"Miss have pink asshole."
A voice giggles.
Again, "Miss have pink asshole."
I'm groggy and confused, waking from what feels like a very deep sleep. I blink my eyes: where am I? I move my hand to brush my hair out of my face -- but I can't move my hand...
As I wake up, I find I am restrained, face down on my four poster bed. My hands are pulled down between my legs and tied to my ankles, my legs are pulled up under my body, my face is in a pillow and my bottom is in the air. I am naked, hog tied, and dizzy. Behind me, I hear the voice of my Thai maid, Bee, laughing, "Miss have pink asshole," and she swats my bottom.
How did I get here?
SATURDAY
Last year my boyfriend and I moved to Bangkok; he works for one of those big corporations you've all heard of, and I decided to move with him for the fun of it. Thailand is a beautiful country. The food is delicious, the cost of living is cheap, and the people are lovely.
Not long after moving to Bangkok my boyfriend, let's call him X, hired a Thai maid named Bee. She is a beauty: petite curvy body, long black hair, full lips, and large dark eyes you could lose yourself in.
Ladies, you should know right now: Bangkok is a wrecker of relationships and marriages. Thai girls go crazy for "farang" (foreign) men. Whether out of genuine attraction, or whether they assume all foreigners are rich, I don't honestly know. I knew Bee could be trouble from the moment I laid eyes on her, but she was sweet natured and shy -- she spoke very little English -- and since my boyfriend was paying the bills I let him pick the help.
Bee was a live-in maid who worked Monday through Saturday, and took Sundays off. She cooked, cleaned, and kept the household running. If you've ever been to a Thai house and wondered what the unmarked door is near an apartment's front door, it's the maid's room: basic and small, but clean and comfortable with its own entrance to our apartment (through the kitchen). This is where Bee lived.
X loved to have her wear a French maid's outfit while she worked -- a Thai maid in a French outfit, complete with black pumps. Men are so obvious. X spoke Thai well for his business (I had not bothered to learn more than a few words) and I assumed that they talked. Sometimes I suspected X was sleeping with Bee, but when would he have the opportunity? I was around during the day while he was at work.
One Saturday morning I woke up late and came to the sun room for breakfast. X was reading the paper, drinking his coffee, and grinning broadly. Where was Bee? Why was X smiling? And whose feet were sticking out from underneath the breakfast table?!? As I came closer, I could hear the clear sounds of Bee sucking X from under the table.
Play it cool, I thought, and sat down across the table from X. "Good morning," he said.
Before we go any further, and before you discard this story in disbelief, you should understand something about X: he is one of those very wealthy, very handsome men who is used to having his way with business and with women. He is usually faithful to me, but sometimes he pulls stunts to remind me that we are not married and that I have little claim to him. I've never believed men are inherently monogamous, and as long as I don't rise to his bait these incidents are best forgotten as childish outbursts.
Back to the story: I drank my coffee, read part of the paper, and permitted myself to peak under the table only once. I could see the back of Bee's head bobbing up and down in X's lap. Even more intriguing though was her bottom. Bunched up as she was under the table, the short maid's dress was not enough to cover her modesty, and a black thong clove the twin halves of a quivering peach.
Her ass was breathtaking. While I consider myself straight, I am capable of appreciating beautiful women, and here was a bottom worth appreciating! I half considered reaching under the table to stroke Bee's bum, but X grunted and grabbed the back of her head. He was clearly finished, and she swallowed him without noise or complaint. After a moment, she stood up from under the table, smoothed her dress, and wiped her lips. "Good morning Miss," she said as she cleared the breakfast dishes. She went to make freshly squeezed orange juice, as she does every morning to finish breakfast.
As if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, X leaned across the table and kissed my forehead. "So," he said, "I'm going away on business for a few days. Let's spend the day in bed."
We did, and he reminded me why I turn a blind eye to his occasional indiscretions: he fucks me so hard and so well. As I sucked him off one last time before going to bed, I couldn't help wonder about Bee's mouth: was it as soft as mine? Could she suck him as well as I could? Is that all she had done for him?
SUNDAY
Sunday morning X caught a taxi for his trip, and I resolved to remind Bee of her place. Let's be clear: it's one thing to let a boyfriend have his fun from time to time, but you simply must establish that the other woman will always be the outside party, a subservient second. That afternoon, I went to Patpong, Bangkok's night-life district.
Patpong is a crowded strip packed with dancers, hucksters, and prostitutes. The sights and smells are pungent, and as you walk the sidewalks you can't help but peek into the open doors of the strip clubs and shops. If that's not enough, touts constantly approach farangs, men and women alike, with pamphlets composed of broken Thai English listing the acts performed behind closed doors -- my favorites being "pussy smoke cigarette" (which I have had the pleasure to witness) and "pussy shoot ping pong ball" (which, sadly, I have not). Anything under the sun related to sex can be found in Patpong, and I discretely slipped into a sex toy shop to buy a toy for my dear, tiny Bee and her naughty round bottom.
MONDAY
At breakfast the next morning, I set a shiny new silicone butt plug on the table. Bee was a few minutes late preparing breakfast and didn't notice the plug right away, but when she did her eyes widened a bit and she blushed.
"Bee," I said, "please bring me a stick of butter."
Bee knew this was unusual; I seldom take butter or bread with breakfast, preferring instead to eat the local fruits to keep my figure. Smiling and giggling, she retrieved a stick of butter from the refrigerator and placed it on a dish on the table.
Reader, have you ever met a young Thai woman? Smiling, laughing, and blushing can just as often signal discomfort or embarrassment as happiness, and Bee, like many women from her culture, can be very hard to read. I have no idea if she knew what I had in mind for her, but I slowly finished breakfast, letting the butter soften in the heat, and asked her to clear the table.
She removed the dishes and my glass, but when she started to remove the dish of butter I touched her hand quickly and said "No Bee, leave that." I touched the butt plug. "Do you know what this is Bee?"
"Miss?" she said, and blushed.
"Do you know what this is," I asked her again, a bit more forcefully.
"Plug, Miss," she whispered, and looked away.
"And what does it plug, Bee?" I asked.
She mumbled something I couldn't hear, and so I asked her again. This time, she looked me in the eye and said, "Asshole, Miss." It's a funny thing about young Thai women: even if they don't speak much English they know all of the roughest words for the body parts.
"For whose bottom, Bee?" I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. "Don't know Miss."
I pushed my chair away from the table. "Sit on my lap and I'll tell you, Bee."
She sat down and I gently touched her face with my hands, her rounded hips pressing into my thighs. I looked her in the eye and on impulse, I kisser her deeply. Bee was not the first woman I have kissed, but her lips were by far the softest. Her mouth was so yielding, so moist, and she moaned a bit. I whispered in her ear, "The plug is for you Bee. Now stand up and turn around."
"Yes Miss," she said. She stood, expressionless, and faced away from me.
"Lean across the table Bee," I said, "but keep your feet on the ground." As she leaned over the table her short maid's dress rode up over her cheeks, and for the second time I was simply stymied by the beauty of her bottom. The thong was so narrow that it didn't entirely cover her anus; I could just make out the radial crinkles peeking around the edges of the fabric. I pulled her thong down over the round cheeks to her ankles and she whimpered a bit.
"Hand me the butter, Bee," I said, and she passed the dish of butter back to me. Many years before, X had put me through a similar scene with a set of beads to introduce me to the delights of butter and I intended to pay it forward.
I took the butter in one hand, and spread her cheeks with the other. Bee didn't squeeze her cheeks together tightly, but she didn't relax or open them for me either. I rubbed the stick of butter first up and down the crack of her bottom, and then in small circles around her most secret and shameful spot, greasing it for the plug. I paused for a moment in surprise: Bee had a light brown anus, beautiful and puckered, hairless and tight, just two shades darker than her skin. I don't know why I was taken aback; I guess I thought everyone's anus was pink like mine. Bee was motionless, and made no sound.
"Now hand me the plug Bee," and she did. I rubbed the tip of the plug between her legs and brought it to my lips to see if she were wet. She was -- but only just a bit.
And now I must make a confession to the reader, even though it brings me some shame: I didn't care very much whether she was wet or not. Looking back on it, there's no way I can say that Bee consented to what I did next -- she knew that at any time I could have her fired. But at the time I was annoyed at her for sucking off my boyfriend while living under our roof, and equally entranced by her exquisite bottom. I am embarrassed to tell this story as a white woman invading an innocent and powerless brown rosebud, but that it precisely what I did:
I took the tip of the plug and held it against her lubricated anus. I said, "Ask for it Bee."
She said, "Miss."
That was all she could muster, not "No Miss," not "Please Miss," and certainly not "Plug me Miss." But that was enough for me: "Miss."
With that, I pushed the tip of the plug past her anus and with one slow, firm motion pressed the entire plug into her bottom. She made no sound, but winced slightly only when the thickest part of the plug pushed past her ring before seating itself between her cheeks.
"You like it don't you Bee," I said. "Sluts like it up the ass."
No response.
"Stay there, Bee, and don't move," I said. I stepped out of the room, and returned a minute later with our old-fashioned polaroid camera. X and I sometimes liked to take pictures of each other when we made love, and always used the polaroid for fear that digital pictures would turn up on the internet.
I stood in front of the table and took a picture of Bee's face, flat and angry, staring at the camera. I stuck the picture to the refrigerator, put the camera down, and walked around behind Bee again.
