Reminiscence 2: Trans-Pacific Lust, Submission & Stupidity

"Oh God, I can't believe I'm doing this!"

Her voice was like a cat's purr to me. She was on her cell phone, in a stall in the women's restroom in a high-rise office building in Kuala Lumpur. It was late in the day for her, which meant it was very early in the morning for me in California - I think it was around 4:00 AM my time, so around 7:00 PM her time...something like that. Anyway, late enough that she didn't fear coworkers coming into the restroom and overhearing.

I was in my bed, tired but aroused, trying to think of things to say to a woman I'd never met, nasty things that would push her limits just enough but not too much. She was an Indian woman who, it would turn out, I would never actually meet, but I didn't know that yet.

I'll call her Shareen, but my real nickname for her was "Tiger", because of this incredibly sexy, throaty, purring voice she had. As previously noted, Indian women are a real weakness of mine, and this was not a porn star, but a lonely, bored, disaffected Indian woman separated from a bastard husband in the U.S., living with her family in Malaysia. Evidently this isn't so rare a phenomenon. She'd lived here in the States with him for a few years, trying to make it work, but she was never going back to him.

So how did she come to be on the phone with me, and what was she doing, and why? And what was I thinking?

* * * * * * * * *
"Now, pinch your left nipple as hard as you can and don't stop until I tell you to. I want it to hurt so bad it brings tears to your eyes. Do you understand?"

"Oh, yes sir, but I don't think I can-"

"Just shut your mouth and do what I told you to do, like an obedient tiger."

"Oh god, I can't believe I'm doing this!"

Several long seconds of silence; a small whimper, then a tremulous intake of breath followed by a low, quiet moan.

"Now squeeze it even harder, as hard as you possibly can."

"Oh-aaah....aahhh....aaaaaaahhhh"

A few more seconds of this, at which point I relented: "Alright, you can let go."

"Oh, thank you, sir."

"Now do the other one."

We repeat the process; same protestations, same demand, same build-up whimper/breath/moan, same demand for more pain, more plaintive moaning.

"Now, is your purse hanging on the back of the door?"

"Yes."

"Good. Put your phone in it and do both nipples at the same time - I want to be able to hear you from inside the purse. Do you understand?"

"Oh, god."

Protestations, demands, capitulation. She is clearly enjoying all of this. Soon enough I can just make out what sound like authentic whimpers and moans of pain. Who knows? I'm inside a purse and literally on the other side of the world. I'm also paying for this at the rate of around $2.00 a minute.

After several seconds of this, then some seconds of silence, a small, purring voice: "Can I stop now?"

I yell "Yes" into the phone, hoping she's close enough to hear it...it's impossible to plan for everything in a S/M scene. You always forget something.

She picks up the phone again. "Hi."

I have one last command. "Now reach under your skirt and push two fingers into your cunt and tell me how wet you are."

This is so much better than I could have hoped: there is an actual audible gasp after the swish of a skirt and the snap of nylons being pulled down.

"Oh my god..."

"So?"

"It's like I've wet myself."

I nearly laugh at this, but manage instead a restrained and knowing chuckle, as if to say, "of course you're sopping wet, silly girl - my sexy baritone voice and intimate knowledge of Malaysian Indian female sexual fantasies left no room for doubt in the matter."

In reality, of course, I was lying in bed on the West Coast of the U.S., hoping against hope that somehow, this bizarre interlude might actually mean something, might signal a real human connection, might even lead to a relationship someday.

In the end, I may have had a more meaningful, or at least honest, relationship with Angela Devi.

More to follow.