Smutpunk on Skates Read online

  She stood up and realized she still had jizz on her face. She leaned down and rubbed the leftover splooge on his shirt. She pulled up her yoga pants. Her ass was amazing, as was Heather’s entire body. She skated backwards slowly.

  “What about the butt plug?” That fucker asked.

  “I need it for something,” Heather said while picking up speed, skating backwards.

  Heather skated back to Charlie with a sense of euphoria, as if the sunshine emanated from her crotch in psychedelic swirls. As she skated, the movement of her legs massaged the plug incredibly. Her cunt was satisfied and now she was on the brink of an anal orgasm.

  She found Charlie sitting on a bench at the bank of the River Klang staring into the muddy water.

  “There you are, baby,” he said smilingly.

  She skated to him, pirouetted to a stop, and whispered in his ear, “Fuck my ass—right here, right now.”

  He looked around quickly and felt like she was crazy to suggest it, but also knew there was no reasoning with horny Malay ass. She rolled in front of him and wiggled her stuffed ass like a sexy duck. Charlie pulled down her yoga pants smoothly and saw the plug jammed deep up her ass.

  “Did he…?”

  “Yes, it was amazing! Punish me now! Punish my ass!”

  Charlie felt nervous energy grip him in the gut. He gawked at his girl’s ass with another butt plug stuffed in it. He wasn’t so gentle with her this time. He got a firm hold of the base of the big, black butt plug and ripped it out of her ass.

  Heather screamed. Her ass gaped as if all of KL had been stuffed inside it.

  “Punish me,” she repeated breathlessly, “Make me pay for cuckolding you with that fucker.”

  Part 3 – Smutpunk On Skates

  She’s all yours now. She will do ANYTHING that you ask for. Don’t be a pussy about it. Get it all. Get everything you want. Make her your personal fantasy doll.

  Beside the River

  The kitchen was small and looked out over the monorail in the shadow of the massive Islamic star twin towers. The kitchen wasn’t in one of the glamorous buildings in new emerging Malaysia. Lana had lived in the same apartment building since her childhood, even while she had been married. She had been making rice in this apartment for thirty-seven years. She looked out the window as the posh new monorail train wormed by and dipped her soft yellow fingers into the uncooked rice and water. The water pooled around her second knuckle indicating to Lana that the level was right. She closed the lid and pressed the start button on the quintessential Chinese rice cooker. Immediately steam emitted from the cooker’s little chimney. The house smelled like rice.

  Photos of Lana’s deceased husband hung on the wall. He’d been a small man with a bright smile on his round face. He’d looked a bit like those new emoticon pillows. Lana never got to see him age badly. He died quite young.

  Lana was still young and vibrant. She made rice dressed only in her tank top and high cut underwear. When she went to work, she dressed in a light black sweater and her customary black slacks. But now, in the house, with sweat forming on her full upper lip and in the sultry canal of her big cleavage, she wore only the underwear, exposing a yummy chunk of Chinese MILFie ass cheeks and a black tank top pushing her big MILFie breasts together like a 1950s pinup.

  Heather’s mom was called Chun Ah in Chinese, but her English friends knew her as Lana. She’d been widowed five years ago. Heather had been in the university, getting her degree in Cross Cultural Business when Lana had rescued her from the lecherous taxi driver. Losing her husband had been brutal for Lana. She hadn’t loved him to begin with, but had grown to love and accept him and had stopped feeling like she was missing out. Irony being, just as she was beginning to feel content with him, he’d left her and this world. It had been an insidious cancer that put him into the ground, just a few months after he’d been diagnosed. Thankfully she’d found Heather to fill a big void in her lonely life.

  Lana played Mahjong every Thursday night with a bunch of ladies. Half of them were divorced or widowed. The married ones complained about their husbands and that drove Lana nuts. They always encouraged Lana to go out on dates with the duck salesman in the apartment across the way from her.

  “He has his own business, lah,” they told her.

  “He sells duck out of the box on the back of his motorbike,” Lana protested.

  “Yes,” said the oldest, thus the most respected of the Mahjong group, “and he owns the bike. Makes him good catch, lah?”

  Lana would shake her head and stop listening to these old women and think of her daughter.

  Lana, like her daughter now, hadn’t been happy in love. Lana’s own relationship had gone directly from being awkward to a marriage that didn’t have love. Then to an acceptance of a man who then died without ever taking even a quick coffee break at love. All those years were always a moment in time, waiting to heal, fix, and satisfy. But although Lana had often been on the verge of satisfaction, she’d never quite made it. She hoped Heather would do better.

  “Lana,” asked the oldest card player, “is Heather still dating the rich ‘white rice’?”

  Lana hated when the Chinese women referred to Heather’s boyfriend as ‘white rice’. Yes, he was white. Nevertheless, he was handsome and rich. Calling him ‘white rice’ was crude and it brought out the bitch in Lana.

  Anyway, it didn’t matter anymore. “No, he didn’t treat her well so she moved on.”

  “New white rice?”

  Lana rolled her eyes and another woman with a young daughter answered for her, “All the young girls like to order delivery now. This generation never cooks at home.”

  It was true, Lana thought. These young girls were better off with white guys, well versed in the modern world. They made money. They didn’t beat their wives. They cared about their wives’ sexual pleasure. Chinese men did clean the house and cook, but if her husband was any indication, they couldn’t care less about a woman’s orgasm. Lana had heard about the deep pleasure of orgasm, but it was as real to her as a unicorn.

  “Maybe we need delivery, too!” The woman said, elbowing Lana just under her massive breasts.

  The river was a muddy, dark brown affair. It once had the world’s largest reserve of pewter, but now it was just a sloppy, smelly river. It wasn’t a well-developed tourist attraction like the Petronas Towers. It was dingy and you had to cross the highway precariously to get to it. It was a bit of third-world that hadn’t been adjusted to the facade that the rest of KL had. Charlie the Wok and Heather liked to skate besides the river, right to the mouth where the mosque stood proudly.

  It was an amazing modern structure that looked like an inverted hot air balloon, planted into the neck of the river. The river flowed on either side of the As-Syakirin Mosque. The younger generation referred to it as the KLCC Mosque. Everything got abbreviated, lah.

  The national mosque was the one with a blue roof, which was striking, but this one was smack in the center of downtown, the only force of Islam balancing the forces of the modern developing world. The KLCC Mosque stood proud, showcasing off geometric angles, fountains with sacred words from the Quran, and a generally divine feeling. Heather felt at peace with the world when looking up at that mosque and the twin Petronas towers looming behind it.

  See, the thing about East Asian girls (Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Taiwanese) is that they tend to either have lean bodies or thick, stumpy ones. The Indian and Malay body came juicier. Heather, in her Chindian-Malay goodness, had thick, juicy ass cheeks stuffed into yoga pants like two ripe durians stretching out a small bag. Heather was gorgeous, with a butt plug sticking out of her like a stem from a fruit.

  Charlie didn’t know there was a stem in the fruit of her ass until he pulled down her yoga pants and exposed her juicy durian ass. Heather bent over and looked back at her greasy boyfriend and said, “Punish me for cuckolding you with that fucker right here under the watchful Sharia eye of the mosque.”

  Charlie grabbed the big b
lack butt plug and just like picking the stem out of a plum, he yanked it out of Heather’s phat Chindian ass.

  “Yaowwww!” Heather screamed into the air. A group of Muslim men turned in their direction from across the river but couldn’t see them from the distance.

  Her asshole was gaping. The edges of her asshole wrinkled into a geometric seal of wrinkled flesh, spread open so wide that it looked like a black ring of a shower faucet. “Your ass is wide open, like a whore.”

  Her asshole was a dark hole. It was like that black spot after staring into the sun. Heather’s gaping black asshole was pure mystery. It held the ancient answers. An entire minaret would metaphorically fit in there.

  “Yes,” Heather said. “He brutally used my asshole again. Like he always does. He has no respect for me or for you.”

  Charlie felt sick to his stomach seeing the love of his life with her freshly fucked asshole. They were never safe from that fucker’s torment.

  “And his dick is just so big. I doubt I’ll even be able to feel your cock inside of me, Charlie.”

  Some young women in hijab walked by the bank of the river, giggling. Charlie felt like even these high school girls were laughing at him.

  “Motherfucker,” he said. He punched his dick right into her gaping ass, right there in front of the river, the mosque, and the towering towers. Up in the Sky Bridge, someone was looking down with high-powered binoculars seeing a white guy abuse an Asian chick’s ass beside the dirty river.

  Charlie moaned deeply as his cock was swallowed up by his whore girlfriend’s beautifully used ass. He loved her so much. He massaged her ass cheeks tenderly while sodomizing her. Up on one of the minarets, an Imam sang out into the dusk for prayer time.

  “Baby,” Charlie said, “it feels so good. I love when you gift me your asshole.”

  “Did you put it in?” She asked. She was numb from the butt plug that fucker shoved inside her. She wanted more dick, bigger dick, multiple dicks to play with. She was unsatisfied by Charlie. Not just today, but every day. She had to admit it. That’s why she still skated past that fucker’s office in her short skirts, rollerblades, and tight tie crop tops that exposed her sexy Asian midriff.

  Charlie’s heart sank. “Yes, baby, it’s in! Don’t you feel my big dick?”

  “Big?” Heather questioned.

  Lana was a great mahjong player. She had the brains for the strategy. She had the logic to count well. She organized her thoughts and could think a few steps ahead without sacrificing her play. She was in the present, but mindful of the future. She was rich in chi. She was unassuming though, and humble. So an adversary wouldn’t likely know what she was up to. She was the perfect stealth warrior. It was hard to attack an opponent who you thought was a friend.

  Charlie pulled and then pushed Heather’s ass, her rollerblades providing the perfect traction for him to fuck her. It was a strange sight, watching a big ass smoothly rolling back and forth on a dick. It was an even stranger feeling.

  Heather saw cum dripping off the wheels of her roller blades. “No I don’t feel anything. That tiny little dick of yours can’t pleasure me, I guess.” She was getting off by being mean to him. She chuckled and made eye contact with one of the high school girls in tudung who looked away.

  Charlie felt an urge to slap Heather but he loved her so much. He was powerless. As angry as he was that the love of his life got off with some fucker in her ass, he didn’t want to upset the girl.

  “Come on, Charlie, fuck me hard enough for me to feel it.” Heather was smiling as she taunted her boyfriend.

  Charlie’s anger was rising and so was his arousal. His cock was as hard as possible, being pleasured by his girlfriend’s asshole. He was pushing his entire dick in her, his pelvis smashing against her phat ass cheeks.

  “Are you sure you’re in me?” Heather mocked her weak boyfriend. She wore the pants in this relationship.

  That was it. It sent Charlie over the edge. His hard-on was so engorged, his tumescence hurt. He slapped her ass cheeks hard. “Fuck you, Heather, you cheating slut.”

  “Yes, Charlie, pound me. I want to actually feel your small dick. That fucker made me cum the hardest I ever have with his massive slab of meat.”

  Charlie pulled her back and plunged his dick into her ass. He leaned forward and pinched her nipples through her thin shirt, trying to rip them off her juicy tits. “I’m going to rip your nipples off, you dirty fucking whore!”

  “Yes, finally I’ll feel something, you tiny-dicked loser.”

  The orgasm was rising up in Charlie. The angrier he became with Heather, the more he sank in love with her. He was about to cum. He was also about to throw up. He yanked both of her nipples as his cum was about to shoot up her asshole.

  “That fucker lasts longer and fucks me better,” she said pushing off and rolling away from Charlie and his cock, leaving her boyfriend all alone and past the point of no return. He had no choice but to jerk himself off, as he was already on the verge of cumming. He wanted Heather so badly. His cock wanted her asshole, her pussy—any hole of hers—to grip his dick and milk his love out. “Come here and kiss me,” Charlie said to her, trying to get her back to him and his erupting cock.

  She smiled at him hotly while skating backward in her tight yoga pants.

  “Only big dicks can cum in me,” she said and then skated forward in a low squatting position.

  “Yes, Heather,” Charlie said in a relieved voice. Let me cum in your mouth. She was so hot skating low like that, her pretty face just out of his reach and rolling toward him to satisfy him finally.

  Heather was inches away from Charlie’s angry cock. She stuck out her tongue and then pirouetted on her heels and skated away at full speed.

  Although Heather was gone, there was no stopping Charlie’s orgasm. Charlie jerked off and webs of thick viscous cum plopped into his hand. The cream spewed out, stuck to the side of his fingers, and dripped messily. He had no tissue—no wipes, no place to put it, so he wiped it on his exercise pants. The prayer song continued out the minaret and the Imam seemed to be staring at him. The high school girls in headscarves laughed until he looked at them angrily and they scurried away like pigeons.

  Charlie threw his head back, “Ah shit,” he said dejectedly, “What a fucked-up girl! I can’t love that obsessive crazy bitch.”

  Lana opened the rice cooker and used the fatheaded, plastic rice ladle to scoop rice in the pan. She heard someone at the door. Whoever it was, fumbled with the door. While she fried the rice with sesame oil, chilies, shrimp paste, and palm sugar, she saw a man in a suit walking door-to-door pasting notices. She knew in her gut what they were. She scooped the sweet fried rice onto a plate and fried an egg in the pan, using the leftover oil expertly. She used the rice scoop as a spatula to lay the egg on top of the fried rice. Then she sat down and ate.

  Charlie never went to the old part of the city where the Chinese lived. He lived in a newer, posh area. Today, he went to see Heather’s mom—her guardian, at her old place—a big apartment smudged yellow over the years, squatting behind the brand-new asylum-white monorail system. Charlie, brought a bag of oranges and a box of expensive red ginseng, which the Chinese elders said is good for your health. Bringing presents was necessary in Malaysia. If you wanted any kind of favor, you had to put in your request through some form of quid pro quo.

  As soon as Lana saw Charlie the Wok and his gifts, she knew her daughter was fucking around with that fucker again and her heart dropped. Earlier in the day, she had peeled an eviction notice off her door. She just couldn’t afford KL anymore. Many of the older Chinese couldn’t. The Government was trying to rid the city of all this old, affordable housing and replace it with shopping centers, hotels, and high-rise modern towers with gyms and private pools.

  Now there were young Malays in yoga pants drinking te tarik and then walking on the running machine; young families globbed on expensive sun block as they reclined on chaise loungers. They had people working for them, driving
for them, as they emerged as a Malay yuppie class who mingled with their transplanted foreign—usually white, counterparts from first-world countries.

  Lana took the eviction notice off the kitchen table as Charlie took his seat and placed the gifts on the table. She could still smell the landlord’s cheap shit perfume. He had told Lana and all the poor Chinese that they were on borrowed time, “Well, unless you put out for me,” he crudely reminded the Chinese wives, as he puffed on his cigarette and smiled through his yellow teeth. “Wahlao! You Chinese too,” Lana said behind his back to her Mahjong friend, Bridget.

  Charlie’s cologne smelled much better than the landlord’s, but he too had a kind of funky aroma like of something deep fried.

  Charlie’s legs kept bouncing nervously as he spoke, “Miss Choi, I’m desperately in love with your daughter. I know she’s the woman for me. I want her to love me, so that I can marry her.”

  He imagined living with Heather in his flat. He would see her every day without fail. He would have sex with her whenever he pleased, as much as he pleased. “I can give her everything she deserves. But…”

  Lana smiled understandingly and nodded at Charlie to go on. “Her ex-boyfriend is getting in the way. It’s crazy!”

  “What did he do? Is he stalking her?”

  “No, that’s not it.” Charlie shook his head. Sweat dripped from his eyebrows into his eyes. “It’s the opposite, actually. She’s stalking him.” He couldn’t help but notice that Heather’s mom’s bust was way bigger than Heather’s.

  Lana was careful not to let on to Charlie the Wok that she already knew this. She was more annoyed with her daughter’s behavior. Lana thought Heather was throwing away an outstanding opportunity of wealth, stability, and happiness by mucking things up with Charlie. Also, her daughter’s indiscretion was appalling. The audacity!