by Zane
I panted, gyrated, then let go and shoved my knuckles against my lips to keep from screaming when my entire abdomen clenched and spasmed as a powerful orgasm shuddered through me.
My thighs shook, the muscles straining, barely able to hold me aloft. I heard a noise and glanced at the doorway. No one was there. Had someone been watching? The thought fired my excitement.
The walls of my pussy were still shaking. I felt light-headed.
Again. I wanted him to touch me. Again and again.
“Breathe,” he whispered, pulling away and licking his lips. They glistened with my juices.
He pushed three fingers of one hand inside my vagina and swirled them around, capturing more liquid. My rippling muscles gripped his fingers, holding him tightly. I whimpered when he pulled out and watched, dazed, as he brought his wet hand to his erection and stroked himself, moistening every splendid inch.
“Taste. I want a taste.”
“Next time, you may choose the poses, the actions. This is my day to educate. Lesson three: Always obey your instructor.”
I pointed toward his dampened penis. “Do I get that next?”
“Roll over and lift your hips.”
“That’s not an answer,” I grumbled, ordering my weak limbs to obey. I positioned myself as he’d directed, placing my hands and knees on the mats, stretching my spine and angling my butt high in the air, hoping he’d take the hint. I heard a muffled cough. Taek? Or someone else witnessing my descent into decadent debauchery?
God, I was turned on by the thought. I ignored the doorway and looked toward the mirrored wall, focusing on our reflections. The sight of Taek standing behind me, stroking his erection as he admired the view of my ass, made my eyes widen. “‘Chaotic action is preferable to orderly inaction,’” I said to our reversed images.
He playfully slapped his cock on my rump. “Confucius?”
I flicked my hips, seeking the tip of his rod with my wet mound. “Will Rogers. Another great—” I gasped when he knelt behind me and circled my entrance, teasing me, taunting me. “Philosopher! God, will you get on with it?”
I tried to lower myself against the head of his cock, but he moved, keeping out of reach. Keeping me dancing to his tune. “Where’s the tequila when I need it?”
Taek leaned forward, blanketing my back with his hard chest, and intertwined his left hand with mine, tangling our fingers. His erection nudged between my thighs. I held still this time and gritted my teeth, praying he’d reward my patience.
“To prolong the anticipation is to prolong the pleasure,” he whispered hotly against my ear.
My lower body hummed so fiercely, my heart beat so ferociously, I feared he was right. “Confucius?”
“No, that’s all Taek Dae Yang and so is this.” Taek rammed in to the hilt, filling me completely, indulging my self-indulgent side better than any vibrator on the market.
“Smart man—that—Yang.” My words came out in staccato spurts as he methodically pounded inside me, driving so deep I almost slipped off the edge of the mats.
I rocked my hips, bucking against his groin, hoping to encourage him to speed up, but he only slowed the long, controlled—did I say long?—rhythmic glides of his penis. He continued thrusting in and out of my sheath with excruciating stamina. I arched into him, practically purring. “I need you to go faster,” I panted, feeling another orgasm hovering, just out of reach. “But, oh, God—don’t stop what you’re doing.” My insides fluttered, twitched, clasped around his plunging dick like it was a lifeline. “It’s incredible…my lips are going numb…can’t feel…my toes…”
And I just kept undulating beneath the forceful, penetrating thrusts whose speed he never varied.
Taek’s right hand slid up my stomach, past my collarbone and neck, and he lifted my chin until I was staring at him in the mirror. I trembled, seeing my reflection. Was that me?
The female with the wide, uncertain eyes, face flushed with passion, entire body quivering…kneeling in an unfamiliar position of submission, under the direction and control of the soft-spoken Asian who quoted Socrates and wielded his erect member as if it should be insured by Lloyd’s of London?
“Last and final lesson of the day. ‘It does not matter how slowly you go, so long as you do not stop.’”
“Oh, God, don’t stop.”
He tilted my face until we were staring at each other, no longer using the mirror as a buffer. Twin rivulets of sweat dripped from his temples and edged alongside his nose. His full lips touched mine, then retreated. “I won’t, if you won’t. And that was Confucius.”
And then his mouth took mine. Grinding my lips against my teeth, he pushed his tongue inside and I gorged myself on it, loving the spicy flavor…my first taste of him. He groaned low in his throat and his hips jerked, forcing his cock even higher inside me. I bit down on his tongue and reared against him, my thighs trembling with the need to straighten. Both my hands went between my legs, where I touched myself, feeling his cock as it slid in and out of my body. My fingers tangled around my clit and I screamed, coming so hard I saw spots—white spots that whirled before my eyes.
His tongue slid from my mouth, scraping against my top teeth. He smiled at me and drove higher, straightening his back and legs and literally lifting me off the mat with his arms wrapped beneath my breasts. I felt the rush of his release as it bathed the areas he’d so recently pummeled.
My arms fell to my sides. I stared again at the mirror, gazing at the exotic man who held me. Now I really needed that drink.
“No worries, you are definitely ready for my intermediate class.” His words were a bit unsteady, I was pleased to note. “But I’d rather tutor you in private.”
My mind was slow on the uptake, but his meaning finally penetrated. “Private lessons? Won’t that be expensive?”
“I’m sure we can agree upon a trade; perhaps my instruction in exchange for your willingness to learn?” He stood and slipped from between my legs, then turned me to face him. I gripped his shoulders, trying to ignore the throbbing in my loins and formulate an answer.
Was I willing to trade my body for yoga lessons? It sounded good to me, but I did have some pride. “Is that an offer you make to all of your students?”
“Only the ones whose eyes follow me for seven long weeks before they ever say a word.” He traced my eyebrow with his index finger. “Only the ones who quote philosophers and have the courage to get naked in the studio, where anyone could walk in.”
“And how many have there been? That do all of that?”
“Counting you?” He slid his hand down my back and teased my bare bottom. “Only two.”
“Two?” Hmm, that was better than I’d expected. “And what happened to the other?”
He flipped me around, until I was once again staring at the mirror. “You’re looking at her.”
His broad palms covered my breasts. “The woman in that mirror has haunted me since I first saw her Cobra pose and imagined how she, you”—he gave my breasts a squeeze—“would look doing the Bhujangasana while nude, riding me.”
I started to sweat from the inside out. “Shall we find out?”
Suddenly, the strands of bamboo clacked together. Taek whipped me behind his naked body, where I stood on my toes and investigated his intriguing tattoo with my tongue.
“I’m loathe to interrupt, but I’ve had three complaints already. Maybe you two should get dressed before we lose any more clients.”
I snuck a peek over Taek’s shoulder and saw a handsome Asian poking his head through the velvet drape. Another Yang brother, I realized, seeing the same tattoo I’d been exploring adorning this man’s neck. My fingers tightened on Taek’s waist. “Your tattoos, what are they?”
“Smells like a damn orgy in here.” The newcomer pushed through the curtain. “Forgive me, but my tai chi class starts in twelve minutes. I’ve got to light some incense, try and disperse the stench.”
Grinning widely, Taek handed me his shirt, which I quick
ly slipped over my head. He drew on his shorts and pulled me to his side. “Chae’s just jealous. His girlfriend’s out of town.”
Chae gave us a dark look, got the incense smoking, and left.
Stifling laughter, Taek hauled me to him and gripped both sides of my bare ass. Desire hit me again. I covered the smooth swells of his pecs with my hands and leaned forward, nipping the tight muscles with my lips. “The tattoo?”
“They stand for balance. We all have one.”
Indulgence is mine, I thought.
“Dinner tonight?” he asked, his fingers teasing the humid crevice between my legs.
“You bet.” I wiggled, positioning one finger just where I wanted it. “I’ll bring the margaritas.”
Past Reclaimed
RENÉE MANLEY
AFTER LAST YEAR’S SPRING holiday in Tobuan, Pangasinan, a two-week period of Catholic mysticism and erotic voluptuousness in Joaquin Madrid’s company, I decided to go for broke. When schedules were posted for the new academic year, I bit the bullet and marked my calendar for Christmas. It was the most expensive season for Philippine travel, thereby negating any other vacation possibilities for the rest of the year. I convinced myself that those week-to two-week-long breaks between school terms could be better spent cleaning my apartment while my checking account remained untouched for a little while longer.
For a part-time lecturer who spent more of his time driving between three different campuses than teaching, traveling during the holidays could be seen as a means of self-punishment, crammed in coach class with homebound natives and globetrotting tourists for a fourteen-hour flight. But I wanted to go—needed to go—felt the compulsion. My head swam. My cock stirred under the influence of an endless stream of delicious prospects.
“So what’s going on?” Cyndi asked. We marched out of our shared office, arms piled high with student essays.
“I’m flying back home for Christmas.”
“You managed to squeeze in the time unlike last year?”
I grinned and shrugged, heat creeping up my cheeks. “I have to. Taking an entire term off just to fly home for Holy Week really screwed me over financially.”
“As if this is going to be any better.”
“I’m not taking time off from work. Making up for the gaping hole in my checking account won’t be as traumatic as last year.”
We’d reached the staff lot by this time. It was a chilly evening, and I took in several deep breaths to revel in the crisp autumn scents, wondering how Christmas would smell in the Philippines. It had been several years since I celebrated the holidays back home. For all the visual memories that sprang to mind when I made an effort to remember, no olfactory connections could be made. I hoped to rectify that this time around, expecting Joaquin to be a huge part of my experience. A familiar heat stirred in my jeans at the remembrance of Joaquin’s scents—skin, sweat, heat, semen, all commingling deliciously with the calm and somber atmosphere of Holy Week, undefiled beaches, nipa huts, and faceless flagellants.
“Are you seeing your school friend again?”
I looked at Cyndi. She’d gotten into her car without my being aware of it, and she’d rolled down her window to lean out, a mischievous grin creasing her features. Even her freckles seemed to smile with her. I chuckled, shifting my burden in my arms.
“I am, yeah. I’ll be spending time with his family, too, which will be an interesting way of spending my time—some of it, anyway.”
“Ah, let me guess—you’re about to reclaim your Catholic roots and participate in all sorts of Christmas-related goodness.”
“The whole shebang.”
Cyndi turned the ignition, clucking, “My dear, sweet, atheist Matt Esperanza’s rediscovering his roots—and all for him. You really must be in love.”
“God forbid, Cyn, God forbid.” I laughed as I stepped away. My friend and colleague slowly pulled out of her parking space, waved at me through her murky windows, and drove off. God forbid. Oh, sure. For a moment, I wondered whether I was fooling her or myself with such a glib, adolescent quasi-denial.
The age of travel, AD 9/11, meant overcompensating for delays, and that was what I did, which left me with little energy and even less good humor by the time the plane touched down at Ninoy Aquino International Airport before sunrise. I felt gutted. Between the homesick and half-senile grandmother on my right side and the young Filipina with blond highlights and blue contacts on my left, I had little peace. One seemed desperate to hold my attention as though talking incessantly to me about her grandchildren and dead husband cemented her firmly to her past, where she wished to remain. She also kept calling me Freddie.
The younger one flirted with remarkable brazenness. She admitted to being so shy with strangers till she went to America and learned to behave as American girls behaved—with an openness and confidence that could easily be mistaken for forwardness (or worse) in other cultures. She didn’t care, even making significant physical contact with our arms and shoulders and, yes, our knees. In thickly accented English, she told me I looked like a movie star. I nearly blew Coke out of my nose and into her face. Both women were able to catch some sleep. I never did.
Joaquin picked me up at five thirty in the morning, unnaturally chipper for the time.
“I had to skip out of misa de gallo early to get here,” he said as he stuffed my luggage in his car’s trunk. I stood and watched in a daze, expending whatever energy was left in me to keep myself from falling over in a faint. The temperatures were cooler than I expected but still a hundred times warmer than California. As it always happened when I stepped out into the open Manila air, my lungs felt like lead. The air seemed so thick and heavy even in the early morning hours, and I hoped that I wouldn’t fall sick the way I usually did when I flew home.
“You’re kidding. What time did it start?”
“Four in the morning.”
“I didn’t know you went for that,” I replied as I fumbled my way to the passenger door and crawled inside. Joaquin jumped behind the wheel with alacrity. I shrugged off my denim jacket and flung it onto the backseat, sagging in relief once the thought settled in my brain that I was finally, finally here.
“Oh, I do. All nine days till Noche buena.”
“You’re so Catholic.”
“And you’re still fuckable.”
I grinned, chuckling weakly, and he leaned close for a kiss. I welcomed it with as much eagerness and hunger as he gave it. In that brief moment of lips pressing against lips, months of separation swirled and coalesced and simply dissipated into nothingness. Philippine Holy Week of 2005 seemed to happen just a few days shy of Philippine Christmas season of 2006. Even with my exhaustion and dizziness, I chased after Joaquin’s taste, reacquainting myself with the faint remains of that morning’s Mass and the silky texture of his tongue against mine. Blessed wine and wafer, toothpaste, and his unique flavor filled my senses. I was suddenly aware of his hands fumbling with my pants and raised my hips to allow him sufficient purchase as he unbuttoned and unzipped. He pulled my pants and briefs down with some difficulty, then took my cock in his hand and stroked it with rough urgency.
My exhaustion suddenly forgotten, I didn’t give a damn that we were in a parking lot by the airport in the dark morning hours. I simply held him more tightly, my hands fisting his shirt, my breaths turning to muffled groans as he jerked me off, my cock thick and hot and dripping with every hurried stroke. Release came quickly. I stiffened and arched against him, my groans turning to stifled cries as I drenched his hand with cum.
“God, I missed you,” he murmured against my mouth after a little while. All I could do was nod, my breathing still erratic. I kissed him back—a wet, clumsy, openmouthed kiss—utterly spent and grateful.
He smiled as he pulled back, thumbing some moisture from my lower lip.
Jet lag took good care of my first two days. I stayed in Joaquin’s house in the Commonwealth area, sleeping and struggling with physical and mental acclimation by turns. In the m
eantime, he was busy with tradition. He got up at three in the morning for misa de gallo and didn’t come home till nearly two hours afterward, carrying two bags of freshly baked pan de sal for breakfast. Those bread rolls instantly became my favorite. Since moving to California, I’d gotten used to lighter fare in the morning as opposed to my mother’s more indulgent offerings of eggs, fried bangus or longaniza, and garlic fried rice when I was growing up in Loyola Heights.
I was hauled off for some shopping afterward. Joaquin frequented the “people’s markets,” which were open-air markets or a cluster of sidewalk vendors who sold all sorts of things for obscenely cheap prices (yet they were still open to haggling). We picked through Christmas decorations, most notably exquisitely made parol or star lanterns.
“Pickpockets are everywhere,” Joaquin warned me before we left the car. “Don’t get too carried away with the goods, or your ass is theirs.” He paused as he caught himself, then added, “That old-world ass of yours is mine, and I don’t care to share it with anyone else.”
“My, my. Possessive, aren’t we?”
“Don’t be sassy. I only see you once a year. I earned my possessiveness.”
We picked our way through the crowd, color, sound, and smell overcoming my senses. Hope and beauty all captured in elaborate and painstakingly made Christmas and house decorations bore down on me. Along with those came the drearier sights of grimy streets and run-down buildings, of filthy, stagnant pools of water, of impoverished people selling their wares, sitting and staring out from behind weathered masks that spoke of resignation and battered pride.
I felt some discomfort at the curious, appraising looks I received from vendors and customers alike. I tried my best to be blasé about it all, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I were being targeted for a deftly executed pilfering. In the crowd, I felt at least three people brush up against me. My money remained safe, but it was still touch and go.
