both our hands out wide so our chests touched, and brought her smiling mouth to mine so that our teeth clacked. I had never had a teeth-clacking kiss before, so it really sticks in my mind.

I was floating in a moist and pungent glowing cloud. (That’s another sign of the visit of an erotic angel, that cloud – I’m sure some of you recognize it.) Melanie was so pretty, and just started to open me up, unpeel me like an artichoke, scraping flesh from each piece of me she lifted away. She took off my t-shirt, kissed and bit my chest, my nipples. I had never been bitten before; Janet had never sucked my nipples, which were very sensitive. I realize now that Melanie knew I would cum soon after she took my cock out, which is what happened. Several powerful spurts of white cum over her silky legs as she stroked my cock gently with the prettiest fingers I had ever seen.

That was just the beginning. She kept calling me the perfect teenager, and I simply flowed against her, like warm plasticene, through the evening, and the weekend, surrounded by that sensual mist of hers. She pressed on my flesh with her fingers, strangely, as if she wanted to leave her fingerprints. She left several perfect sets of teethmarks on my chest, my stomach, my thigh next to my cock and balls. She sucked my cock assertively, instructively, as if to show me what lay in store for me when I went out into the world. She assumed I was a novice, and showed me how to touch her clit, how to suck it, how to fuck her on her hands and knees with my fingers, and then my cock.

I went home on Sunday evening, taking the subway to the end of the line. Sitting on the bus that would take me the rest of the way, I remember looking out at the failing light that was setting on Montreal, and trying to count the number of times I had cum. I kept losing count, because I would go through each orgasm and then get caught up in the recollection of one particular instance, and have to start over. It was easily at least twenty times, a number that seems absurd now. But that was the number I eventually arrived at. I am a bit of a stickler about numbers like that.

The next week, I quit my job at the cookie factory. I hated the job, and my girlfriend had found me a job at the resort where she worked in Muskoka. I stayed with Melanie one last night; Frank was gone for good. We were both very sad that Friday night. Melanie tried very hard to keep smiling, and she made me dinner, with candles. I felt a bit funny. Off-kilter. We kissed many times during dinner, but we didn’t touch each other sexually. After dinner I stood looking down at the evening light on the square in front of Notre Dame. Melanie came behind me, wrapped her fingers around me, those pretty fingers, and undid my shorts. There in the window, she knelt, out of sight of the street below, my cock also out of sight, and sucked me off. That set us off, and we retired to her bed where we fucked four or five more times before morning.

In the morning she came with me to the train station. It was crowded, and noisy. At the gate I didn’t know what to do, but she did. She turned me toward her and kissed me on the lips. As I descended the stairs to go down to the platform, I looked back and she was still at the top, in front of the rest of the crowd. She mouthed the words “I love you,” which froze me, then she waved, and the crowd got in the way.

After that, we exchanged exactly one card each.

In writing, we were too prosaic; her angel-being was gone. But that’s what she was, definitely, my first erotic angel.

Showing off

We take the ferry from Hong Kong to Cheung Chau, one of the outlying islands. It is a sunny day, and warm. Cheung Chau is small, no more than a fishing village nestled into a high backbone of rock and scrub. There are no cars. While we are eating lunch - a collection of small local fish mixed with garlic and hot spices and vegetables – a walking funeral procession goes by on the narrow street in front of us. It is colourful, quiet, and not quite as solemn as we are used to. On the boat back in the sunlight I am quite mesmerized by how Natalie looks. She is wearing a black and white sundress that crisscrosses over her breasts. The wind is blowing the dress tight against her, plastering it to her body as if it is soaking wet, showing her nipples, the curves of her stomach, the crease of her thighs. You can tell she is not wearing panties. She leans back against the steel bulkhead of the boat, and I lean into her, rubbing my thickening cock against her thigh. She knows how erotic she looks. The ferry is moderately busy; it is a passenger ferry only. Natalie closes her eyes, angles her face upward, leans back against the bulkhead and enjoys the heat of the sun. She knows men are stealing furtive glances; even a pair of teenage girls look at her and confer in agitated whispers, their eyes examining her body, not sure whether to be shocked or fascinated.

The bar on the ground floor of the Mandarin is always full; the hotel and several near it are customary overnight stops for business men and women on their way through. Over the sound of a banal trio singing covers of jazz favorites you can hear the sound of a number of accents : English, Scottish, Australian, Canadian, New Zealand. Usually there is someone speaking German, and these days, Russian. Tonight I am feeling some inner heat, and Natalie is feeling full of some buzz of liberty that comes with foreign places. We talk about how erotic she looked earlier on the ferry; I tell her how her nipples looked; where the fabric had a swatch of white, you could see the curve of her tanned aureole.

Once in San Francisco I bought her a very attractive bustier; I remember when I went to pay for it and a couple of bras, I asked the girl serving us to check the addition; it couldn’t come to $400. I hadn’t checked the cost of the bustier; it lifted her breasts prettily, stopping just at the aureoles of her nipples – in fact, when she turned certain ways, and moved her arms, the aureoles of her nipples became visible through a narrow strip of crinkled black gauze that rimmed the top of the bustier; it had looked so fantastic on her I hadn’t even thought about cost, assuming it would be in the same ballpark as other items in the store. It turned out to cost over $300, but I was smitten with it. This is what she wears tonight. With a black suede skirt down past her knees, and leather boots. She looks encased in black, bursting from her bustier, so ripe. She is to sit at the bar and order a drink; I will watch from just outside, at the edge of the hotel lobby. This is something we had done before; her line if approached is that she is waiting for someone, but he is late and she has just about given up on him. This gives hope to anyone whose eye she has caught.

Two German businessmen ended up taking stools next to her. Their eyes take in her outfit, her silky dark red hair falling just to her creamy shoulders, the creamy roundness of her breasts. She accepts a glass wine, and answers their questions as planned. Emboldened by drink, one of them rested a hand on her thigh; which she maneuvers away from after a period of time that let him know her initial reaction is positive, but then has thought better of it. He finds a pretext to look at her earrings, and places a hand on her shoulder, kneading it. The other man is staring at her breasts, lifted by the bustier.

I approach and she turns, making her apologies to the two men. She introduces me to them, Hans and Dieter, and they accept their disappointment with good grace, following her with longing as we find a sofa away from the bar.

Later that night I undress her at the edge of the window in our room in the hotel, a few paces back from the glass. I do it slowly, and she watches to see if anyone in the hotel opposite is watching, where five or six rooms in the opposite hotel might have a view. Then in one of the rooms we see a couple of figures. Females. Very briefly, we speculate that it is a pair of young women, perhsps college girls on a trip, or young office workers, a couple of secretaries here for a weekend. They half-hide behind their curtains. Possibly, in this poor light - the light from one bedside lamp on the opposite side of the room – they might see me scrape my fingers down the front of Natalie’s naked body. I take my time. Pinch her nipples. Take more time. Bury a couple of fingers in her cunt. Then I turn her, kneel in front of her so her back is toward the window, her legs spread, my shape visible between her legs. I continue to fuck her with two fingers, my tongue on her clit. She keeps her balance by resting her hands on my head. Finally, she cums, her body convulsing and jerking, till she has to bend over my head, her knees collapsing. I let her recover herself, then she stumbles to the bed, where she lies down on her back, naked, her eyes glazed over, a bit of a crazy smile on her face.

I pull the drapes and stand against the tv cabinet at the end of the bed, then pull one of those little bottles of scotch out of the minibar. I know she never likes to cum only once. Her first orgasm just sort of lights the fire, especially for that next one, which always seems to be her most intense one. I sip my scotch and make a motion at her cunt with the glass as I take it from my lips. “Go ahead, mon amour, you know I love to see you cum.” Her fingers go to work, she lifts her knees, and I watch, her fingertips glistening, the wet sound occasionally rising above the sound of the air system. I part the drapes and see the two young women are still watching. When Natalie is close, she straightens out her legs, as always. This is how I usually know she is about to cum: she can’t help straightening her legs and curling her toes. Then she is convulsing, moaning, gasping… it seems to go on forever. Finally when she is done I pour her a glass of wine, one of her favorite things. I close the curtains.

Sugasm

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #118? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

A Fable

“They start touching her, gingerly at first, wondering what magic is in her.”

Fiction: The Island Princess and the Monkeys Who Tie Knots

“You naughty, naughty, NAUGHTY monkeys!”

Sexy Is In Your Mind

“Sexy is an attitude and really all in your mind.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Chickipedia

Editor’s Choice

Take a walk on the wild side.

More Sugasm


Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Mind the Gap

Mind the gap. It’s strange to hear this phrase as we board the subway – the MTR as it’s known in Hong Kong.. But this was a British colony till 1997, after all. It is now the 21st century, 2004. We come here once or twice a year.

I check my watch; we are still okay. Mr. Ho offered to send a driver for us, but the MTR takes half the time. Cities with subway systems are so much easier to get around. A group of teenage girls is standing and sitting at the end of the car. Natalie has an eye for detail, and points out the frilly ankle socks the girls are wearing with their (again – it seems to be the uniform) stiletto heels. Their legs are quite skinny; later in life their legs will fill out; it appears to be inevitable. As they stand and sway, giggling to each other and squealing into their cell phones, they reveal other details: navel rings with long dangling pink stones; a tattooed character at the base of a spine, fingernails with some sort of glittery design on them. Oddly, they seem only remotely sexual; Natalie, sliding her hand up my thigh to my crotch, discovers my cock is flaccid, unexcited by these unaware girls. At the other end of the car is a young couple, clearly a few years older; she has one arm wrapped around his waist, her head buried in his chest as they, too, sway between stops. He plays with her hair; she shakes her head and giggles. She is wearing a tiny skirt, tight and shiny. A jacket top which masks her upper body. Strappy heels. They are still locked in their embrace when we disembark.

Natalie is wearing exquisite shoes tonight. It is quite common for women to be dressed up in Hong Kong. There is no telling which cities might have this characteristic. One of the most disappointing cities for couture on the street is, oddly, Paris. As if Parisians treat couture with disdain, and dress down, drab and boxy. Her favorite cities for dressing up? New York, Montreal, Toronto, San Francisco, London, Vancouver, Hong Kong. Oh, and Tokyo. Yes, Tokyo, for sure, where all the young people want to be cutting edge, with their 21st century cell phones, tiny cameras. Where they have the most complicated subway system in the world. Where they have vending machines that sell school girls’ panties.

Yes, her shoes are exquisite. Coming back from dinner on the MTR, she puts her feet together and smiles at them. The shoes are basically gold and strappy, with somewhat thicker straps, and the gold is metallic, reflecting different colours at times. The shoes are nevertheless dainty and elegant, despite the powerful statement they make. Her feet are very pale, with a very few freckles. Her toes are painted that glossy deep dark red that I like. I compliment her on her feet and shoes, then lift one of her legs and take her foot in my lap, and run my hand over the top of it, then my fingers along her arch, touching each toe gently, touching in between each toe. This drives her wild. Her tummy contracts visibly, and she jumps. We get out at Central and wind our way up to our hotel.

She leaves her shoes on, nothing else. I am sitting in the bathrobe, flipping through a magazine. She sits on the edge of the bed, her knees spread, her hands between her legs, sitting forward, smiling at me, her feet in her shoes pointing outward. She smiles beatifically. I know she wants me to adore her feet. At least that’s what I think she wants. Then she slides one foot up my calf, under the robe and along my thigh. She finds my cock. I lean back and undo the robe, letting my now stiff cock stand up, while she delicately moves her foot, and shoe, along it, around it, carefully lifting my balls. My cock is throbbing, pulsing, beating rhythmically with the blood beating through it. After a few minutes of this I reach down and remove her shoe, and beckon for the other foot, whose shoe I also remove. Then her soft, small feet resume their play with my cock and balls. As my precum starts to ooze, it coats her toes and the new slipperiness makes the sensations even more erotic. Intense. I grip the arms of the chair, trying to sustain the moment, the torture of this pleasure. I cum. My cum shoots up into the air three, four, five times with decreasing power, all over her feet and calves, running down off her heels, down her legs. She is grinning fiercely, then scampers over on her knees between my legs and takes my cock in her hand, licks it clean. I run my fingers through her hair and catch my breath. My god, I say, I am going to plan something for you. For you and your pretty, pretty feet. She grins up at me, so pleased with herself, like she just got an A, a good little schoolgirl.