Hor Fun: Chinese Prude Eats Out

A lot of people come to the staircase where I enjoy my morning ritual of coffee and cigarettes. I figure they must be drawn to it for the same reasons I am. Wide open space, enough to host a small reunion. Divine and perpetual breeze, accompanied by the sound of ecstatic, rustling leaves. Drinkers, couples and friends having heart-to-heart talks, cyclists catching their breath; all of them taking in the top-floor view of the estate.

For the most part, the people I meet at the staircase are friendly and willing to share the space. I'm usually there first, so sometimes a surprised couple might stumble in and then hastily leave. Oh well.

One morning I was enjoying and checking the results of last night's game when the door swung open loudly, followed by a Chinese woman who immediately made eye contact with me. I smiled, my eyebrows going up all happy for this surprise entry of a short, tight bodied MILF. I noticed the the big ring, and my eyes immediately drifted down past her calves to see if there was an anklet. No such luck.

"Tch," she clicked her tongue and looked away, walking to a corner. Okay, I thought, she's a prude. I can work with that. I studied her as she turned her back to look out, as if scanning for a waving friend in the nearest block. Her legs were plump, and her butt looked small but still biteable. I felt an instant surge of blood rush to my cock. When she turned she saw me looking down at my groin, and then back at her ass.

"Tch," again, "you people ah, always think about sex only."

"My people?" I asked, staring at her chest.

"You Indians la." She took a step forwards, and then back, as if she just remembered that she was alone here with me. "You are always horny for sex."

I looked away and took a drag of my cigarette, which was nearing the stub. I turned and said "Sorry. To a man, a woman is the most beautiful thing in the world. How can we not stare?"

She didn't quite know how to respond to that. I held my gaze, looking where I wanted. She crossed her arms and looked down.

"Ya, we women also like to look at a good-looking men (her bad English, not mine), but we can control ourselves what."

"Okay." The shifting of my body away and tone of my voice did its job. She disappeared, the door quietly shutting behind her.

I thought about what just happened. I knew she must have been the terrible victim of thousands of pervy stares and come ons by men who lacked shame and the ability to recognise when a woman was out of their league. Like every other woman any place where civilisation thrives, really.

I also knew that such a strong reaction carried with it projection and repression: she was just as likely to be sex-crazy, and she might not need much convincing to act on it, especially when the object was her most personal and prized taboo: a much younger, virile, and dirty Indian fiend outraging her delicate modesty. She, a married woman, taken like an animal, by an animal of lower stature in her clean Chinese eyes.

Hey, that shit works for me too.

*

I decided to change up my routine by getting in a workout before my coffee. So flushed and sweaty from a run in the park, I sat and rolled my morning cigarette. I had recently bought a packet of cherry-flavoured tobacco from a cigar store in the city and was eager to have my first taste. Like the Japanese and their tea ceremonies, I rolled with Zen-like grace, taking my time, being there for every moment, as if it was my last.

I heard the creak of the door and turned. It was her. She had a ridiculous wide-brimmed sun hat on. Coupled with her average SG aunty attire of shorts and top, she looked like a coolie showing up on her first day as a street-walking prostitute.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded.

"I'm walking," she replied, her eyes roving over my sweaty arms, glistening in the morning light.

"I just exercised also." I didn't know if it was runner's high, but her clothes seemed to leave even less to the imagination than before. Why did prim and proper ladies wear such revealing clothes? Never did I rejoice for the full protection my shorts provided when I was in one of the freezing malls these women cohabited. And out in the open air no matter where I stopped I picked up a selection of insect bites. And to what kind of mind was it really truly comfortable having yourself exposed to strangers of all descriptions, in such large numbers, constantly?

Know when I did enjoy wearing shorts? In the gym, where I would hypnotise older bitches like this one with the swinging of my long flaccid cock as I worked the kettlebells. And my boxers, doing nothing for concealment but instead emphasising the shape of it to all the little fitspos gathering around me in their little tribal circles. I ignored all of them, until one by one they started engineering situations for face-to-face interactions near the weight rack or watercooler, and then it was game over. Try it, men. That's how you tease a woman, good clean fun.

"What's your name?" I knew I didn't want to start by calling her 'aunty'; that could wait for when I was balls deep in her guts. She thought she was better than me, I was going to help her adjust that little misconception.

"Janet."

We talked, and I found out she was a long-time resident too, though I'd never seen her before. She had two kids, worked in real estate until she met her husband, a businessman of some renown in the fin-tech realm. It was difficult stifling the yawns, but I managed. She was still keeping her distance. It might have been the small black flies circling my torso. I had no deodorant on, either, so I knew that if she could smell me, she was getting the full musk of an Indian man.

And worse, one who smoked like cigarettes were going out of style soon.

She chastised me for smoking, and when I pried she revealed her dad was a smoker, and everyone in the family failed in getting him to quit. It gets better. Licking the glue of the carefully prepared stick, I asked with an innocent boys' smile if she'd ever had an Indian boyfriend. No, but so many friends are married to them, both local and expatriate. A fleet of hairy mocha men, whose voices were interchangeable and who grew their facial hair the same, all coupling with local Chinese ladies of good stock.

"I see," I said as I stood up, rolled my singlet off and placed it on the railing.

"What are you..."

"Towelling down." I said it as if it was the most obvious thing, and that she was an idiot for having to ask.

She was staring, in disdain for my youth, anger for my audacity, lust for my lean but chiseled physique. I get gold for my yearly IPPT, you know. Pretending I didn't notice, I adjusted my fbts, making them even more crooked. I'd worn them a size smaller too. This is a game for two, honey.

"You know about psychology, Jenny?"

She nodded.

"Is there a possibility that you are secretly attracted to Indian men, and that it's hidden away so deep down that you're not even aware of it?"

She started babbling and moving back. I found it all quite cute, and started touching my thigh and running my hand over my balls. She stopped, transfixed by the sight of me fondling myself so openly. And I looked like I was having a swell time. In seconds my cock was full-sized, a massive tent had formed in my shorts, and my breathing had deepened to yogic proportions.

Jenny simply turned and left again.

*

Three days later, she appeared again as I was about to leave. As I stepped back to let her enter I noticed she was holding a flower pot.

"You shouldn't have," I said, putting my hairy and sweaty arm around the back of her shoulder. She immediately pushed it away, and said that she and some of the other wives had decided to beautify the area with some plantlife, maybe some ornaments.

"Like a little pond with some koi, maybe." I quipped. But she'd revealed something: she lived on this very floor. Interesting.

I stood a few steps behind her, watching her try different positions. When she finally found the right Feng Shui or whatever, she turned around to catch me stroking once more.

"Aiya, whatever, you pervert. Go ahead and play with yourself."

Brave words. "You really don't care, Janet?" I asked with a defiant gleam in my eyes. I pulled out my cock from under the shorts. "Maybe you should give me a taste of my own medicine. Why don't you bend over by the flower pot and show me how you Chinese sluts play with your pussies?"

"Eeyeer!" She groaned, incensed and disbelieving. But there it was, a long black baton, in the shade of her beloved bakkwa, staring her in the face. Again she was transfixed. I slapped my stiff cock against my palm, the resounding impact firm and almost menacing. I suddenly knew why White guys loved China dolls, a cock of any size looked massive in contrast to their bodies.

I was about to walk right up to her and tell her to touch it, or better yet just grab her hand and place it there. But I knew she'd simply walk away again. The patterns of the repressive are so predictable.

So I focused on enjoying the sensations, and when she turned to leave I stared at her ass lewdly, grunting. I wanted her to remember my display. I wanted my obscene cock to be throbbing in her mind, behind her shut eyes as she made dispassionate love to hubby, as she tried to sleep after he was done using her vagina as a legally procured masturbation machine. Haunted at night by the feeling that she was missing out, and in the morning as she prepared breakfast for the family, knowing that I was out there in the corridor, just walking distance from her safe, beautifully renovated home, waiting to expose myself, destined to do the unspeakable with her.

Of course she returned. At first she brought backup, but a gaggle of noisy aunties are no match. It just made my cock all the more apparent, and I revelled in her displeasure as I flirted shamelessly with the other gals.

"Why can't you be as nice as your neighbours?" I ribbed one rainy morning when she was tending to what was now a full-fledged garden, complete with carpet grass.

She rolled her eyes, and turned up her the annoying radio she'd taken to packing in her fanny pack. Chinese opera. Fine. I went back to jerking off, ogling her slight frame as she bent over with straight legs, pretending to work, pretending I wasn't doing what I was doing.

"I like what you did with your hair." I'd quip over the male lead, trying to get her to face me.

"Come on, Jenny, just a little kiss?"

"My balls taste like chin chow, you know."

She didn't bite, but she kept showing up. So my behaviour slowly escalated, and I made sure she heard the loud slurs of the porn I was watching. Once I even took off all my clothes, blaming it on the rain, and I didn't want to catch a cold. I could tell she was getting used to this frequent perversity... In a way I truly was liberating her from the shackles of a limited mind.

One day I told her her butt resembled 'liang ge tien tien chwuen', a pair of sugared doughnuts. She scrunched her flat, piglet's nose and asked me how I learnt to say that. I'll spare you the torridly dry backstory.

"So nice to play meh," smug, suddenly tugging my cock meanly.

"Careful," I said, delirious, "don't want me cumming on your pretty toes.

I wasn't entirely lying; they were kinda stumpy, and I totally wouldn't have minded wetting her nails.

"You try, and see what I do to you." Oh, this was a tiger mommy.

A button-shaped nipple. Curious thing. I pressed and rolled, my thumb rubbing it like a clit. Finally, I put my lips on it. I wetted my mouth. Her lips pressed in, she was telling me to stop but her hands... were they pushing me onto her tit?

I stopped and looked up, straightening my back. I was a full two heads taller than Janet. I rested my hands on her ass, peeling her cheeks apart slightly, just a little, virtually unnoticeable. A gentleman's ass-spread.

Kidding. I had a part to play, remember?

"Jenny, I like Chinese women because they know how to submit to a man," moving her to her knees.

"They know how to please, know how to give themselves over to him, to their pleasure.

"I want you to surrender to me." I pressed my cock into her already open mouth.

When I nutted, it was with my shaft balancing nimbly on the bridge of her nose, poised like a rocket. Streams of off-white jism painted her freshly permed auburn hair. It's good protein, like getting a scrub. Her friends, the other whores of dark depraved men, would know.

I backed away, and resumed my original position on the foot of the steps, bare-assed. She remained kneeling, breathing, her eyes darting from the crisp world beyond the recessed opening in the wall, to me nonchalantly rolling a fat cigarette, my cock softening, its head bearing a pearl.

What was going through her mind? Did she expect a compliment? Tips she could use on her man when she needed a new LV? Maybe shed whatever bills I had in my wallet and tell her to piss off.

She said goodbye meekly as she got up to leave, her head bowed with the oriental reserve and reverence so widely documented and caricatured. Specks of cum crusting the barely-there brow and lashes above her left eye.

I looked up pensively, as if I didn't know she was still here, an erotic alabaster statue with scraped, aching knees, courtesy of the carpet grass she had painstakingly installed.

"Till next time, Jan."

*

Janet began showing up on the regular for her training. Spending each session bent over, my stiff cock bulging in her throat, or its swollen head pushing out her cheeks, while I smoked and sipped my brew. Sometimes I told her stories, about the things I was going to let her experience, if she behaved. Most of the time, my hand was firmly fixed at the nape of her neck to stop her coming up for air. Slowly but surely, she internalised and perfected the sequence of pleasing her lecherous Indian captor: shut up, swallow, and hold.

I looked forward to our meetings, they were delightfully simple. As it should be when a man attains a mouth concubine. I always felt refreshed after, and she clearly got off in her own way, the pathological little milkmaid.

I was waiting one morning, with my pants off and a freshly open bottle of water-based Durex lube that I got from the 7/11. I was all smiles for the cashier, a Chinese fatty who reminded me of Kermit's wife. If only she knew I was heading upstairs to use it immediately with an uppity bitch, who was quickly rivalling me in the depths she was willing to sink, just to get her fix.

I tugged, recalling how she crawled on the grass as I spanked her clothed bottom with somebody's dustpan, promising to set her up with the bangla washing the floors just beyond the door. You know a lot our sweet little locals do have this fantasy, of entering the dusty hovels where these foreign workers sleep, sixteen to a room or something like that, and being everybody's lady through the night, don't you? And this bitch right here was so drenched I thought she was helping him clean. A big wet patch from her crotch through white thong and shorts.

I ran my hand with another generous dollop of lube so that the floor was already a mess. Janet couldn't stomach the thick, chemical taste and threw up water every so often. It was glorious to behold, even if she didn't seem to quite get the play of it yet. An overgrown baby refusing to take the nice, yummy choochoo. One time she brought up her McMuffin, chunks on my balls for piggy to enjoy a second time.

The door opened, but instead of Jenny, in hobbled a lady who was much older. She could've been her mother. She pushed a trolley in, parked it in the corner, began riffing through its contents. I figured she was one of the many elderly folk who searched through junk that residents disposed, looking for scraps to salvage and pawn.

Suddenly she turned and walked up to me with a foldable chair. She sat it down and in Mandarin told me to sit. I thanked her and smiled. I had not stopped stroking the whole time. It was feeling too damn good, and besides, having an audience should always be flattering. I turned the chair and gestured for her to sit instead, but no, she preferred to stand.

Ah Ma never looked at my cock. She preferred to hold my gaze with a warm, knowing smile, nodding. The woman approved. I relaxed back in the chair (good leather) and pulled on my balls with a delighted groan, returning her smile. Like the others, she was clearly a woman who still felt her sexuality. In her time she'd probably serviced many businessmen with her holes. I was letting her know that I saw and respected her femininity, and was happy to be near it and worship in my own way.

She unclasped her hands and waved goodbye as she turned to leave. Now I was really ready to go. Fuck it, I decided, I was going to drop a load in Janet's unkempt pussy (I had pulled aside the twill one day and discovered the forest within the chinos). I didn't know if she was still fertile; she could've been in her late 30s. But lust won out, and besides there was an abundance of lube. Maybe her pussy would spew up my load too, like a dolphin with its blowhole. Hey, blowhole's a pretty good moniker for a woman's mouth.

But Janet never showed, and it was to be months before I would see her again.

*

Aside from the staircase, I also enjoy going to the rooftop of the multi-storey carpark. It was connected to the block, and a nice change, shelterless and perfect for staring at satellites and low-flying military aircraft, waiting for the stars to all appear at once out of nowhere.

The chubby man walked into the lift, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was holding the door open for him. To my surprise Janet followed in behind him. I could tell she was horrified, but she managed to keep it in. Her husband already had his head down towards his phone. Stand back, fintech genius in action.

I studied his face in the reflection of the closing glass. He looked twenty years older than Janet. Either that or she must have been draining him pretty good after her apprenticeship with yours truly.

Hubby's practically sanding off his forehead against the door, I'm at the back, and our Janet's caught in between. Perfect.

Didn't want her jumping up and breaking hubby's focus, so I glided my hand lightly over her ample bottom. Just to let her know her decency was about to be violated, like the good old times. Don't panic.

Janet had actually taught me something of immense value during our time together: never judge a Chinese whore by her cover. By this I mean that clothes bring absolutely no flattery for a chink's body. Roleplay as a peacock, wear the shortest shorts you want; your ass still looks like a plane could run off on it. But relieve them of the garment and you'll find curves galore. She's perfect.

So I squeezed her left butt cheek rough. Her reflection bit her lip and slowly bowed her head, into shadow. I pushed into the back of her shorts, past the teddies and hearts. Oh my god, she was shaved. Wet, too. Big surprises today.

I plunged my fingers in and reined her backwards. It probably hurt. I hope it did. I start moving in circles, spreading my fingers as wide as I could in her pussy.

We reached the ground floor, and they went off towards their block, hubby still lurching into his screen. She turned around and by the look she gave I knew she'd be at the staircase.

Five or so minutes later I pushed open the door to see my China tiger on all fours, her head still bent. Some lessons you just don't forget, I suppose. I unzipped my fly and smacked my cock on my palm, dragging out the moments before the next hit. I circled to her rear and pulled down the shorts and panties to her knees.

"Those are some wretched skid marks, you trashy hooker."

My cock was inching towards full erection, about the size of a KitKat bar now. I rested it against the lid of her pussy, which was already gaping slightly.