There was very little mysterious about a white or Caucasian woman's body for my generation even though we lived in a coloured, Asian region. We grew up on a staple of Western porn and we'd seen more pink nipples, reddish areolas, shaved creamy pubic mounds, or blonde pubic hair, glistening pink pussies and light brown anuses than their much darker counterparts on our own women.
And although a white woman remained a huge fantasy, we were more than content with our own girls and women. The colour of her skin hardly mattered when her pussy squeezed your dripping wet cock as you tried to pull out and push in.
That was until today I told myself, slightly jolted as Emma nudged her cheek against my bare shoulder and her short, curled brown hair tickled me in the face. She moved her bare legs across my left thigh and brought it to rest on my flaccid cock and balls, in the process rubbing her sticky pussy and cum-coated sparse hair around it to my thigh. Then she continued to sleep like a baby, just like she had been after our four-hour sexathon.
Could this all be a dream, or worse, just another fantasy, I asked myself. It couldn't be. I could still smell the sex in the air, her raw, musky scents and mine, mingled in the room, on the sheets and the blankets, and more strongly, on both our skins, faces, lips. And I could still taste the mix of my cum and her cream in my mouth. Hell, I must be one lucky son of a gun, I thought. Not only had I managed some wild sex in a long long time, I had managed it with an extremely attractive Occidental woman and a co-worker to boot.
And to think that the same morning, when we got off the plane in Singapore, I was telling myself how I had to be pretentiously sweet to my senior, expat co-worker with whom I'd be spending a week at a training programme. That too without expecting any favours in return. We may have been working for the same company and it was a world of equal rights and opportunties all right, but cultural differences remained and beyond a point, few expat women, or even men for that matter, got too friendly with the locals.
We landed in Singapore on a Sunday morning and had the day to ourselves before the programme began on Monday. We rode a taxi together and checked into our rooms at the Westin Plaza. I was a little surprised when Emma asked the front desk to give us rooms next to each other, or at least close by, so that one of us could pop in to the other's room for a chat in what can otherwise be a boring city.
Although we'd worked together for more than a year in the same office, our relationship was completely professional and we hardly talked of anything outside of work. Something I thought was due to the fact that she probably had an expat, superiority complex. Now, this was our first trip together and at least it seemed to have a gotten off to a pleasant start.
We checked in to our rooms, showered, went down for a hearty buffet breakfast and at Emma's suggestion decided to loaf around town a bit for want of anything better to do. At least it was better than sitting alone and watching some senseless TV in a hotel room, I thought.
Not that being around with Emma wasn't an incentive. She had everything and more to get the hormones racing and the flesh between men's legs straining. Emma was in her late 30s, a few years older than me, but looked at least five years younger. She was petite, about 5'2", had a pleasant, square face with sharp features. Short, brown hair and wore glasses when she fancied it, which only accentuated her sexuality. Whoever said men don't make passes at women in glasses. Her small breasts went with her petite frame, as did her narrow waist, a well-proportioned but deliciously curved bottom, and shapely legs to match.
Like Hugh Hefner or someone of his ilk once said, anything of a woman which is more than you can get in your hands or mouth is a waste. Although I didn't completely agree with that all the time, when it came to Emma, it made perfect sense. She had no flesh to waste.
So there I was, out on the tree-lined avenues of a sultry Singapore with Emma, who was all the tourist, dressed in cargo trousers and a striped cotton tank-top, which ended somewhere around her navel. It gave me a nice view of the puny bulge of her tummy before the waistline of her cargo trouser began a nip above where her blonde curls must be, I imagined.
It was a nice first hour until the clear sky and a blazing sun began taking their toll on me as we roamed the streets and window shopped at those gleaming malls Singapore is known for. But being English, Emma was loving the sun despite the fact that it was making her sweat profusely and had gotten her tank-top to cling to her slim torso and small breasts.
"I feel like getting a beer and may be sit down in the lawn or patio of a restaurant. Would you like that Dhruv," Emma asked me as we walked by a row of shops and restaurants.
"You read my mind Emma," I said, relieved this ordeal was about to end. "Can't take the humidity any more."
So we found a nice little bar by a canal, ordered beers and a salad and blessed the waiter for offering us cold towels and grabbed the tall glasses as soon as they arrived. Both of us were tired and we spoke little as we ordered a second and then a third beer before we hailed a cab and returned to the hotel.
"So Dhruv, what are your plans for the afternoon," Emma asked as we entered the lobby.
"I'm thinking of a shower and may be a nap. The walk in the sun and the beer have gotten me a bit drowsy," I replied.
"Lucky you, to be able to sleep in the afternoon. I can never sleep in the afternoon unless I .....," she left the sentence hanging. Before I could ask "unless what", she continued:
"Never mind. I've suddenly realized all the walking has left my feet sore. God knows I could use a nice foot massage. But the hotel's service list does not mention a masseur. What a pity," she said.
A foot massage, now that set my mind in overdrive. I loved getting massages and giving them too. Foot massages, back rubs, shoulder rubs, head massages. Women and some men friends lucky to experience my hands and fingers have always returned for more.
With some of the women, massages led to other, more erotic kinds of rubbing. Of course, Emma wouldn't have an inkling of my ability in this area. Should I offer, I wondered as we waited for the elevator. Would I be overstepping my limits if I offered? Would she think me to be another slimy prick wanting to pounce on a white woman? Remember, she's a senior at work, and one wrong move and I may actually need to go out there and look for a new job, may be this time as a masseur!
Or what if she actually agrees and lets me do it? Questions, questions, questions. The best way to end the dilemma was to go ahead and just ask, I told myself. And I don't know where I summoned the courage from, but I did.
"Emma, if you don't mind me offering, you know I've done a crash course in massage therapy during a holiday in Thailand and would love to rub your feet," I blurted, trying to mask the partial lie. The only thing I'd learnt in Thailand was to let those seductive Thai women rub me to heaven. And that was education enough for me to try it on others.
"And I won't even charge a penny," I smilingly added as we entered the elevator.
"What? Dhruv, are you pulling a fast one on me? You never ever told me you knew massage therapy," Emma sounded genuinely surprised.
"You never asked until today," I smiled. "But I'm serious. And this is an honest offer."
"Hey, I don't know if I'd be comfortable with the idea. But you've made a very tempting offer, I must confess."
"Then just go ahead and find out. If you don't feel comfortable we can stop and call it off. Anyway, it's just a foot massage."
She couldn't counter that one. So we agreed to shower in our rooms before I went over to her room opposite mine for the "therapy".
My cock was stiff as I got into the shower and I couldn't believe my luck. Beautiful Emma was letting me give her a massage, even if it was just her feet. Wow, I said aloud, even as I struggled to distract my dick so that she wouldn't notice my bulging groin and change her mind.
I wore cargo shorts, a plain cotton T-shirt and called Emma's room to check if she was ready.
