Archive for the ‘Asian Stories’ Category

Asian Submissive

Sunday, September 11th, 2005

“Mrs. Tate wishes to seed you in the bathroom, immediately,” Gordon Tate said to the beautiful oriental submissive, “you may finish polishing the silverware later!!!” “Yes, sir,” Miki Lee replied while averting her master’s gaze, “right away!!!” The completely naked young woman quickly made her way to the gigantic bathroom just off the Tate’s personal bedroom, and as was usually the custom, Valerie Tate was lolling in the whirlpool bath, waiting for the Asian beauty to join her in the swirling waters!!! “Did you finish with the silver service, dear,” Valerie Tate asked evenly!?! “No, ma’am,” Miki asked softly, “almost!” “Well, I have a much more important duty for you to take care of,” the fortyish woman offered gently, “now please, climb in and join me!!! As much as Valerie Tate loved a good hard fucking by a big cock, there was something very special about being breast to breast with a beautiful young woman who would do your bidding with no questions asked!!! Valerie pulled Miki’s mouth to her own, and as the passion roiled up in both of them, their tongues intertwined while their breathing grew increasingly shallow!!! After breaking their kiss and softly caressing the young woman’s face, Valerie Tate whispered, “Do you like living with Mr. Tate and me, darling!?!” “Oh, yes, Mrs. Tate,” Miki replied quickly, “I would not care to live anywhere else, I am here to serve you!!!” “Mmmmmm,” the older woman hummed, “would that include sucking my pussy!?!” “Please,” the little Japanese female begged, “may I serve your vagina!?!” A broad smile spread over Valerie’s face as Miki let her mouth come to rest on her sex, and with a slight tensing of her vulva, the horny Mistress signaled her twenty year old charge to commence her sucking!!! What was so erotic about Miki’s oral technique, was that incredibly, her tongue barely made contact with Valerie’s genitals as it flitted like a butterfly over the older woman’s bulging labia, leaving her shaking with orgasm that left her drained and gasping for breath!!! She was right in the middle of one such climax when Gordon Tate entered the bathroom and plopped down on a chair while watching his wife being consumed by the fire ignited by Miki’s hot mouth and tongue!!!

This asian sex slave has a lot more coming… click here to see what happens!

Hot Yeti Love

Sunday, July 31st, 2005

She wasn’t bothering anyone; just relaxing, taking in what pale winter sunlight

there was and watching the fountains, all of it free. She was in a mental state

on the outer fringes of meditation, seventy-five percent of her mind still in

Mundane Reality, so she didn’t miss a couple of skate-punks over near the Statue

Dedicated To Progress In Commerce pointing her out to a pair of Suits.

She felt a frisson of alarm; she hadn’t done anything overtly illegal in the

recent past, but if they wanted to get technical they could probably do her on

something like Loitering (she’d been here for over half an hour without buying

anything from the souvenir stands) or Indecent Exposure (the lower hem of her

T-shirt came down a mere two inches below her breasts, and there were several

large, ragged, strategically placed holes in her jeans) or Unauthorised Pigeon

Observing or something stupid like that. Not enough to have her Incarcerated for

more than forty-eight hours, but it was the principle of the thing more than the

inconvenience. Like most SubGenii she was routinely Incarcerated at least once a

month under one pretext or another (probably so They could recharge the batteries

in her tracking implants), but it had been less than a week since the last time;

too soon. She briefly considered trying to force her brain into Dealing With

Pinks mode and then dismissed it as too much bother.

Soon their shadows were blocking the sun as they stood over her; she didn’t open

her eyes, didn’t turn or acknowledge their presence. They waited for precisely as

long as she expected they would, then one of them cleared his throat. She leaned

back, palms flat against the concrete and slowly raised her eyes to theirs, as if

the effort was almost too much. She cocked one eyebrow at them sardonically.

“Aren’t you a little short for a storm-trooper?” she quipped. Neither of them

recognised the quote. She sighed. “You’re blocking the sun.”

The Suit who’d cleared his throat assumed the Bad Cop role: “There’s plenty of

sun to go around.” By way of answer she held one hand up to the sky and twisted

her fingers as if tugging on a bell-pull; within seconds, the sky had clouded

over and it had started to rain. A minor miracle; a Bob-given coincidence,

surfing the Luck Plane, but they weren’t to know that.

As the rain began to soak into their clothing — making them feel more

uncomfortable, while she just tilted her head back a little further and enjoyed

the way drops of water beaded on her glasses — Good Cop consulted a palm-sized

notepad computer (for the psychological effect, she noticed — his eyes didn’t

actually read it) and asked, “Are you Citizen 43659943276432E, Therese Gi–”

“SAINT Therese to you, buddy.”

Bad Cop spoke: “You’re one of them Sub-Guys, aren’cha?”

She giggled, thrust her breasts out more prominently, nipples protruding through

the rain-soaked “Frantic DogPaddle Tour ‘97″ T-shirt: “Now, what makes you think

I’m a guy?” It had precisely the effect she knew it’d have. She could sense their

stunted and blocked Flunads trying to free themselves. Saint Therese was a past

master at Pink-Taunting.

Bad Cop leered and was about to make a nasty comment when Good Cop took off his

shades; Therese could see that he was concerned about something. Like, maybe his

mortgage payments had gone up, or he was way over the limit on the credit card

that he used to pay for his sexbots. There was a definite quaver in his voice,

something a Pink wouldn’t have been competent to fake: “We need your help.”

Intrigued, she went with them, stomping heavily in the puddles as she went,

splashing rainwater on their polyester suit pants. Letting them kidnap her was

probably a bad idea; she couldn’t imagine what the Conspiracy wanted with her

apart from the usual dislike of anything they didn’t control utterly and couldn’t

plot on a graph.

On the way back to their tower-block, Good Cop took the trouble to explain while

Bad Cop swore at the other Conspiracy dupes caught in the traffic jam: “Recently

we came into the possession of a fragment of SubGenius literature. Most of it

didn’t make sense, and some of it was out-and-out fantasy –”

She couldn’t let this go past without a retort: “Fantasy is the ultimate reality,

to which we all retreat at some stage.”

Good Cop looked slightly irritated at the interruption, but continued. “We now

have physical evidence for the existence of the `Elder Gods’ as you call them.

They contacted us through our computer network and provided irrefutable proof of

their powers and capabilities.”

Therese smirked at him, nodding slowly. “You finally caught on, didja? WHO’S

LAUGHING NOW?”

Neither of them recognised this quote, either; she thought that maybe she would

have to start putting annotated footnotes in her speech.

“This is no laughing matter,” replied Good Cop sternly. “These… these BEINGS

intend to wipe out human civilisation as we know it! We’ve tried bargaining with

them… but, it’s just… they…”

Therese sighed. “You don’t have anything they want, right?”

Bad Cop laughed nastily. “Until now.” That thrill of fear ran through her again.

Good Cop consulted his notebook said, “There was a passage in that SubGenius book

we found that said, and I quote:

The Elder Gods still hunger for Yeti ecstasy, their favourite gateway to the

world. They much prefer to manifest by “riding” an aware being at the moment of

OoZquirt rather than being summoned by a bunch of dopey Satanists doing blood

sacrifices.”

Therese nodded. “Revelation X, chapter six. Yeah, so?”

Good Cop blushed. “We haven’t been able to replicate this `OoZquirt’ in our

research facilities. We’ve run out of other ideas. We’ve tried everything we know

to please these Things, and it’s not working. That’s why we need your help. You

have a reputation as a…” here, he consulted his notepad again, “A… an `Adept

Mistress of the Rising FlÄnads’.”

She grinned, hooked her thumbs through her braces. “Tha’s me.”

Good Cop nodded enthusiastically. “That’s what I mean! You understand these

things… `Exogasm’, `Sexhurt’, `orgozmonic radiation’, `Big Red Straps’… this

is an area in which we’re completely at sea. Not a lot of official research.”

“Yeah, I heard what you guys did to Wilhelm Reich and Frank Dashwood. And Orton

Nenslo.”

The limo pulled into a heavily armoured entrance to an underground car-park,

tyres squeaking on the metal rails and echoing oddly off the concrete walls. It

was dark under here, the kind of darkness that the Conspiracy preferred; the

shadow of a tower-block punctuated by the ghastly, intermittent corpse-glow of

neon tubes. Even the air smelled dead; it was more like a mausoleum than an

office block. Therese longed to set off a stink-bomb, or even just to burn some

incense. Maybe set fire to a stack of inner tubes. Or fart. Anything to relieve

the sense of sterility.

On the way up in the elevator, Good Cop filled her in on what little progress

they’d made. “It wasn’t easy to get funding for this project, but the desperation

of the upper echelons… well, you know.”

Therese snorted. “Yeah. Unusually far-sighted of them. What, did these Things say

they were going to start at the top and chew their way down to ground level?”

Good Cop’s suddenly stiff posture told her that she’d hit close to the mark.

The elevator doors opened on a brightly-lit glass-walled laboratory, white walls,

benches cluttered with racks of test-tubes and beakers over Bunsen burners,

cathode-ray oscilloscopes making “boop” noises and, in general, the kind of messy

set-up needed to give the impression that serious research was going on here.

On the far side of the laboratory, however, things took on a nightmarish

perspective; the racks of test-tubes gave way to rows of dildos, the beakers to

bottles of water-soluble lubricant, the CROs to banks of video tape machines, one

of which was playing some blurry, garishly-coloured cheap porn.

Good Cop introduced her to Franklin, their Male Subject. He was aged in his late

twenties and despite a slightly receding hairline, reasonably attractive; built

like a circus strong-man, even down to the ridiculous leopard-spot pattern

jock-strap. One of the anonymous female lab assistants was smearing oil over his

rippling pectoral muscles in a business-like manner. She couldn’t help giggling

at the sight of him, at the overblown macho bullshit male-polarity of it all. Her

giggles died down quickly when she met Judith, their Female Subject.

This was, for Therese, the real horror of the Conspiracy; how it could take a

normal female, Heir to the Uberfemme’s Pansexual Slack, one of Connie’s Own

Abominatrixes, and turn her into — this –

She was attractive, in a sharp, smoothly plastic mechanical way; the same way you

might consider a department store dummy attractive if it was dressed up as a

leather Domina. She was wearing a black PVC teddy, fish-net stockings and high

heels; all her femininity was planed down to fit the abstract perfectionist

formula that Western Society demanded; rules which said a woman wasn’t attractive

unless her eyes were thus far apart, the incline of her nose so many degrees, her

breasts exactly such-and-such a shape. Therese was torn between the desire to

scoot around the back to check for a power-cord dangling out of her ass and the

need to tear the woman’s clothes off, grab one of those industrial-strength

clitoral stimulators and fuck some sense into her. In the end she settled for

shaking her head sadly.

Judith examined Therese with disdain. The SubGenius female was in her early

twenties and comely in a sort of wind-swept way but her hair was all over the

place, her eyebrows were unplucked, she didn’t have any make-up on and her

breasts appeared droopy because they weren’t constrained by a brassiere (although

they were rather nicely framed by her rainbow-striped braces). She was wearing

purple-tinted wire-framed glasses instead of contact lenses; her belly-button –

exposed between the hem of her chopped-down T-shirt and the ragged, worn denim

jeans — had a ring in it, and she stood with her thumbs hooked in her pockets

and her pelvis angled forward in a most unladylike and provocative way.

Therese examined the assembled equipment with a practiced eye. Phallic lumps of

plastic, the same ugly pink colour as Barbie dolls; vibrators, vibrators and more

vibrators. The Conspiracy had denied originality in sexual expression for so long

– had reduced it to a “healthy release”, just like Orwell had predicted — that

they had no idea what it was really for. It was sad, like cargo cult natives

trying to summon back those nice shiny planes with runways and control towers

made out of bamboo and palm leaves. This was going to be like explaining advanced

data encryption algorithms to four-year-olds.

They’d seen the disdainful looks she’d been giving their equipment; Good Cop was

moved to defend what progress they’d made: “Under ideal conditions, our subjects

can reach orgasm in under thirty seconds, from a cold start.”

Therese turned to stare at him. “And? You say that like it’s some kind of

achievement.” Good Cop took off his mirror-shades and openly displayed confusion.

“It’s not how quick you can get there — it’s how many detours you can make on

the way, how much scenery you can take in on the trip.” She racked her brains for

a metaphor they could understand. “How many greasy truck-stop burger dives you

get to steal napkins from. In fact, in terms of getting there, it’s better if you

don’t get there at all.” They all stared at her as if she were insane. “Haven’t

you people even heard of Karezza? Tantra? Maybe I should just get a whiteboard

marker and write `SEX != ORGASM’ on it. Make you write it out a hundred times.”

Not knowing quite where to start, she suggested they give a demonstration. Bad

Cop leered until he realised that he was going to be kicked out of the lab.

Therese was glad to see him go; he looked like the kind of asshole who beat up

his sexual partners whenever he could afford them. She sat cross-legged on a

bench and watched Judith and Franklin undress and lie down on a kind of

reinforced hospital gurney.

It was appalling. She was certain that Judith faked her orgasm, and Franklin’s

may as well have been; she was glad the whole sorry performance was over so

quickly. They turned to her afterwards, seeking approval; being careful not to

laugh at them, wanting to hold up a score-card with “0.0″ on it, she said

carefully, “Why don’t you try for duration rather than expediency? See how long

both of you can go.”

Good Cop waved his hand dismissively. “We don’t have time for that.”

Therese shrugged and sat back on the table. “Fine. I don’t have anything better

to do than sit around waiting for some disembodied Xist energy demon to crawl up

your asshole and eat its way up your spine into your brain. I’ve seen that happen

before. I wish I had a video-camera here; I’d tape it and send it to that

Funniest Home Videos show.” She thrust her thumbs through her braces and started

humming “Elvis Has Just Left The Building”.

She didn’t need to continue; Good Cop had turned pale. He must be closer to the

top than she’d first thought, close enough to make him a target. Therese took

Judith aside and cautioned her, “Look — this process is the result of the

interaction of two people. Two, you know? You can’t fake this any more than you

can fake being bullet-proof. I know he’s not exactly Mr. Right, but try to lie

back and think of a St Bernard or something. Anything. Otherwise none of us will

get out of here alive.”

They started again, this time with the intention of coming as close as possible

to orgasm without actually reaching it. Franklin had some trouble with this until

Therese suggested wrapping a length of chain around his testicles and attaching

it to a power outlet; the implied threat in this seemed to help. After that, it

rapidly became boring, almost like one of those pumps you saw attached to

oil-wells. Up, down, up, down. Yawn-o-rama. Good Cop was too concerned with the

details of their performance to do more than occasionally glance up from his

monitoring instruments. She whispered to him, “Where’s the toilet?”; after a

suspicious glance, he told her. He didn’t need to stress that the building was

heavily guarded; she knew, and he knew that she knew.

The corridors of the building were all deserted; dark, dimly lit by fluoro tubes

set along the lushly carpeted floor. She knelt and ran her hand through the pile;

it felt like animal fur. Knowing Them, it probably was. As she searched for the

toilets she felt the remote, disinterested stare of the security cameras mounted

at the intersections. Almost unconsciously, she added an exaggerated, sensual

hip-sway to her walk. Pat Benatar’s song “Stop Using Sex As A Weapon” came to her

mind; Patty, you were never up against the Con, she thought.

Like the laboratory, the toilet was lined with white tile and brightly, almost

blindingly lit. Inhumanly clean. She imagined that most Pinks wouldn’t dare crap

in the toilets for fear of making a mess. Security cameras set in each corner

constantly scanned every square inch of the room; it was common knowledge that

the Con believed people were more likely to commit ThoughtCrime in the toilets.

She went over to the paper towel dispenser and yanked on the end of the roll,

pulling great lengths of paper out to fall at her feet. Methodically, she went

from one toilet to the next, wadding paper into the bowl and flushing it until

all but the last were blocked. She performed this sabotage almost automatically;

a matter of habit.

She crumpled up the cardboard roll from the towel dispenser and wedged it into

the door of the last stall to keep it open, then sat down on the lid of the bowl,

rested her chin on her fist and thought.

The test subjects were Pinks through and through. With a few years of intense

Tantric training or some good weed (or something — anything — to loosen them

up), they might be capable of raising enough Kundalini to roll a ping-pong ball

off a table. For the moment she doubted that they’d be able to overcome their

Pink self-consciousness. This meant that inevitably, Good Cop would ask her to

step in.

“It’s not that I don’t find Mr. Leopard-Pattern Underpants attractive… it’s the

principle of the thing,” she muttered to herself. As she spoke, one of the

security cameras turned to watch her. She grinned and spoke aloud in

mock-seriousness, “Oh goody, alone at last. Now I can indulge my most secret

fantasies and desires.” There must have been someone listening at the security

station; another camera swung to watch her.

The light was too bright; it was starting to hurt her eyes. She took a few spare

yards of paper towel, soaked them under a tap and then wrapped it around her

eyes. Much better. She went back into the toilet stall, slowly stripped off her

jeans, sat back on the toilet and idly caressed her nipples for a few minutes

until she felt the temperature of her GÄnads rising. She opened her mouth in a

half-smile, half-gasp, spread her legs and stroked the insides of her thighs.

“This is for Saint Moxie,” she whispered…

After her fifth and sixth orgasms — which had run together and made her so dizzy

that she almost fell off the seat and the paper towelling had fallen >from one

eye — she glanced up and saw that three more cameras had appeared through panels

in the ceiling and were pointed at her. She grinned evilly and kept at it,

masturbating furiously and building up an image in her mind: the Ark of the

Covenant from Spielberg’s film “Raiders of the Lost Ark”. When opened, however,

this one was filled with metal-studded motorcycle boots and bright purple Nerf

sex-toys and jars full of mouldy peanut butter and rainbow slinkys and trashy DC

comics and Freddy Blassie picture-discs and vibrating studded rubber balls that

played “Fur Elise” and bowls of lime jello with trowels and Robert Williams

T-shirts and Things with BIG RED STRAPS attached at strategic points. As her

focus contracted down to a point just below her navel, the lid exploded off the

Ark; beams of bright purple light shot from her crotch, weaving around her

frantic fingers, arcing off the metal fittings in the cubicle and smashing the

lenses of the security cameras. For a few moments, she was one with the White

Light, the Ocean of Being, the Endless Void of Slack; when she came back to

conventional reality she found that she’d blown the door off the cubicle and

there were odd scorch marks on the walls. She knew then that she’d have to do

this; but it was going to end her way. As she left the toilets, she grinned at

the dead, smoking cameras, dangling forlornly on the ends of their cables. She

was wearing damp Doc Martens with bright green laces, but as she walked, she

could hear spurs ringing.

“Okay,” she said to Good Cop as she entered the laboratory again, “I’m going to

save your asses. No offence, you two, but you just don’t have what it takes. See

if you can get Bad Cop back in here.”

Good Cop showed a combination of relief and curiosity. “Why not Franklin?”

“He’s got the wrong idea about this. Your training program has pushed him further

away from what you’ve been trying to achieve. Repellent as he is, Bad Cop is an

unmarked slate, and if we’re going to reach OoZquirt at all, It’s gonna be with

him.”

She got Bad Cop to take all his clothes off and shower thoroughly before they

coated him in baby oil and cuffed him to the test-table. “Relax, honey, this is

all part of the trip,” she cooed, adjusting the ankle-restraints so that he had

less than a hand’s-span of freedom. She insisted that they put three condoms on

him; “Bob” alone knew what kind of icky retroviruses he had floating around

inside him. The simple act of putting them on got him hard; she got up on the

table, knelt over him and slowly guided him inside her.

She didn’t move, just sat there, giving him an occasional squeeze. She could

sense the Flunads rising within him; she kept him right on the edge of actual

stimulation, occasionally giving her clitoris a gentle rub to keep her energies

at a similar level to his, although diametrically opposed; sort of like a

tug-of-war but in reverse. After a few minutes of this, Bad Cop’s Flunad levels

were oscillating out of control; she sat perfectly still until the amplitude of

the cycles evened off. She knew she had to be careful, here; it was a delicate

balancing act.

Eventually, he’d reached the level where he was actually emitting brief bursts of

Orgozmonic radiation; feeling these feeble sparks glance off her nineteen-sided

GÄnad field, she knew it wouldn’t be long before one of the Xists came a-sniffing

to see what was going on. It wasn’t real sex, but she knew it would have just

enough of the characteristics of real sex to attract something. She was counting

on it.

Sure enough, just as Bad Cop was beginning to get into it, she vaguely sensed

Their presence; the sheer weirdness of what she was doing had attracted a small

group of Them, and They were shuffling about for the best position to take

advantage of it, which — for any Thing which had had dealings with the

Conspiracy — meant that They would try to enter through the Male terminal. It

was only then that she realised that her being here had been pre-determined; not

by the Conspiracy (which only thought it controlled everything), but by her

group, the people she worked for undercover. They couldn’t work out in the open

without being recorded by the Conspiracy’s monitoring equipment, so every mission

their operatives undertook was guided by the hand of chance; seemingly at random.

As William S Burroughs had once put it, their instructions were conveyed through

a series of real situations.

She gently nudged Bad Cop along, drawing his Flunads higher until she sensed that

one particular Xist had bullied the others out of the way and was positioned

within the body of the male polarity tethered beneath her. With slow movements of

her hands, trailing faint purple auras, she coaxed it into position and felt it

slide into Bad Cop with a snap, like a proctologist putting on a rubber glove.

“Whoo, you’re a big one, aren’t you,” she cooed to it, feeling its aetherical

shape bending Bad Cop’s body slightly out of true.

At that point, Saint Therese let go, squeezing on Bad Cop’s hard-on and rocking

back and forth; Bad Cop moaned and thrust his hips forward. His balls gave off a

crimson glow as the Xist writhed within him and pushed him towards Exogasm. Just

as Bad Cop was about to come, she drew back slightly and projected a spherical

GÄnad shield, mentally crossing her legs; his energy hit the shield and rebounded

back into his body.

The Xist howled with frustration, a subsonic roar which caused glassware in the

lab to fracture. Saint Therese rode it out, obstinately refusing to complete the

circuit which would give the Xist what it so desperately craved; It pushed harder

against her shield to no effect. There was a brief pause, a few seconds of quiet

while the psychic combatants eyed each other off; then the Xist made one last

desperate thrust forward through Bad Cop’s genitals. The energy simply rebounded

off her shield and Bad Cop’s body exploded, his legs twisting out from underneath

her, his torso flipping back over the end of the test-table, intestines and gore

flying out in all directions. Therese knelt there, eyes closed, shield intact,

waiting until the energy ricochets had died away and the subsonic rumbling had

faded.

Then she got off the table, stepped past Good Cop and Franklin and Judith — who

were all simply standing there, eyes blank, in catatonia — washed herself down,

got dressed and left the building, mentally notching up another hit for the

SubGenius Sexual Assassin’s Group.

Click here for more erotic fantasy stories!

Persuasion

Sunday, July 10th, 2005

The girl Lydia had picked to do the deed was Chinese-American, round-faced and cute. Tom hadn’t caught her name, but she didn’t seem very happy with the honor. “I won’t do it!” the girl wailed, twisting her arms and legs around in mid-air, making the harness rattle. “It’s dirty!” Tom felt vaguely embarrassed for her. He felt even worse for himself; the new year had come and gone without him making any of his promised attempts to lose weight. At least he was standing on his own two feet, not slung up from the ceiling in some kind of leather bondage-thingy. And he had dressed as well as he was able, despite the fact that he was himself supposed to be getting nude in a matter of seconds. Ponytailed Lydia, her tall, skeletal frame wrapped in a leather harness of her own, grinned at him with her mouthful of horsey, oversized teeth. “She’s nice. You like her.” Neither remark was a question, but he nodded anyway. He cleared his throat. “Are you sure she’s up for this?” he asked. He knew the girl’s protests were probably just staged, a little something extra to give the session spice, but his deeply-ingrained sense of guilt was giving him six shades of hell. Lydia flashed him some more tooth, then turned and offered some to the girl. “You hear?” she asked. “Nice man wants to know if you’re up for this?” Her teeth distorted her voice a little, made it sound deep and slurred. It was crazy, but that turned him on as much as anything else. As much as the girl’s black-and-pink twat hanging in the air not two feet from his face, ready to be grabbed or kissed or whatever. The girl pouted prettily, wriggling her toes. “Don’t wanna!” she said insistently. She didn’t look as indignant as before, but he was still worried. Still, he noticed, that wasn’t stopping his dick from getting hard.

What happens next is anyone’s guess. Click here to read the rest of this story and many others!

The Miller’s Take

Saturday, May 14th, 2005

The Miller’s Tale is an unusual little place in an unusual part of town.

It’s a sort of coffee house with exotic blends of different coffees and teas

and a few micro brews for the discerning palate. Just off of Broadway Blvd.

on Capital Hill in Seattle it resides in a hole in the wall. Only the locals

and a few invited guest know it’s exact location. If everyone knew about it,

it would destroy the very reason most of us spend so much of our time and

disposable income there. One Thursday I am sitting at one of the back tables

sipping a new blend of tea. I don’t remember it’s name since it wasn’t very

good but I do remember the story that came with it. Walter Wilson, one of the

aforementioned locals comes in for a latte. He is a rather average looking

twenty seven year old male, too intelligent to be a geek, and not bright enough

to be a nerd. It was a rather dull evening so I wave Walter over.

“Any thing new in your life Walter?” I ask.

“Well, now that you ask. You like hearing unusual or weird tales don’t

you?” he asked. I nodded. “Well, something I experienced a few weeks ago

might qualify. ” I picked up the tab for his latte and bid him to continue.

Well, there I was sitting in my inexpensive apartment watching Jeopardy when

suddenly Alex Trebec starts winking out on me. The building is old, but I have

never had problems with the electric before. Fortunately the problem lasted

only thirty seconds and I was able to return to the program just in time for a

commercial. But before I suffered through the first ad, there was a knock at

the door. I figured it must be some kid selling candy for his or her school.

Boy was I surprised when I opened the door. There were two women and a man

standing in my doorway looking somewhat ill at eased. Their look was not what

surprised me but the fact all three were completely naked. Broadway is

considered to be a somewhat liberal and strange part of town, but three naked

people in the middle of Jeopardy? Well they were not completely naked, they

wore these funky little slippers on their feet, although I did not notice this

right away. After gawking for some time at the perfect bodies of these two

women, it occurred to me that something else was different about them other

than the fact they were butt naked. They each had beautiful faces, somewhat a

medium tan complexion. Their eyes were somewhat almond shaped indicating Asian

parenting, however their noses and lips were quite Anglo. Their breasts were

nothing less than perfect. Perfect in size (not to big, not to small, just

right), perfect in form (they did not sag, even a millimeter). and perfect in

color as there were no tan lines. But this was not what struck me as odd as

the fact that one had silver colored shoulder length hair while the other had

no hair at all. Odder still their cranial hair was consistent with their pubic

hair, silver and bald.

“Excuse me, but are you Walter Wilson?” asked the man standing behind these

two goddess’. It was now I realized the man was holding what looked like a

transparent plastic clipboard.

“Survey takers?” I asked innocently. The trio looked at each other

questioningly.

“May we enter?” asked the bald bombshell. What does one say to three naked

people? I stepped to one side and bid them to enter. As I closed the door the

two angels were looking about the apartment. From my new vantage I could see

their asses were as perfect as the rest of their gorgeous bodies. The man on

the other hand seemed more interested in double jeopardy. As my sexy visitors

looked about, I noticed they seem preoccupied caressing and otherwise playing

with themselves. They would stroke their perfect breasts as they passed the

kitchen, pinching their nipples as they entered the bedroom area, and as they

looked out the bedroom window their hands slowly crept down between their legs,

parting their pussy lips and slowly in a rotating motion played with their

clits. To a person like me, this does not happen very often, well never. What

does one say to a naked girl playing with herself? It did not take long for

the two beauties to finish examining my small studio apartment and turn again

toward me. Most of the naked women I see are two dimensional and having two

naked goddess right in front of me..

Click here to read the rest of this asian 3-some story and many others!