Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 2

‘ Maaf,’ he apologized quickly. In public he was a man of very few apologies. A scandal in Parliament two terms ago as a result of a remark deemed racist had effectively cost him a minister’s post. It wasn’t racist, it was a fact of life, he reasoned. A man must speak with conviction, and never back down. That last saying was his father’s … again. God, why did he have to come down from Heaven to advise me now? he thought, returning his attention to Dahlia.

She had taken to the far end of the bed, propping pillows to support her back. She spread her covered legs but pushed down on the middle edge of her skirt, limiting what he could see. ‘For a whore, you are really …’ But that was the best his English could say. His words faded away. She paid those words no mind.

Still pressing down the hem of her skirt as she spread, a twinkle in her eye, a rare approving one, invited him to come get her. ‘Unbutton my blouse,’

she commanded again. He positioned himself between her legs and leaned forward. It was timid, careful. He started with the top; she only ever let him start with the top. The politician’s fingers no longer had the dexterity of his sketching days, and they groped for the button. He released each button with the sort of precision he knew she wanted, and then with each, she sighed a little. These micro-moans were so soft it seemed as if it were only for her own ears. He was three buttons down when he felt Dahlia’s hands wrapping his neck. She felt his neck, and with thumbs she began to choke him.

He finished unbuttoning, having tugged out the tucked-in portion of her blouse, and now her blouse was no longer tight and precise, but dangling out, releasing those breasts. He thought in Malay, and then in English, that there was no truly accurate word for them in both languages. They were not just breasts, they were more than that. Bosom was too formal. Tits was the closest that he could think of, but that word was too dirty and American, and not a word he would ever think of using.

‘What are you thinking?’

He looked up at her, wrenched away from that distraction. ‘Nothing,’

he assured her.

‘You never think.’ It was the end of the conversation already. She had incredible power in her words; no party leader had that sort of authority. The Prime Minister, all the Prime Ministers in the past, none of them could match up to her sovereign vocal will. The word he thought of, for some reason, was supremasi. Supremacy?

Next she placed both feet on his chest, blocking him. He rubbed the back of her thighs with his hands, feeling light sweat on her skin. He leaned closer but she pushed him back, still. She made a minor striptease as she removed her stockings. Each move was elegant as she writhed to free herself. Her feet dropped, toes catching onto the band on his pants, and with adroitness he had never seen before, even from her, she was able to unzip his pants, her feet doing all the work for him. Her hands moved behind her and slipped under her blouse. She undid her bra, an elegant French piece with laces and frills she wouldn’t let him see or touch, and it slipped right off, falling forward.

The politician looked at his Rolex, but that moment of inattention earned him a brief kick to his chin. He apologized again. ‘Kiss my feet,’ she said, speaking seductively, brushing her feet up against the politician’s face.

He did as she said. It was a strange feeling for him to be treated like this, to be instructed. He kissed up from her legs, up, up, until reaching her moist inner thighs, sweat-slicked, perspiration the only reminder that she was as mortal as he was. As beholden to urges as he was.

He waited for her to instruct him to pleasure her, but she never did.

Without this permission, he seemed to be unable to kiss further, tentatively rubbing where he couldn’t kiss with a thumb. He could smell her, now. She wore dark grey nylon panties similarly laced and frilled as her bra. She still remained stoic and silent.

‘I want to- ’ he attempted, before she shot him down with a glare. He kept that gaze for a while, before she prodded him with a foot down against his groin. She probably wanted him to continue, but not progress further. This teasing was just like her.

This went on for another ten minutes. Up and down, up, slightly, then down, slightly, tracing this invisible iron curtain. He knew she liked it, because he could smell her getting heavier with lust, a stronger, more potent, physical scent. At one point, licking her thigh, he even tasted something different, other than the taste of moist flesh and salty sweat. Earthier, more real. Surely it would not be long, the politician thought.