Quote:
Originally Posted by
usamat
Look forward to Part 2 !!
Quote:
Originally Posted by
fwchong
Looking forward to Part 2
yea I will get down to update part 2 when I have time even though the ending of part 1 might have disappoint some of the readers here
Hello everyone I am back after a long time to continue part 2 of my story on my life after I graduated and in my first job…
I remember the day I walked out of that final exam hall at NUS, the humid Singapore air hitting me like a warm blanket. It was May, and the campus was buzzing with graduates in their black gowns, snapping selfies under the relentless sun. At 22, I felt this mix of relief and uncertainty. My degree in business administration was supposed to open doors, but as the weeks dragged on, job rejections piled up in my inbox. ‘Not enough experience,’ they said. I scrolled through LinkedIn late into the night, my small HDB flat in Jurong feeling smaller by the day.
Those months after ending things with Douglas and his friend—yeah, the threesome that started as a rebound and turned into three wild months of tangled sheets and whispered secrets—left me craving something normal. No more sneaking around, no more guilt-tinged thrills. I wanted stability, a paycheck, a routine. But stability wasn’t knocking.
Then came the email from TilingPro Imports. A small family-run outfit in Ubi, importing ceramic tiles from China and Italy. Not the MNC dream, but it was sales and marketing executive, full-time. I jumped at the interview. The boss, Uncle Tan, a wiry man in his 50s with a perpetual sweat on his brow, shook my hand firmly. ‘We small lah, but steady business. You fresh grad, can learn fast?’ I nodded, smiling my university-trained outgoing self, the nerdy girl from secondary school days buried deep.
Starting there was a shock. The office was a converted industrial unit, fans whirring against the heat, stacks of tile samples everywhere smelling of dust and clay. Only 20 staff, mostly uncles in polo tees discussing shipments over kopi from the nearby coffee shop. And just two women: me and Auntie Lim in HR and finance, a no-nonsense lady in her 40s who chain-smoked during lunch breaks. I thought I’d be out pitching to contractors, but nope—backend admin. Invoicing, data entry, chasing suppliers via email. My days blurred into spreadsheets under fluorescent lights, the hum of the air-con my only companion.
Still, I threw myself in. Prim and proper as always, I dressed in blouses and knee-length skirts, my long legs carrying me between desks with quiet efficiency. The guys noticed, of course. Uncle Raj from logistics would grin when I bent to pick up a file, his eyes lingering a second too long on my thighs. I felt that subconscious warmth, the subtle thrill of being seen, but I brushed it off. Friendly chats over teh tarik in the pantry—that’s all it was. Or so I told myself.
Six months flew by. Diwali lights twinkled outside the office window one evening when Uncle Tan called me in. ‘Amanda, you good worker. Royston need assistant for sales. Probation three months, 10% up now, another 10% if pass. Commission extra if close deals.’ My heart skipped. More money meant breathing room on rent, maybe even a weekend trip to Sentosa.
But Royston. Mid-30s, single, average build with a receding hairline he tried to hide under gel. I’d dealt with him before—handing over reports he’d skim and grunt at. ‘This data wrong lah, Amanda. Check again.’ His tone always dripped condescension, like I was the intern kid sister. Ego the size of the Esplanade, that one. Still, opportunity knocked. ‘Yes, Uncle Tan. I’ll do my best.’
The contract for the probation role arrived via email the next morning, my laptop screen glowing in the dim light of my Jurong flat. I skimmed through the clauses—pay bump confirmed, three months to prove myself—but then hit the dress code section. Business skirts at knee level or above, high heels mandatory. No stipulations on tops, but thick, full makeup required for client interactions. It struck me as odd, almost outdated, like something from a bygone era of office culture in Singapore. Why the emphasis on skirts and heels when we’d be traipsing through construction sites and showrooms?
I fired off a quick message to Auntie Lim in HR, asking if it was negotiable. Her reply came fast: ‘Company policy, Amanda. If cannot accept, can decline offer. But you smart girl, know what’s best for career.’ I stared at the words, weighing it. Fresh grad like me, savings barely covering next month’s rent—declining meant back to square one. No, I was determined. This was my shot at climbing, even if it meant playing by their rules. Besides, dressing up for clients? It made sense in a way, projecting professionalism. Or so I convinced myself as I hit accept.
My wardrobe was no help. University life hadn’t prepared me for corporate chic on a budget. That night, in the dim glow of my Bedok flat, I rifled through my wardrobe with a sigh. Fresh grad life meant ramen budgets, not designer racks at ION Orchard. My ‘business’ collection was pitiful: one navy pencil skirt from a uni job fair, another black one I’d scored on sale at Bugis Street, both hugging just above the knee but riding higher when I moved. For the rest, I’d have to stretch with my formal miniskirts—charcoal gray and a deep burgundy, remnants from a cousin’s wedding outfit, shorter than ideal but fitted enough to pass in a pinch. Tops? No rules meant freedom, or necessity. I pulled out a few spaghetti strap blouses—silky white, soft pink—tucked in to cinch my waist, the thin straps exposing the smooth slope of my shoulders and the gentle curve of my collarbone. They flattered my figure, the fabric draping over my breasts without apology, hinting at the soft swell beneath. On cooler days, I’d layer a lightweight cardigan or the blazer from my interview, but mostly, it was this: skin-kissed, confident. I wasn’t blind to how it turned heads in back in my university days or on the bus to Sentosa—those stolen glances that made my cheeks warm, a secret hum of validation I never voiced. Why fight it? I looked good, felt good striding in heels that clicked with purpose.
First day back in the new role, I chose the burgundy miniskirt, pairing it with the white spaghetti top, the hem of the skirt flirting mid-thigh as I twisted for the mirror. Full makeup: winged liner sharpening my almond eyes, lips a glossy nude that plumped them invitingly. Heels on, bag slung over my shoulder, I caught the MRT to the Ubi office, heels clicking on the concrete floor. The air was thick with the scent of morning kopi and fresh rain from overnight showers. Heads turned as I walked to my cubicle—Uncle Raj pausing mid-sip, his eyes tracing from my heels up my legs to where the miniskirt skimmed my thighs. The logistics guys clustered by the pantry exchanged glances, murmurs low but unmistakable. Even the younger admin boy, fresh-faced like me, flushed when I smiled good morning. That subconscious warmth bloomed in my chest, the attention from all these men—older, younger, varying builds—stirring something deep, unbidden. I didn’t hate it; if anything, it fueled my stride, my outgoing university self taking over the old nerdy introvert.
He was all business, barking orders over conference calls to suppliers in Guangzhou. ‘Oi, faster delivery lah, or we switch vendor.’ I’d sit in on meetings, taking notes on my laptop, my breasts rising with each breath under my fitted top. The other sales guys—mostly older, married—would steal glances during team lunches at the hawker centre down the road, chicken rice steaming on plastic plates. Royston? He’d comment on my work, never me. ‘Efficient, but slow on details.’
The following Monday Royston emerged at nine sharp, folder in hand, his gaze sweeping over me like inventory. ‘You’re late on reports again?’ he said, voice laced with that condescending drawl, not even a hello. Mid-thirties confidence, but it grated.
‘Actually, I finished them Friday,’ I replied evenly, sliding the printouts across. Our fingers brushed—light, accidental—and a tiny jolt zipped up my arm. He didn’t pull away immediately, his touch lingering a beat too long, warm against my skin. I met his eyes, dark and assessing, and felt that subconscious pull: the leering undercurrent, even from him. It stirred something low in my belly, unbidden.
He grunted, flipping through the pages. ‘Not bad. For once.’ A smirk tugged his lips, and he leaned closer, scent of his cologne—woody, overpowering—invading my space. ‘First meeting’s at eleven. Client from Geylang showroom. You’ll shadow me, take notes. Dress like that helps close deals, you know.’ His eyes dipped briefly to my skirt, the hem riding up as I crossed my legs…
Weeks in, things shifted subtly. Late afternoons, when the office emptied for Friday drinks, he’d call me in. ‘Amanda, review this proposal.’ I’d perch on the edge of his desk, legs crossed, fleshy thighs pressing together as I pointed out tweaks. Once, his hand brushed my arm—accidental, maybe—lingering just a beat. ‘Good catch,’ he muttered, voice softer. I didn’t pull away, that light touch sparking something dormant, like embers from my past flaring up.
Probation dragged, but the pay bump helped. I splurged on a new dress for a rare night out with uni friends at Clarke Quay, the river lights reflecting off my skin as we laughed over cocktails. Back home, alone in my bed, I’d replay those brushes—Royston’s, or even Uncle Raj’s pat on my back earlier that week. My hand would wander, fingers tracing my curves, imagining eyes on me, multiple, hungry. It turned me on more than I admitted, that secret pull.
One humid Tuesday, after a site visit to a condo project in Punggol, Royston drove us back in his car. Traffic on the PIE was a crawl, radio playing some Mandarin ballad. ‘You improving, Amanda. Not bad for a freshie.’ High praise from him. His knee bumped mine shifting gears, and he didn’t move it right away. The air thickened, my pulse quickening under my blouse. ‘Thanks, Royston. I’m learning.’ My voice came out steady, but inside, that subconscious enjoyment bloomed—his attention, flawed as he was, felt like a spotlight.
By month’s end, tension simmered. He started with ‘casual’ touches: a hand on my shoulder reviewing prints, fingers grazing my waist as we squeezed past stacked boxes. I didn’t reject them, letting the flirty warmth build slow, like the afternoon haze over the city. Each one turned me on a fraction more, my body responding despite his ego. Was this the corporate ladder, or something steamier?
Probation’s halfway mark hit during a company dinner at a seafood spot in East Coast. Auntie Lim gossiped about vendors, uncles downed Tiger beers. I sat beside Royston, my dress riding up slightly on my thighs. He leaned in, breath warm with alcohol. ‘You wear this to distract the clients?’ His joke landed heavy, eyes on my legs. I laughed it off, friendly as ever, but felt the heat pool between them.
Later that night in the office lift alone after hours—me dropping off some stuff for tomorrow’s urgent need —he cornered the space. ‘Amanda, you’re valuable here. Pass probation, and who knows?’ His hand found my lower back, pressing lightly as the doors dinged open. I stepped out, skin tingling, not stopping him.
The build-up crested one rainy Thursday. Thunder rumbled over the HDB skyline as we worked late on a big tender. Office empty, just us in his room, monitors glowing. ‘Pass me the specs,’ he said, and as I reached across, his fingers intertwined with mine briefly. ‘You’re tense. Relax lah.’ Before I could respond, his other hand cupped my elbow, pulling me closer. Our faces inches apart, his conceited smirk softened by want.
I didn’t pull back. That subconscious thrill surged—his touch, the isolation, echoes of past indulgences. ‘Royston…’ My voice was a whisper, legs shifting as arousal stirred. He kissed me then, tentative at first, lips pressing against mine in the dim light. I responded, mouth opening, tongue meeting his with a hunger I hadn’t planned. His hands roamed, one sliding to my breast, squeezing through the fabric, thumb circling my nipple till it hardened. I gasped into his mouth, the other hand hiking my skirt, fingers tracing the curve of my thigh. ‘You’ve been teasing me for months,’ he murmured, ego flaring even now. But I was wet already, body betraying any prim facade.
We moved to the couch in the corner, rain pattering on the windows. He pushed me back gently, mouth trailing down my neck, unbuttoning my blouse to expose my lace bra. His lips latched onto my breast, sucking through the material, tongue flicking. I arched, fingers in his hair, that turn-on from his leering gaze amplifying everything.
Skirt bunched at my waist, he knelt between my legs, hands parting my fleshy thighs. ‘So smooth,’ he groaned, kissing inner skin, inching up. My panties damp, he peeled them aside, fingers stroking my folds before his mouth descended. Tongue lapping at my clit, slow circles building the ache. I moaned, hips bucking, the office’s sterility forgotten in the sensual haze.
‘Fuck, Amanda,’ he said, standing to unzip, his cock springing free—average, hard, veined. I sat up, prim no more, wrapping lips around the head, sucking deep as he groaned. Saliva trailed as I bobbed, tongue swirling the shaft, tasting his precum.
He pulled me up, bending me over the desk, papers scattering. Entering me from behind, slow thrust filling my pussy, stretching with each inch. I gripped the edge, pushing back, his hands on my hips slapping skin. Pace quickened, rain masking our grunts—thrust, withdraw, deeper, my walls clenching.
Climax hit me first, waves crashing as I cried out, body shuddering. He followed, pulling out to cum on my ass, hot spurts marking the moment. We collapsed, breathing heavy, the probation suddenly feeling like more than career steps.As we cleaned up, his conceited grin returned. ‘Good assistant.’ I smiled, that subconscious satisfaction lingering, wondering what lines we’d cross next in this small world of tiles and temptations.
The following day Royston was in his glass room, phone to ear, when I knocked. ‘Morning. Ready for the grind?’ I said, perching on the desk edge, spaghetti top shifting slightly to reveal a hint of lace bra. He glanced up, eyes lingering a beat on my legs before flicking to my face. ‘Outfit’s fine. Suits the role.’ Nonchalant, like commenting on the weather. No grin, no approval—just that egoistic shrug. It irked me, the way he dismissed it after all the effort. ‘Thanks,’ I replied, voice clipped, turning to grab the day’s schedule. Inside, annoyance mixed with that tingle; his gaze, however brief, added to the chorus.
The travel started immediately. Royston’s car idled outside, boot crammed with a bulky luggage of tile samples—ceramic slabs, porcelain cuts, all weighing a solid 10kg. ‘Load it up when we stop,’ he said, sliding into the driver’s seat without a glance. I heaved it from the office storeroom, straps digging into my shoulder, heels wobbling on the uneven pavement. By the time I wrestled it into the boot, sweat beaded under my makeup, skirt riding up as I bent. He didn’t offer help once, just revved the engine.
Our first stop: a renovation firm in Bedok, the drive crawling through morning traffic on the ECP, radio droning with traffic updates. ‘You’ll handle the display,’ Royston instructed, eyes on the road. ‘Bend to show the lower samples, squat for the mosaics. Make it engaging—clients like that.’ His tone was all business, but I caught the side-eye when I crossed my legs, heel tapping the floor mat.
At the site, a half-built shophouse reeking of cement dust, the client—Mr. Low, burly in his 40s, polo shirt stained—greeted us with a firm handshake. I dragged the luggage inside, arms straining, skirt hiking as I knelt to unzip it. Royston launched into specs: ‘This Italian import, durable for high-traffic areas.’ Per his cues, I positioned tiles on the floor, bending at the waist to arrange the larger ones, spaghetti top gaping forward. I felt it—the cool air on my cleavage, the lace edge of my bra visible. Mr. Low’s eyes dipped, lingering on the curve of my breasts as I straightened, then flicked to my thighs when I squatted for the smaller pieces, knees parting slightly under the short pencil skirt.
It happened again at the next meeting, a contractor’s office in Geylang. Unloading in the carpark, I bent over the boot, ass presented unintentionally, and caught Royston in the rearview—staring, nonchalant mask cracking into a subtle smirk. Inside, as I knelt to fan out samples on the table, the two male clients—both in their 50s, leaned forward, gazes tracing my exposed skin where the top slipped off one shoulder. Royston’s instructions kept me low: ‘Show the texture up close.’ My heart raced, not just from effort, but that forbidden thrill—the multiple eyes on me, vulnerable in heels and makeup, body on display amid tile talk. It turned me on slowly, warmth spreading between my legs, subconscious enjoyment overriding any prim discomfort.
Days blurred into weeks. Mornings: makeup ritual in my flat, lips bold, eyes smoky. Drives with Royston: his knee brushing mine at red lights in Jurong, conversations veering from quotas to casual probes—‘You comfortable in that? Looks good on you.’ Nonchalant again, but his glances multiplied. Once, stuck in Orchard Road jam, I reached for a file in the back, top pulling tight, and felt his stare down my blouse, fixed on the swell of my boobs. I didn’t call him out; instead, I shifted, letting the moment hang, arousal flickering like the city lights outside.
Client meets piled up—showrooms in Tuas, sites in Yishun. Hauling the luggage became routine torture: heels sinking into gravel, skirt flipping in the wind as I bent to lift, Royston’s eyes catching panty glimpses when I climbed back in, legs splayed awkwardly. ‘Heavy today,’ I’d mutter, wiping sweat, but he’d just nod, ego keeping him hands-off.
One sweltering afternoon in Woodlands, presenting to a group of three contractors—all men, mid-30s like Royston, beers in hand from an early lunch—we set up in a makeshift display area. ‘Kneel for the floor tiles,’ he directed, voice steady as he pitched durability. I dropped down, thighs parting for balance, skirt riding high enough to expose the lace trim of my panties. Their eyes locked—cleavage heaving with each breath, legs fleshy and bare above the heels. One shifted closer, pretending to inspect, breath warm on my skin.
The vulnerability hit hard, gazes devouring, but so did the heat coiling low, nipples hardening under the thin top. Royston watched too, from the side, his nonchalant facade hiding the hunger I’d glimpsed before.
Back in the car, silence thick as we merged onto the SLE. My body buzzed, exposed and ogled all day, that subconscious pull stronger now. ‘Good presentation,’ he said finally, hand grazing my thigh ‘accidentally’ on the gear shift. I didn’t move it away, pulse quickening. The probation was reshaping me, one lingering look at a time, lines blurring between career and craving.
Probation’s second month dawned with a heatwave, Singapore’s humidity turning the office into a sauna despite the fans. I arrived early, miniskirt clinging to my thighs, spaghetti top sheer under the lights, full makeup flawless—mascara thick, foundation even. The male stares were constant now, a backdrop to my tasks: Uncle Raj whistling low as I filed reports, the admin boy stammering hellos. It fed that hidden part of me, the one that thrilled at multiple admirers, regardless of their polish.
Royston upped the travels: daily runs to suppliers in Jurong Industrial Estate, clients in Changi Business Park. The luggage mocked me each time—10kg of unforgiving weight. One morning, wrestling it from the boot at a warehouse in Pioneer, I bent deep, skirt taut across my ass. A sharp rip echoed—no tear, but the fabric strained, and when I glanced back, Royston leaned against the car, eyes on the shadow between my legs, panty line clear. ‘Need a hand?’ he asked, first time offering, but too late. Annoyance flared, mixed with the spark of his attention.
Inside, amid stacks of crates, the client—a gruff uncle in his 60s—watched as I squatted to pull samples, heels digging in, cleavage spilling forward with the motion. Royston’s spiel droned: ‘These for wet areas, non-slip.’ But his cues had me kneeling longer, thighs quivering, exposed to the man’s unabashed stare. I felt the dampness building, body responding to the vulnerability, the way their eyes traced my curves like I was part of the display.
The peak came mid-month, a major pitch to a developer in Marina South. Five men in suits, boardroom sleek with sea views. I hauled the luggage solo again, heels echoing on marble, Royston trailing. Setup: me on my knees by the projector screen, arranging tiles in rows, skirt bunching high, panties peeking as I reached back. Their eyes—sharp, appraising—fixed on my ass, then my breasts when I stood to hand samples, top gaping. Royston explained pricing, but his voice hitched when I squatted low, legs spread for stability, cleavage on full view.
Deal closed, handshakes all around, lingering grips on my palm. In the elevator down, alone with Royston, tension snapped. ‘You were perfect,’ he said, pressing close, hand sliding to my waist. I turned, lips meeting his in the descent, tongue urgent. Back at the car, boot still open, he pushed me against it, fingers hiking my skirt, stroking the damp fabric between my thighs. ‘All those looks today—turned you on, didn’t it?’ His ego shone, but I nodded, pulling him closer, the day’s exposures fueling the fire.
He fingered me there, quick circles on my clit through panties, my moans muffled by his mouth. I came fast, shuddering against the luggage, his cock hard against my hip. ‘Office later,’ he whispered, driving off with promise hanging. The probation wasn’t just work anymore—it was a slow seduction, my body the unwitting star.
Royston was sharp, always one step ahead, framing it all as strategy. ‘Clients remember the face, the energy,’ he’d say over coffee runs, his knee brushing mine under the table in a way that sent a subtle jolt up my leg. ‘Be friendly, engaging—give them your best. That’s how we close.’ Naïve me, straight out of NUS lectures on marketing theory, lapped it up. If flaunting a bit of skin—tucking the spaghetti top to hug my waist, letting the straps slip just so—meant hitting quotas, I’d lean into it. My figure wasn’t a curse; it was an asset, the way it drew eyes making me stand taller, that subconscious thrill from uni parties resurfacing, warm and insistent between my thighs.
Sales spiked, deals stacking like the tiles in our warehouse. I credited my pitches—polished from endless rehearsals, voice steady as I described textures, running fingers over cool ceramic to mimic the client’s touch. But truth be told, it was the leers that lubricated the negotiations, those older men—smitten by the sway of my hips as I knelt to arrange samples, my long legs folding beneath me, skirt taut over the plump swell of my ass. Royston guided subtly, positioning me front and center: ‘Amanda, demo the grip—get down there.’ I’d oblige, thighs parting in the squat, feeling the fabric stretch thin, the air kissing my skin as gazes bored in, cocks likely twitching in their trousers at the unintended show. Annoyance at Royston’s nonchalance faded; success tasted sweeter, my bank account padding with commissions, confidence swelling like the heat in my core after a good client nod.
Repeat clients grew bolder, their flirtations mixed into the professional weave. Mr. Tan from Jurong, the burly one with the firm grip, started with compliments—‘Wah, Amanda, you make tiles look boring’—his eyes devouring the exposed slope of my shoulders, the way my boobs pressed against the silky top. By the third visit, his hand lingered on my lower back as I bent to point out a pattern, fingers grazing the dimples above my skirt, sending a shiver racing down my spine. I didn’t pull away; it felt like camaraderie, the light touches echoing those flirty nights with my ex and his friends, bodies tangled in dim rooms, hands exploring without shame. ‘Just being friendly,’ I’d tell myself, reciprocating with a laugh, my palm brushing his arm, the contact sparking a low ache in my belly. Auntie Lim gossiped in the office—‘These uncles, all the same, hor?’—but I brushed it off, determined, my miniskirts getting shorter on laundry days, spaghetti tops clinging damp in the humidity, flaunting the curve of my waist, the subtle bounce of my tits with each step.
Nights out sealed the bigger wins, Royston dragging us to nightspots after closes—Clarke Quay’s neon pulse or Geylang’s shadowed lanes, air thick with satay smoke and bass thumps. Socializing, he called it, ‘building rapport.’ I’d sip gin tonics, the alcohol loosening my limbs, skirt riding high on the sticky booth seats. One night at a dim karaoke joint in Bugis, sandwiched between two contractors—sweaty, middle-aged, their thighs pressing mine—I felt hands roam. Left guy’s fingers traced my shoulder, dipping to the strap of my top, while right one’s palm settled on my knee, inching up my thigh under the table’s cover. The touch was electric, rough calluses scraping my smooth skin, heat pooling where his thumb circled inner flesh. I shifted, but didn’t stop him, my own hand resting casually on his leg, fingers grazing the seam of his pants, feeling the firm ridge beneath.
Royston watched from across, nursing a beer, his eyes dark and unreadable, but his presence anchored me—safe, nothing crossing into outright grabs. Their breaths grew heavy, whispers hot against my ear—‘You so pretty, Amanda, like model’—and I’d giggle, reciprocating the flirt, my body alive with the buzz, nipples hardening against the thin fabric, a slick warmth building between my legs. It never went further; Royston steered us out before last call, deals all but signed in their lust-fogged minds.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
want0nmee
damn~ if only we have a look alike photo of what u wear
Quote:
Originally Posted by
margate
Agreed, second this
Quote:
Originally Posted by
refipin907
Would be nice if can add in photos for us bros who cant picture it in our heads
I managed to find this old photo that Royston took of me, he said that he took it for “training purpose”
Under his watchful guidance, Royston plotted deeper, threads pulling toward his biggest fish: Mr. Lee. I’d met the man twice—early fifties, sharp suit over a solid frame, salt-and-pepper hair, eyes like polished obsidian. No-nonsense in meetings, his handshake firm but brief, gaze sliding past my bent form without the usual linger. Surprising, given how others ogled, but I shrugged it off, focusing on the samples, my squats and leans drawing yawns from him instead of hunger. Royston, though, saw opportunity, his mind a chessboard where I was the unwitting queen.
I didn’t know about the drink that one night, Royston and Mr. Lee at a quiet shophouse bar in Chinatown, lanterns swaying in the breeze off the river. No tiles on the table, just whiskey neat, conversation meandering from markets to women. When my name dropped, Royston’s voice lowered, casual as rain chatter. ‘Amanda? Yeah, she’s a firecracker. Acts all prim, but with clients? Slutty side slips out—flirty touches, the works. Closet type, you know? Might be game if you play it right.’ He painted me vivid: the way I’d lean in, top gaping to flash lace; thighs parting in demos, inviting eyes; nights where hands wandered my skin, me leaning into it with a smile. Not direct—no ‘go fuck her’—just seeds planted, the idea blooming in Mr. Lee’s mind like humidity-fed moss. Royston watched the man’s jaw tighten, whiskey glass pausing mid-sip, but his face stayed stone. ‘Interesting,’ was all he said, unmoved on the surface.
As they wrapped, Royston dropped the hook. ‘She’s coming solo to your office Friday night—contract signing. I’m tied up, family thing, Amanda will handle everything’ Mr. Lee nodded, settling the bill with a crisp wave, but Royston knew the lech beneath the boardroom bark. The man had a reputation—deals sealed in hotel suites, whispers of secretaries bent over desks—but subtle, power his aphrodisiac. Royston leaned back, satisfied, the plan uncoiling: leave me alone with him, the office dim after hours, contracts a thin excuse for whatever the bastard’s hands might claim.
Friday crept in humid and heavy, the office emptying early for weekend exodus. I prepped alone, rifling samples for Mr. Lee’s sign-off—a massive order, tiles for his new condo project in Orchard. Royston texted mid-afternoon: Handle it solo. I’m out. Impress him—first impressions, remember? I smiled at my phone, nerves fluttering but excitement too—the deal could smash my targets, probation gold.
The humid Friday evening clung to my skin like a second layer as I stepped out of the Grab car outside Mr. Lee’s office building in the heart of Raffles Place. The skyline twinkled with office lights winding down, but his floor was a ghost town—empty corridors echoing my heels’ sharp clicks against the marble. I’d chosen the white spaghetti top carefully, the thin straps digging slightly into my shoulders, fabric stretched taut over my breast, the neckline dipping just enough to hint at the black cotton bra peeking out when I moved. Tucked viciously into my body-hugging pencil skirt, it rode up my hips with every step, the material molding to the slight curve of my ass and the fleshy swell of my thighs. Matching black cotton panties hugged my mound, a practical choice for the long day, but now they felt constricting under the skirt’s vise-like grip. Full makeup—smoky eyes, red lips—completed the look, my long hair loose down my back, swaying with my confident stride. Royston’s text burned in my mind: Impress him. Close it. I felt ready—naïve, determined, body on display for success’s sake, the slow simmer of desire I’d grown to crave bubbling just beneath.
Mr. Lee’s office door was ajar, the space dimly lit by a desk lamp, air-conditioned chill raising goosebumps on my exposed arms. He sat on the sofa in front of his desk, early fifties etched in the lines around his eyes, salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed, suit impeccable—white shirt crisp, tie loosened just a fraction. His gaze lifted as I entered, cool and appraising, no warmth in those dark eyes. ‘Amanda. Come in.’ His voice was gravelly, clipped, like our previous meetings where he’d barely acknowledged my presence, eyes flicking past my bends and squats without a spark. I swallowed the flicker of nerves, forcing a bright smile. ‘Mr. Lee, good evening. Ready for the final walkthrough?’
I approached the desk, contract folder in hand, heels sinking into the plush carpet. Laying it out on the low table, I leaned forward on the opposite of the table —habit from Royston’s drills—explaining clauses in my polished pitch voice, pointing to fine print. The top gaped unintentionally, straps slipping to bare the black lace edge of my bra, the soft underside of my breast nearly spilling into view. My skirt pulled tight across my thighs as I shifted weight, the seam riding up to expose a sliver of inner leg, but he didn’t react, just nodded curtly, pen tapping. Undeterred by his frostiness, I decided to amp it—first impressions, right?
Grabbing the sample catalog, thick and glossy with tile samples, I circled around the desk boldly. ‘Let me show you the visuals up close.’ Without thinking twice, I sat myself beside Mr Lee, draping the catalog open across his thigh, my right arm brushing his inner thigh, the weight pressing the pages against the fabric of his slacks. My skirt hiked higher in the motion, thighs parting slightly for balance, the cotton panties’ outline faint but there if he looked down. ‘See here, the matte finish—feels just like this.’ My fingers trailed the page, inches from his leg, voice husky from the proximity, a subconscious flirt creeping in from those nightspot nights.
His body tensed under the catalog, thigh muscle firm beneath, but his face stayed stone. ‘Enough.’ He pushed the folder aside abruptly, standing to tower over me—solid frame, faint cologne of sandalwood and authority. ‘I’m pulling out. The terms aren’t favorable anymore. Market shifted.’ My stomach dropped, heart pounding like the distant thunder rumbling over the bay. ‘Mr. Lee, wait—please. We’ve come so far. Let me review the adjustments?’ Desperation edged my tone, visions of probation failure crashing down. He shook his head, turning to the window, city lights reflecting in his impassive eyes. ‘No point. Unless…’ He trailed off, gaze sliding back, lingering now on the exposed bra strap, the way my top clung to my hardened nipples from the chill—or was it nerves?
‘Unless what?’ I pressed, standing too, skirt smoothing down but not before his eyes traced the curve of my ass. He faced me fully, voice dropping low, measured. ‘You’re a pretty girl, Amanda. Young, eager. I see how you present—flirty, like with my competitors. Royston mentioned it.’ Heat flooded my cheeks—Royston? What had he said? But the deal dangled, so I played along, stepping closer, hand light on his arm. ‘I’m just doing my job, Mr. Lee. Friendly. Let me make this work for you.’ His lips quirked, not quite a smile. ‘Friendly can go further. A simple hand job. I won’t touch you—promise. Just that, and we sign. Quick, no strings.’ The words hung crude in the air, my breath catching, thighs clenching instinctively. A hand job? Here? The reluctance surged, bile rising— this wasn’t me, not professional, not right. ‘I… I can’t. That’s not—’ He cut in, persuasive silk over steel. ‘Think of the contract. Your career. One hand, five minutes. I’m discreet; no one knows. Or walk out empty-handed.’ His eyes bored in, power thick as the humid night outside. Minutes stretched, my mind racing—probation, targets, Royston’s nod of approval. Reluctantly, grudgingly, I nodded, voice a whisper. ‘Okay. Just that. Nothing more.’
He settled back onto the sofa, unzipping with deliberate calm, his cock springing free—thick, veined, half-hard already, the head flushed against his dark slacks as Mr Lee gestured to me to sit beside him a position which I regretted later. As I sat down my skirt bunched upwards my to mid-thigh, exposing the black cotton clinging to my pussy lips. My hand wrapped around him tentatively, skin hot and velvety, pulsing under my grip. I stroked slowly, up and down, thumb circling the tip where pre-cum beaded, slicking the motion. His breath hitched, but after minutes—five, ten?—he hadn’t cum, my arm aching, wrist cramping from the angle, in hindsight I realize this might be part of Mr Lee plan as the position we were in, it was super awkward and from my angle it was almost impossible to give him a handjob properly. ‘Faster,’ he grunted, but I faltered, reluctance making my movements mechanical, mind screaming this was wrong. ‘It’s not working,’ he said finally, voice edged. ‘Let me touch you. It’ll help—loosen things. Still just your hand on me.’ Persuasion again, his eyes locking mine, the contract a ghost between us. Better to end it quick, I thought, nodding wearily. ‘Fine. But only touching. Get it over with.’
His hands were on me instantly—large, callused palms sliding up my arms, thumbs hooking my spaghetti straps to tug them down, exposing my black bra fully, cups heaving with my breaths. I kept stroking, but he shifted, pulling me onto his lap sideways, my ass half on his thigh, legs splayed awkwardly over the sofa. The position twisted my body, hand barely reaching his cock properly, strokes fumbling, grip loose. ‘Like this,’ he murmured, one hand cupping my breast through the bra, kneading the soft flesh, nipple peaking hard under his thumb’s rub. The other dipped to my skirt, hiking it fully, fingers tracing the cotton panty’s edge, dipping under to graze my slit. I gasped, reluctance warring with the spark—‘Mr. Lee, just—’ but his touch intensified, palm grinding my tit, pinching the nipple till it throbbed, while his fingers parted my folds, finding the wetness I hadn’t admitted, clit swelling under his circles. My hand slowed, strokes weakening to lazy pumps, body betraying me as heat built, thighs quivering. His mouth at my ear: ‘See? Better.’ Two fingers plunged in, curling against my walls, thumb on my clit, pumping steady while I rocked involuntarily, breaths ragged, the office spinning. Reluctance melted into haze, my free hand clutching his shoulder, pussy clenching around him as orgasm ripped through—sharp, shuddering, juices soaking his hand, a whimper escaping my lips.
He withdrew, slick fingers gleaming, cock still rigid, untouched now. ‘That was nothing,’ he said, dissatisfaction sharp. ‘Your hand’s useless like that. Suck it. Properly, and we sign.’ Grudging heat flushed me—post-orgasm glow clashing with shame—but the deal, the need. ‘I… okay. But after, that’s it.’ I slid to my knees this time, top askew, bra exposed, skirt a rumpled band around my waist. His cock bobbed, pre-cum dripping, and I leaned in, lips parting reluctantly, tongue flicking the head tentatively. Salty, musky, filling my mouth as I took him deeper, cheeks hollowing, hand at the base stroking what I couldn’t swallow. He groaned, fingers tangling in my hair—not guiding, just holding—as I bobbed, slurping wetly, throat relaxing to take more, gagging softly when he hit the back. Minutes blurred, jaw aching, saliva trailing down my chin onto my exposed cleavage, his hips bucking lightly. I pulled off gasping, eyes watering. ‘Enough?’ He shook his head, eyes dark. ‘Not yet. But close. Imagine if we went further—your tight pussy around me. I’d cum quick, sign everything.’ Conviction laced his words, hand stroking my cheek, thumb tracing my swollen lips. ‘No,’ I protested weakly, reluctance surging anew, body still humming from before. ‘Just the mouth. Please.’ But he persisted, voice low, coaxing. ‘You’re soaked already. Feel how hard I am? I will wear a condom and it’ll be fast—bend over the desk, I’ll fuck you from behind, done in minutes. Career boost, Amanda. Say yes.’
His fingers dipped back to my panties, rubbing my clit through the damp cotton, reigniting the ache. Unwilling, tears pricking— this was too far, too real— but the persuasion wore me down, the power imbalance crushing, visions of failure looming. ‘Fine,’ I whispered finally, standing shakily, bending over the desk, skirt flipped up, panties tugged aside. Mr Lee reached for a condom stashed inside his desk, capped himself as his cock pressed at my entrance, thick head nudging my slick folds, and with a grunt, he thrust in—stretching me wide, filling deep, the burn mixing with unwilling pleasure as he pounded, hands gripping my hips, raw slap of skins against each other. At least it was quick, Mr Lee lasted less than two minutes but it felt like an eternity when he was inside me, panting, he zipped up, grabbing the pen to sign—deal sealed. ‘Good girl.’ He looked at me with a smirk, I slid off the desk, skirt stained, body trembling—regret mixing with that dark satisfaction, past relived in this office.
The aftershocks of that Friday night lingered like a bruise as I slipped out of Mr. Lee’s office, skirt hastily smoothed, top tugged back into place, the taste of him still faint on my tongue. My thighs ached with a dull throb, panties damp and twisted, but the contract was signed—inked with a flourish while he adjusted his tie, a satisfied smirk cracking his cool façade, ‘Royston will be thrilled.’ I mumbled thanks, fleeing into the humid night, the Grab ride home a blur of streetlights and self-recrimination.
All night, I tossed in my sheets, phone clutched tight, waiting for the other shoe—Royston calling, furious, or worse, amused. But Saturday dawned silent; Monday’s office buzz greeted me with Royston’s casual grin over coffee. ‘Heard you nailed it. Big win, Amanda.’ No probing eyes, no sly digs—just pride, and the relief washed over me like cool rain. Probation passed that week, the email from HR crisp: pay bump, plus commissions stacking up. I celebrated with a quiet bubble tea run, the extra zeros in my bank app a small victory amid the unease.
Work settled into its rhythm post-probation, the office hum of printers and phone rings unchanged, but with a new leash—longer, looser. Royston delegated more: ‘Chase those leads yourself now. Build your book.’ I nodded, diving into cold calls and site visits, the freedom intoxicating yet daunting. Mornings started the same—slipping into a fitted blouse that hugged my curves, paired with a skirt just above the knee, heels clicking as I toted sample cases. That Tuesday blurred into the usual: a morning meeting with a contractor in Jurong, me bending to lay out porcelain slabs on the warehouse floor, skirt riding up my thighs, the cool air teasing my skin as his gaze lingered on the shadow between my legs. Lunch with a supplier in Chinatown, perched on a stool at the hawker center, crossing my fleshy legs only to uncross them, flashing a glimpse of lace when I reached for the chili crab. Afternoon client in Bugis, squatting to demonstrate grout lines, top gaping to reveal the swell of my bra, his eyes darkening as I straightened, oblivious at first, then flushing under the weight of it. By evening, exhaustion mixed with that familiar undercurrent—attention I’d learned to wield, or so I told myself.
Royston caught me at 6 PM, packing my bag. ‘Drinks? That pub in Geylang—celebrate your solo streak.’ I hesitated, the day’s exposures still humming in my veins, but nodded. ‘Sure. Need your brain on some strategies.’ The sleazy pub squatted off Lorong 18, neon flickering ‘Lucky Star’ in red haze, inside a dim cavern of sticky tables and bass-thumped R&B. We claimed a corner booth, sunken sofas sagging under vinyl, the low lighting casting shadows that swallowed details. I slid in first, skirt hiking to mid-thigh, legs pressing together against the cool faux-leather. Royston ordered Tiger beers and satay skewers, his knee brushing mine as he leaned back, shirt sleeves rolled, forearms veined from warehouse hauls. ‘So, spill. How’s the independence treating you?’
I sipped the foamy brew, the bitterness grounding me, and launched in—nerves about pitching alone, juggling follow-ups, reading client vibes without his buffer. ‘I close small ones, but the big fish? They want more… rapport.’ He listened, nodding, then dove into advice: practical gold. ‘Network at trade shows—don’t just hand cards, ask about their pain points. Tiles are visual; use your demos, get hands-on.’ He paused, eyes flicking to my crossed legs. ‘And leverage what you’ve got. Charm’s your edge—smile, lean in, make ’em feel seen. But set boundaries early; don’t let ’em push.’ I jotted notes on my phone, absorbing it—surviving meant adapting, growing my portfolio through persistence, not just looks. Plates arrived, peanut sauce steaming, and we ate, conversation flowing easy, his tips on negotiating margins, scouting suppliers in China, building repeat business. The beer warmed me, loosening knots, the pub’s haze blurring edges.
As plates cleared, the night deepened—crowd thinning to murmurs, lights dimmer, our booth a pocket of intimacy. Royston’s arm draped the sofa back, fingers grazing my shoulder innocently at first, tracing the blouse seam. I didn’t pull away; half-expected this, the pub’s vibe electric with unspoken possibilities, my body still buzzing from the day’s unwitting teases. ‘You’re getting it,’ he said, voice low, hand sliding to my neck, thumb stroking the pulse there. ‘Confident now.’ His touch lingered, warm, and I met his gaze, the flirtation sparking— a half-smile from me, his knee nudging mine wider. Conversation dipped, beers refilled, his palm flat on my thigh now, squeezing the fleshy inner curve, skirt barrier thin. I shifted, heat pooling low, but stayed, whispering, ‘Thanks for the tips. Really.’ His fingers inched higher, brushing panty edges, and I bit my lip, the dark shielding us as his other hand cupped my jaw, pulling me into a kiss—slow, exploratory, lips parting to tongues tangling, tasting satay and lager.
The makeout built languid, breaths mingling hot, his hand delving under my skirt to press against my mound through cotton, fingers rubbing circles over my clit as I gasped into his mouth. Mine wandered too, palming his bulge through slacks, the hardness straining, zipper rasping as I stroked the length. Fully clothed, hidden in shadow, the sofa creaked under us—his fingers slipping inside my panties, parting slick folds, dipping shallow while I fumbled his fly, wrapping around his cock, pumping steady, thumb smearing pre-cum. Kisses turned urgent, nipping necks, his free hand kneading my breast through blouse, nipple peaking under the friction. My hips rocked into his touch, his cock throbbing in my grip, the pub’s thrum fading to our shared rhythm—wet sounds muffled, climax coiling tight. He came first, a stifled groan against my shoulder, hot spurts coating my hand inside his pants, and I followed seconds later, clenching around his fingers, a quiet mewl lost in the music, body shuddering in the dim.
We disentangled flushed, wiping hands on napkins, laughter awkward but charged. ‘Bill?’ he asked, and I nodded, gathering myself. Outside, the Geylang night hummed—hawker smells, distant karaoke wails. ‘Let me drive you home,’ Royston offered, hand at my elbow. ‘No Grab surge from me.’ I smiled as I accepted, the post-release haze making refusal futile. His sedan idled curbside, leather seats cool as I slid in, skirt riding high, thighs bare to the dash light. The engine purred to life, AC whispering, but his right hand claimed my leg immediately—palm warm on exposed skin, fingers tracing lazy patterns up the inner thigh, dipping under hem to graze panty-dampness. ‘Good night,’ he murmured, eyes on the road, but touch insistent, parting my legs slightly, middle finger pressing my clit through fabric as we merged onto the PIE. I squirmed, reluctant spark igniting—‘Royston, we’re driving’—but his persuasion wove in, voice husky. ‘Can’t stop thinking about you. Pull over somewhere quiet first? As a reward—for the advice, your hard work. Quick, then home.’ The words tugged, my secret horniness betraying me, body still aching from the sofa. Begrudgingly, I nodded, whispering, ‘Fine. But fast.’
He veered off at a dark industrial stretch few streets away from my house, parking under sodium lamps’ faint glow, engine idling low. No words—his mouth crashed to mine, kisses fierce, tongues dueling as hands roamed, unbuttoning my blouse to expose bra, palming breasts while I tugged his shirt free, nails raking his chest. We broke for air, my head dipping to his lap, zipper down, cock springing hot and veined. I took him in, lips stretching around the girth, tongue swirling the head, bobbing deep with slurps, hand twisting the base as he groaned, fingers in my hair. Saliva trailed, throat relaxing to swallow more, his hips bucking shallow till he pulled me up, breathless.
‘Now you.’ Skirt hiked, panties aside, Royston pulled out a condom from his glove compartment and capped himself hastily, before guiding me to straddle, but I shifted to the passenger seat reclined, legs spread as he knelt awkward in the footwell—no, better: I leaned back, him over me, cock nudging my entrance. Slick from arousal, he thrust in slow—stretching, filling, the angle deep as he rocked, hands pinning my thighs wide, breasts bouncing free from bra. Kisses muffled moans, pace building to slaps of skin, my walls clenching him till release hit—his first, and my climax soon after, hugging tightly to each other, as the car steamed…
The car windows fogged in the aftermath, our breaths ragged as Royston slumped back into the driver’s seat, zipping up with a contented sigh. I straightened my skirt, blouse askew, the stickiness between my thighs a reminder of how far I’d tumbled into this web. ‘Home now?’ he asked, starting the engine, and I nodded mutely, the drive the rest of the way silent save for the hum of tires on asphalt. He dropped me at my HDB block without a word about tomorrow, and I showered off the night, collapsing into bed with a mix of shame and that illicit thrill still simmering.Royston’s advice stuck like glue over the next weeks—I layered it onto my routine, the wardrobe teases now deliberate edges in my arsenal. No more accidental flashes; I initiated contact, a brush of arm during demos, a lingering lean to emphasize curves, reeling back just enough to leave them wanting. It sharpened my pitches, commissions trickling in steadier, the office praising my ‘initiative.’ But each touch blurred lines, a gamble on hunger without feeding it fully.
My first real test came Thursday afternoon, a solo pitch to Mr. Tan, a mid-level contractor in his late 40s running a renovation firm in Toa Payoh. I’d prepped samples of our new matte ceramic lines, emailing teasers that morning. His office was a cramped second-floor unit above a hardware shop, fluorescent buzz and blueprints pinned to walls, the air thick with sawdust from below. I arrived at 2 PM sharp, black spaghetti top clinging to my shoulders, thin straps framing the deep V that plunged to show the inner swells of my boobs, no bra to interrupt the subtle jiggle. Paired with a bodycon skirt in charcoal gray, it hugged my hips and thighs like a second skin, ending mid-thigh to bare my long, fleshy legs, heels adding sway to my step. Makeup full—smoky eyes, red lips—I felt exposed yet empowered, cleavage on display as I toted the sample case up the stairs.
Mr. Tan greeted me at the door, stocky in polo and jeans, salt-and-pepper hair, eyes widening briefly at my entrance before he waved me to a low table cluttered with catalogs. ‘Amanda, right? Sit, sit.’ I perched on the edge of a worn couch, crossing my legs to let the skirt ride up slightly, the hem teasing the lace edge of my panties if he looked close enough. We started business-like: I laid out the tiles, explaining specs—durability ratings, color fastness, pricing tiers. ‘These would cut your install time by 15%, perfect for HDB flips.’ He nodded, leaning forward, gaze flicking from samples to my chest, where the top gaped as I gestured. I caught it, smiled softly, and shifted closer, our knees brushing. ‘Feel the texture—smooth, no chipping.’ I guided his hand to a tile, my fingers lingering on his, warm and callused, before pulling away.Conversation flowed to his projects—tight margins, picky clients—and I mirrored his lean, arm resting near his on the table, the spaghetti strap slipping an inch off my shoulder. ‘You understand the pressure,’ I said, voice low, touching his forearm lightly as I pointed to a cost breakdown. ‘That’s why our bulk deals help.’ His hand covered mine then, thumb stroking the back in a slow circle, eyes locking. ‘Smart girl. But competition’s fierce.’ I didn’t flinch, instead uncrossed my legs, letting my knee press his thigh, the contact electric. ‘We can sweeten it—introductory discount if you commit today.’ Emboldened, I placed my palm on his knee, squeezing gently, feeling the muscle tense under denim. He reciprocated, hand sliding to my outer thigh, fingers tracing the skirt’s hem, inching up to bare more skin but stopping short of the curve. Heat flushed my cheeks, but I held, leaning in so my cleavage brushed his arm accidentally-on-purpose. ‘Imagine these in your show flats—clients raving.’ His other hand grazed my shoulder, tugging the strap back up with a smirk, thumb dipping to the swell above my top. ‘Tempting offer.’ We stayed like that, touches exploratory—his palm flat on my thigh now, mine rubbing his upper arm—tension coiling without snapping, my pulse racing as I whispered closing arguments. By 3:30, he signed for 5,000 sq ft, eyes hungry but deal sealed. I left with a handshake that lingered, his fingers squeezing mine, promising follow-ups.
Emboldened but wary, I chased leads harder, landing a follow up discussion Friday evening with Messrs. Lim and Wong, both in their mid-50s, partners in a construction outfit eyeing our imports for condo renos. No office this time—‘Casual drinks at Clarke Quay,’ their email said. I chose a short, tight one-piece dress in navy, stretchy fabric molding to every curve, scoop neck hinting at cleavage, hem skimming upper thighs to showcase my legs. Thigh-high stockings for edge, heels strappy, hair loose in waves. The pub was lively, riverside breeze carrying chatter and clinking glasses, our booth tucked in a dim corner with vinyl benches and low tables.
They arrived before me, Lim wiry with a paunch, Wong broader, both in casual shirts, beers already half-gone. ‘Amanda! Join the party.’ I slid in beside Lim, Wong opposite, the bench forcing closeness—my thigh against Lim’s immediately. Business surfaced quick: ‘Show us the catalog.’ I pulled up photos on my phone, explaining premium lines, but they waved it off. ‘Later. First, game—5-10- Loser drinks. I protested lightly—‘We should talk tiles’—but they insisted, eyes twinkling lecherous. ‘Loosen up, pretty. For the deal.’ Trapped, I complied, the first round mine to lose, downing a sharp vodka soda that burned sweet. Flirtation ramped as drinks flowed—Lim’s arm around my shoulders mid-game, ‘You’re distracting us lah’, his hand dropping to squeeze my waist, fingers splaying over the dress’s cling. Wong across, foot nudging my calf under the table, ‘Bet you close deals like this all night.’ Dirty jokes flew: Lim on ‘hard installs’ winking at my chest, Wong quipping about ’laying pipe’ that had me giggling.
Sandwiched now—Wong shifted beside me too, booth tight—they played on, my losses piling shots, buzz warming my skin. Lim’s hand ventured to my thigh, stroking the bare skin above stockings, thumb circling inner curve; I reciprocated, palm on his knee, squeezing as I laughed at his tale of a botched job. Wong joined, arm behind me, fingers toying with my neckline, dipping to graze the top of my breast while his other hand claimed my other thigh, both men massaging in tandem, dress riding up to expose laced trimming. ‘Naughty girl,’ Lim murmured, breath hot on my ear, his touch bold but not breaching—fingers teasing hems, never under. I found them funny, their banter sharp amid the sleaze, interesting stories of old-school builds pulling me in. Subconsciously, the attention thrilled—body arching into touches, my hands wandering: one on Lim’s chest, feeling heartbeat, the other tracing Wong’s forearm, nails light. Kisses brushed cheeks, not lips; gropes stayed outer, heat building in the haze of alcohol and dim lights, but business? Forgotten. They ordered more rounds, hands roaming—Lim cupping my hip, Wong’s pinky hooking my strap—me responding with leans, whispers, a playful slap to their thighs when jokes turned filthier.
By midnight sloshed and spent, no catalog touched beyond glances, they called it—‘Think on the tiles, eh?’ Hugs lingered outside, hands final squeezes on my ass through fabric, promises of ’next time.’ I Grabbed home, head spinning, the night’s touches echoing on my skin. No deal, just a hangover and questions: Was this the path? Teases and games hooking interest, but closing needed more—smarter plays, or deeper risks? In sales, survival meant evolving, but how far before I lost myself?
Weeks blurred into a monotonous rhythm at the office, the niche world of tiling imports proving tougher than I’d imagined for a fresh face like me. Leads were scarce, cold calls met with polite deflections, and the daily grind of paperwork and warehouse checks wore on my patience. Royston’s tips helped with the occasional close, but building a network from scratch felt like pushing a boulder uphill. Still, I persisted, dolling up for every pitch, the revealing outfits now second nature, a tool in my evolving arsenal.
The calendar ping on Monday snapped me out of inventory spreadsheets—a reminder of the follow-up with Mr. Lee, our first since that charged Friday night in his office. The contract had been a win, tiles shipped and installed without hiccups, but my mind wandered to the dim lamp light, his firm grip on my hair, the way his thick length had stretched my lips before claiming me fully against the desk. Heat bloomed low in my belly even now, thighs pressing together under the desk as I shifted, the subtle ache an unwelcome distraction amid colleagues’ chatter. Nevertheless, this upcoming meeting came at the perfect timing too, an opportunity I can make use to potentially expand my business network and contacts through Mr Lee. I fired off an email, proposing slots for next week; his reply came swift, confirming Wednesday afternoon.
But Tuesday evening, as I prepped outfit options, his text canceled—emergency site visit, he claimed. Could we shift to Saturday? Afternoon fine? I typed back yes, mentioning my morning yoga class wrapped by noon, and if yoga gear was okay? ‘No issue,’ he responded, curt as ever. A flutter of nerves mixed with that lingering thrill; Saturday meant casual, exposed in activewear, but perhaps it softened the business edge. Saturday dawned humid, the kind of sticky Singapore morning that clung to skin. I layered heavier makeup than usual—winged liner sharp, lips glossed berry-red, cheeks dusted to glow—before slipping into my go-to set: a navy sports bra that hugged my breasts snugly, the racerback style leaving shoulders bare and a hint of underboob peeking if I stretched. Matching high-waisted yoga tights molded to my hips and thighs, the compressive fabric accentuating my slight thickness, seams tracing every curve down to my calves. Over it, a cropped windbreaker in lightweight black, zipped halfway to cover modestly—for now. Yoga flowed in a Bugis studio, poses loosening my body, sweat beading along my cleavage, the class’s end leaving me energized, pulse steady.
I ducked into the studio’s locker room to freshen up—wiped down with a cool towel, reapplied gloss, spritzed perfume light and floral. The MRT ride to his office in the CBD blurred by, cityscape flashing past, but my thoughts replayed fragments: his grunts echoing, the desk’s edge biting my palms, shame twisting with the raw pulse of pleasure I’d chased despite myself. Excitement simmered, a tinge of horniness making my core clench as I walked the last block, windbreaker zipped but teasing open. Nearing the building, impulse won—I tugged the zipper lower, letting one side slip off my shoulder like an impromptu off-shoulder top, exposing the smooth line of my collarbone, the bra’s thick strap, and a generous swell of cleavage where the sports bra cupped but didn’t fully contain.
His office felt familiar, the same minimalist setup: glass desk, potted fern, city view muted by blinds. Mr. Lee looked up from his monitor, expression neutral as I entered. ‘Amanda. Right on time.’ Mr Lee stood up from his desk as he walked towards me, no flicker at my attire, though his eyes swept once, professional. I settled onto the sofa, windbreaker parting to reveal more midriff, legs crossing to let the tights’ sheen catch light. ‘Shall we review the progress?’ I started warm, voice soft, leaning forward to slide over the printed report—installation timelines met, client feedback positive, reorder potential highlighted.
He scanned the pages, nodding sporadically, questions clipped: ‘Quality holding up?’ ‘Yes, no complaints—our matte finish resists wear well.’ I infused enthusiasm, gesturing animatedly so my exposed shoulder shifted, cleavage rising with each breath, but he stayed impassive, listening attentively without lingering glances. The exchange wrapped in twenty minutes flat, handshake brief. ‘Solid work. I’ll flag if expansions needed.’ Disappointment nipped for some reasons in my mind as I gathered my bag— no spark, no opening for more. I murmured thanks and slipped out, heading to the ladies’ room down the hall.
In the stall, mirror reflection stared back—flushed cheeks, the slipped windbreaker framing my figure provocatively. Then it hit: I’d forgotten the real ask, leveraging our… history for contacts. Career stagnation loomed; this was my shot. Heart pounding, I smoothed my hair, zipped the jacket halfway for poise, and retraced steps. His door ajar, he was still at his desk, phone down. ‘Mr. Lee? Sorry, one more thing—mind if I…?’ He gestured me in, brow arched. I perched on the chair’s edge, earnest now, words tumbling with genuine plea. ‘The contract’s been great, but as a newbie, networking’s tough in this market. You’ve got such strong ties—could you introduce me to a few contacts? Even one or two would mean the world for building my pipeline.’ My eyes held his, voice earnest, body leaning in subtly, windbreaker gaping to hint at the sports bra’s cling.
He leaned back, fingers steepled, hesitation clear—jaw tightening, gaze appraising. ‘Amanda, it’s not simple. My reputation’s tied to who I vouch for. Rushing intros could backfire.’ I nodded, eagerness undimmed, shifting closer, knee brushing his under the desk. ‘I get that. But I’d handle it right—focus on building real relationships first, make them happy, comfortable with me before any business push. You know I can… deliver on that.’ The hint hung, subtle—my free hand resting on the desk near his, a soft smile curving lips, eyes dropping demurely to suggest more.
Silence stretched, his eyes narrowing, weighing. Then, a slow exhale. ‘Alright. Show me you mean it—prove you’ll keep things… satisfactory.’ My pulse raced, delight bubbling as I stood, rounding the desk with deliberate grace, windbreaker whispering off to pool on the floor. ‘Thank you. Let me show you.’ Kneeling between his parted knees, I reached for his belt, fingers steady despite the thrill coiling tight. He watched, unzipping himself, his length springing free—thick, veined, already half-hard from the tension, the familiar girth stirring that secret ache in me.
Unlike the frantic signing night, I took it slow, sensual, hands cradling the base as I leaned in, breath ghosting the tip first. My tongue flicked out, tracing the underside in a languid swirl, tasting the salty bead at the slit, lips parting to envelop just the head—soft suction, hollowing cheeks gently, eyes lifting to meet his hooded gaze. He groaned low, hand threading into my hair, not pulling but guiding. I savored it, mouth descending inch by inch, the stretch filling me warmly, tongue pressing flat along the vein as I bobbed deliberate, unhurried—wet sounds soft in the quiet office, my free hand stroking what I couldn’t take, twisting lightly at the crown.
Halfway through, passion building, I paused, lips glistening, and tugged at my sports bra—peeling it up and off in one fluid motion, breasts spilling free, nipples pebbling in the cool air. ‘Like this?’ I murmured, cupping them, pressing together around his slick shaft. The contrast—soft, warm flesh enveloping his hardness—drew a hiss from him. I rocked forward, gliding him between my cleavage, the friction silky from my saliva, head emerging at each upthrust for my tongue to lap teasingly. His hips bucked subtly, hands on my shoulders now, thumbs circling where the bra strap had been. Faster, then slow, I worked it—breasts squeezing rhythmic, the slide intimate, my own arousal pooling hot between thighs, tights dampening.
Finally, I shifted, mouth claiming the tip again—sucking firm, swirling as my breasts continued the enveloping pump, pace syncing to his quickening breaths. ‘Amanda…’ he rasped, grip tightening. I hummed around him, vibrations pulsing, determined to draw it out until—his release hit, thick spurts flooding my mouth, salty and warm. I swallowed greedily, not spilling a drop, milking the last with gentle suction till he softened.
Pleased, he tucked himself away, voice rough. ‘Good girl. Wait for my contact—I’ll set something up.’ I redressed, bra snapping back, windbreaker on, leaving with a flushed smile, the dark thrill lingering: how I’d savored that huge cock, the power in yielding just enough.