Chapter 61: The One Who Loved Herself First
https://freeimage.host/i/KuvQN6J
(AI-generated image of Gina)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
She reminded me of Elise, my boss’s secretary from my internship days (
Chapter 34
).
Not exactly… as Elise had been more poised, always in tight skirts and French perfume, but Gina shared the same curve of cheek, the same sparkle behind the eyes, the same quiet command of a room.
I met her at a weekend symposium at Fort Canning, during the buffet lunch where academics traded credentials between plates of biryani.
She wasn’t a speaker or panelist.
She handled logistics.
Clip-on name tag, chunky watch, plain navy blouse.
She moved efficiently but smiled easily, the kind of woman who’d laugh if you said something cheeky, and still get the paperwork done faster than anyone else.
When I told her she looked familiar, she tilted her head.
“Maybe in another life. Or maybe I just look like someone who gets mistaken often.”
Later, I realised what it was.
She looked like Elise, if Elise had aged better, laughed more, and let go of the sadness around her wrists.
⸻
We crossed paths again at the coffee machine.
She offered me the last custard puff.
I told her I wasn’t ready to commit that early in the day.
She said, “Pity. I like men who can make decisive bad choices.”
That night, she messaged me, someone had shared my contact from the delegate list.
We flirted across three texts.
Then she added,
“If you’re not intimidated by hips and confidence, I stay near Redhill.”
⸻
Her flat was tidy, softly lit, full of throw pillows and jasmine-scented candles.
She opened the door barefoot, in a mustard silk robe that did nothing to hide the edges of her slim body.
I stepped in.
She took the initiative, not aggressively, but with assurance.
She poured two glasses of white wine, sat beside me on the couch, and let her knee touch mine.
“You sure?” she asked.
I looked her in the eyes.
“
Very
.”
⸻
Gina didn’t undress like women in magazines.
She didn’t perform.
She undressed like someone who knew every inch of her body was her own, and that if you were lucky enough to be invited, you’d better handle it with care.
Her robe slipped off her shoulders.
Her breasts were perky, natural, slightly uneven… and beautiful.
Her belly was flat but soft, rising gently with each breath.
Her thighs were lean yet strong, her skin smooth under my hands.
She saw me looking and smiled.
“Don’t treat me like a fetish. I’m not a charity case either. You want this because you want
me
, or we stop now.”
“I want
you
,” I said. “
Every inch
.”
⸻
Her hands gripped my back firmly.
She mounted me with grace, her slender hips pressing into mine, her rhythm smooth, deliberate, knowing.
When I touched her clit with my thumb, she gasped, leaned forward, and whispered,
“There. That’s it. Don’t stop.”
Her skin was soft and warm, her breath quickening.
She moaned from deep within, not high-pitched or rehearsed, but raw and honest.
We shifted positions, side by side, her slim frame folding over mine, then straddling me again, and finally, me behind her, one hand cupping her waist, the other moving in time with our bodies.
She came first, a long, quivering release that left her trembling against me.
Then she turned, lips brushing my ear, coaxing me with soft words and the firm, familiar pressure of her hand folded into mine.
We collapsed, sweaty and tangled.
⸻
She didn’t rush to put clothes back on.
She reclined beside me, her body slim, bare, unbothered, glowing.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “But if you’re about to get awkward about liking confident women, don’t.”
“I was about to say you’re magnificent.”
She smiled, not bashfully, but like she’d heard it before and still appreciated it.
“I know. But thank you.”
⸻
I left in the morning, her jasmine still on my skin.
She didn’t ask for a repeat.
I didn’t promise one.
There was no need.
Gina showed me that the most confident women don’t seduce you by trying.
They do it by loving themselves so thoroughly that you want to earn your place beside them.
And that confidence isn’t something you wear; it’s something you radiate.
⸻
[End of Chapter 61]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 62: The Ice Ballerina
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(AI-generated image of Isadora)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
A few months into my master’s program, life was a careful balance of research papers, late-night noodle runs, and gym sessions fueled by vanity and loneliness.
That was when I met Isadora.
Not at school, but at a private arts fundraiser at Victoria Concert Hall, the kind of event where wine flowed softly and applause was always polite.
She danced a solo piece that evening.
Barefoot, in a fitted violet leotard.
Every movement deliberate, controlled yet fluid.
A perfect marriage of strength and fragility.
She moved like a blade gliding through silk.
Her jet-black hair was pinned in a flawless bun. Her limbs were long and tight. Her back looked like it had never slouched.
She didn’t smile once.
Later, I found her by the water dispenser, sipping soda water with lemon and ignoring everyone.
“You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself,” I said.
She turned slowly, her eyes slate-grey and flat.
“I don’t dance to enjoy myself. I dance to be
precise
.”
⸻
We met again for coffee that weekend.
She was reserved, polite, and slightly indifferent, like her attention was on loan and might be recalled at any moment.
“You fidget a lot,” she said mid-conversation.
“You blink when you lie.”
“Your shirt collar needs ironing.”
No flirtation. No charm. Just observation.
Most would have found it off-putting.
I found it
intriguing
.
So I leaned in, not with jokes or compliments, but with attention. I mirrored her precision. When she spoke, I listened until silence arrived and then let it breathe. I let her dissect me, catalogue me, strip me down to the details she thought no one noticed. And when I finally offered my own observations, like her tendency to tap her thumb against the cup before every sip, the way her eyes darted first left then right before she decided to speak, and she didn’t correct me. She just looked at me a moment longer than usual, as if conceding a point.
That was my opening.
I told her I wanted to see her dance again, not on stage, but in private, without lights, without applause. She studied me for a beat, then said flatly:
“You won’t like what you see without the theatre.”
“Try me,” I replied.
⸻
The first time we had sex, it was in her apartment: minimalist, colourless, cold.
She undressed without hesitation.
No ceremony. No teasing.
Her robe fell in a single, fluid motion.
And she was stunning.
Slim, toned, all angles and intention.
Small, pert breasts. Narrow hips.
Her thighs were smooth and strong, like steel wrapped in silk.
“Don’t expect noise,” she said as she stepped onto the bed.
“I’m not here for noise,” I murmured. “Just truth.”
⸻
She mounted me with the grace of a swan dive.
Her pace was perfect, her breathing steady, her movements symmetrical.
There were no cries, no sighs… just silence, broken only by the rhythmic slap of skin and the creaking of her bedframe.
She looked down at me with an almost clinical expression, like she was monitoring technique, not intimacy.
When I climaxed, it felt like I had finished a performance; not made love.
She slid off, pulled the sheet around herself, and turned her back.
“Don’t stay,” she said calmly. “I don’t sleep well with someone next to me.”
⸻
We did it again a week later.
This time, I led.
She let me.
I kissed her collarbone, ran my hands down her back, tried to read her stillness.
She bent forward on all fours as I entered her from behind, her eyes closed, thin lips parted slightly, slim body compliant but distant.
She came softly, her breath catching once, and whispered only:
“
Yes
.”
No more. No less.
Afterwards, she lay on her side. I placed a hand on her waist.
She gently pushed it away.
“I don’t like being touched when I’m not doing anything.”
⸻
That was the last time.
I messaged her once.
She didn’t reply.
Someone said later that she moved to Berlin to join a touring dance company.
It sounded right.
⸻
Isadora taught me that beauty can be cold.
That even the most breathtaking bodies can be impenetrable fortresses.
And that sex, stripped of connection, becomes performance…
flawless, practiced, and ultimately… empty.
Still, I remember her shape.
The way she moved.
And the way she left no room for fantasy.
Just precision, silence, and an ache I never tried to name.
⸻
[End of Chapter 62]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 63: The Woman Who Vanished Like a Breeze
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(AI-generated image of Yi-Lin)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
I was lean. Fit. Focused.
Juggling thesis drafts by day, dumbbells by dusk, and… by night… whoever I chose to let in.
By then, I had counted sixty-three names in the notebook tucked in my wardrobe at my Tiong Bahru flat.
Each one memorable. Some more than others.
But Yi-Lin was different.
She appeared on a Sunday afternoon, under the creaking ceiling fan of a secondhand bookstore in Bras Basah.
I was flipping through a faded copy of
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
.
She reached over my shoulder and plucked a dog-eared Mandarin medical reference book from the same shelf.
“Outdated,” she said softly, “but charming.”
She had a light accent,
Taiwanese
, but her English was crisp.
Wore a soft grey blouse, slacks, and low heels.
Mid thirties, maybe.
Not flashy, not loud.
But
her eyes
… her eyes held depth. A kind of weariness I recognised. A still pond that had seen too many skipped stones.
We shared coffee at the National Library canteen after.
She told me she used to manage a private dermatology clinic in Taipei.
Divorced. No children.
Came to Singapore six months ago. “Needed to breathe,” she said, vaguely.
I didn’t press.
As she spoke, I noticed her glancing at the door every few minutes, as if expecting someone… or avoiding them. Her words were measured, but her silences were longer. When she finally excused herself to use the restroom, she left her bag on the chair but carried her phone with her. Locked, face down. A habit of someone always half-ready to leave.
⸻
Our first night was unplanned.
She came over with a bag of Taiwanese snacks and a DVD of
Eat Drink Man Woman
.
We watched it on my secondhand TV. She cried at the final scene.
When I handed her tissue, her fingers lingered.
We kissed soon after.
Her lips were warm, soft, assured.
She touched me like she already knew how to pace pleasure, her fingers trailing down my abdomen, slow and deliberate.
She took her time undressing, folding each item neatly at the foot of my bed.
Underneath: a delicate lace bra, matching panties, smooth pale skin with a faded scar across her left hip… thin, surgical.
“You can ask,” she said.
I didn’t.
She smiled faintly. “Good.”
When I kissed the scar, she froze for a heartbeat, her body stiff against mine. Then she exhaled slowly, guiding my hand away without a word. Whatever history was stitched beneath her skin, it wasn’t mine to touch. Yet the restraint only made her surrender later feel sharper, like a dam releasing just enough water to remind you how much it holds back.
⸻
The lovemaking was elegant.
Not rushed, not hesitant, just…
present
.
She straddled me with a gentle sway, her back arched, hair falling like black silk around her shoulders.
She gasped softly when I ran my tongue along her collarbone.
Her body was toned but soft, not gym-hard, but naturally graceful.
When she came, she tightened around me with a long exhale, fingers gripping my forearms, her rhythm unbroken.
We lay together afterwards, limbs tangled, her head resting on my shoulder.
“You smell like cardamom,” she murmured, half-asleep. “It’s nice.”
She stayed till morning.
Made jasmine tea.
Left a note by my desk: 你是一个好男人.
Don’t lose that.
I kept that note tucked into my notebook, where her handwriting brushed against the initials of others. But hers felt different. Whenever I opened the pages, I swore I could smell faint jasmine rising from the paper, though I knew it was impossible.
⸻
We met again three nights later.
This time, the sex was needier.
She wasn’t the calm woman who folded her blouse at the foot of my bed; she was something else entirely. Urgent, consuming, unafraid to leave marks.
She clawed my shoulders, pressed her mouth against my ribs, and rode me like she was chasing something she couldn’t name.
When she came, it wasn’t elegant; it was shuddering, desperate, a sob she tried to smother against my skin. I held her, but it felt less like passion and more like witnessing an exorcism.
Afterwards, she showered in silence.
Dried her hair with a towel.
Put on her clothes.
Kissed me once on the cheek.
“I might not be able to see you again,” she said.
“Why?”
“Sometimes people have to disappear. It’s easier that way.”
I sat up, confused.
She just smiled.
She gathered her things slowly, deliberately, as if rehearsing for a departure she had planned long before. Her heels clicked once on my tiled floor, then stopped. She looked back, eyes soft but resolute.
“If you try to follow me,” she said quietly, “you’ll ruin what we had. Let it be enough.”
⸻
Later, I tried calling the number she’d scribbled on my notepad.
Disconnected.
I returned to the bookstore.
They hadn’t seen her again.
No name matched the one she gave at the Taiwan Chamber of Commerce.
No records at the clinics she mentioned.
Nothing.
⸻
I never saw her again.
But months later, I read about a high-profile medical negligence case in Taiwan.
A clinic manager had taken the fall for a dermatologist involved in a prescription fraud scandal.
The article never named her.
But the timeline, the city, the silence… it all lined up.
The article carried no photographs. Just a shadow of a name, blurred by legal redaction. But one line caught me:
the clinic manager was last seen boarding a flight to Singapore before her disappearance
. My chest tightened. Was it her? Or had I only woven Yi-Lin into someone else’s scandal because it made more sense than accepting she had slipped through my fingers without reason?
⸻
Sometimes, walking past a teahouse, I catch the faint scent of jasmine and cardamom, and for a moment I feel her beside me again, with eyes weary, her smile half-formed, already preparing to leave. She is less a memory now than a breeze: impossible to hold, unforgettable in passing.
Yi-Lin taught me that even the warmest touch can come from someone fleeing the cold.
That sometimes, kindness is currency for people who have run out of time.
And that not every woman who disappears is broken.
Some just refuse to be followed.
⸻
[End of Chapter 63]
Mirror Site:
Author’s note on the Woman Who Vanished Like a Breeze
This was one of my favourite chapters to have lived through and later put into words. Yi-Lin’s story always stayed with me, one that was fleeting, bittersweet, and layered with questions that never found answers. Writing it down was both haunting and cathartic.
I hope readers enjoy reading this one as much as I did writing it. If you liked this or any of the previous chapters, please share your feedback with me.
And a small hint: while the journey has already stretched across many chapters, the story hasn’t even reached its midway point yet… though we are getting closer.
Chapter 64: The Johor Ah Lian with a Thing for Bending Over
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(AI-generated image of Pei Pei)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
It was the era of Nokia phones, dial-up modems, and Jay Chou’s debut album still months from dropping.
I was neck-deep in thesis work and case studies.
Then came Pei Pei… and everything paused.
We met at a hawker centre in Kallang.
She was shouting at the satay uncle because he forgot her ketupat.
“Wah lau eh, I say THREE ketupat leh, uncle! You think I come here just for the sticks ah?”
I turned around and said, “Actually, I came for the ketupat too.”
She glanced at me, lips glossy with chilli oil. “Wah, so clever hor? You always disturb girls in queue one?”
“Only the fierce and cute ones.”
She smirked. “You damn kaypoh, I like.”
Satay Uncle rolled his eyes.
⸻
Pei Pei was all curves and confidence.
Short, maybe five feet two inches, with bleached brown puffs tied in high bunches, oversized hoop earrings, and a spaghetti-strap top that rode up every time she laughed (
which was often
).
She wasn’t shy. She was pure JB Ah Lian energy.
And she made no apologies for it.
She was visiting her cousin in Woodlands for a week.
Used to work in a Johor nail salon.
Had a thing for spicy food, bubble tea, and “Singapore boys who know how to use their hips.”
⸻
First time: East Coast Park
We sat by the water after sambal stingray and sugarcane with lemon.
She leaned in and whispered, “You want or not? Got pavilion nearby.”
We ducked into a quiet shelter past midnight.
She pulled down her shorts without ceremony, bent over the stone ledge, and looked back.
“Doggy style best. Can moan properly without seeing your face.”
I entered her slowly.
Her moans came fast, rhythmic.
The sound of waves and her breath mixed as I held her hips and thrust deeper, her body bouncing lightly against me with each motion.
“Faster lah! Wah lau, you really know how to angle.”
She came with a loud gasp and collapsed against the bench, laughing.
“JB girls got taste, okay? This one confirm champion.”
⸻
Second time: My Tiong Bahru flat
She showed up in a bright pink minidress and plastic platform sandals.
Tossed her bag onto my floor and said, “Your room got mirror or not?”
We did it on the bed, in front of the wall mirror.
She bent over the edge and made me watch us.
“See nice or not? Your thing inside me, wah
damn shiok.
”
She arched perfectly, her back curving like a dancer’s, her hips pushing back against every thrust.
She came once, then twice, muttering in Hokkien and laughing between moans.
Afterwards, she wore my oversized tee like a dress and lay beside me, fanning herself.
“Wah piang… Singapore boys really more steady than JB uncles.”
⸻
Third time: Mount Faber Cable Car
“Let’s do something special,” she said, eyes twinkling.
She dragged me onto a cable car near closing hour.
No queue. $10 ticket.
We climbed into the carriage with a wink and a plastic bag of snacks.
Halfway across the water, she stood up, flipped her skirt, and bent over the bench.
“Come lah. You think I scared? This one steady got view and wind.”
Her hands gripped the window rails.
I slid in from behind as the cabin swayed gently.
Below us: twinkling city lights, faint horns, and distant Sentosa sands.
We kept it quiet,
mostly
, though she did let out a muffled “
Yes, yes, YES
” that echoed slightly in the glass cabin.
She came with a shiver and grin.
“Mount Faber now become Mount Fever, thanks to you.”
⸻
On our last night, she kissed me hard and said,
“Next time you come JB, you better call me hor. Don’t bluff. I remember your skills.”
She left the next morning, in a taxi with too many bags and one missing earring.
⸻
Pei Pei taught me that joy doesn’t need polish.
That sex can be playful, ridiculous, and outrageously honest.
That not every chapter ends with longing…
Some just end with a memory of bubble tea breath, bouncing earrings, and one woman’s unapologetic appetite for fun.
⸻
[End of Chapter 64]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 65: The One Whose Hands Knew Everything
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(AI-generated image of Nadia)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
A humid afternoon in Tiong Bahru.
The kind of sticky stillness that made aircons hum louder and made people linger in beauty salons longer than they needed to.
I had started taking even better care of myself.
My skin. My hair. My scent.
It wasn’t just vanity; it was discipline. Preparation. Ritual.
A Casanova knew the details mattered.
That’s how I met Nadia.
She worked at a modest salon tucked behind a row of shophouses, the kind with posters of Hong Kong actresses on the walls and a rotating stand of expired nail polish shades by the door.
She was voluptuous, with wide hips, full lips, dusky brown skin that gleamed under fluorescent lights.
Malay, late 20s, always in long sleeves but somehow more sensual than if she had walked in naked.
And her hands…
They were warm, practiced, hypnotic.
She handled my face like it was something precious, smoothing cleanser across my cheeks, applying masks in slow, circular motion, massaging my temples with oil that smelled like jasmine and lemongrass.
The first time she worked on me, I got hard.
Embarrassingly.
She noticed.
Didn’t flinch.
The second time, she teased.
“You come here for face, or something else?”
“Both,” I said. “But mainly your hands.”
She laughed.
Low. Knowing.
And didn’t pull away when I touched her wrist.
⸻
The History Beneath Her Skin
Malay women had always fascinated me, long before I could explain why.
There was something about the contrast: softness and strength, modesty and mischief.
Something intoxicating in the unwrapping of layers.
Centuries ago, before Islam spread through the Nusantara, the Malays were animists, then Hindus and Buddhists.
They built temples, traded spices, adorned their bodies with flowers, gold, and ink.
They danced bare-shouldered under moonlight.
They sang poetry to one another in rice fields and riverbanks.
I thought of that, as Nadia unpinned her tudung in my flat, carefully folding it, revealing a cascade of thick black hair and a smile older than memory.
⸻
That One Time
She wore a loose batik blouse.
No bra.
Nothing beneath her skirt.
We didn’t speak.
Just touched.
She kissed with slow pressure, lips firm, her tongue bold and searching.
When I peeled off her blouse, her breasts spilled out: heavy, brown, perfect.
“Don’t rush,” she whispered. “I like it slow.”
I laid her on my bed, kissed her thighs, traced the curve of her waist with both hands.
She guided me in from behind… Kneeling… Arching… Her hips meeting mine, slowly at first, then more urgently.
“Like that… yes… just like that.”
She moaned in Malay, in low phrases I didn’t fully register but felt in my bones.
“
Sikit lagi… jangan berhenti…
”
Her body shuddered, warm and wet and tight.
She came first. Then me, mouth buried against her neck, her hair in my fist.
We lay tangled after, chests heaving, no words exchanged for minutes.
⸻
She put on her blouse and tudung without fuss.
Kissed me lightly.
“Only this once,” she said. “I can’t… not more. But I wanted it.”
I nodded.
Watched her leave like a dream dissolving.
⸻
Nadia taught me that some bodies carry centuries.
That seduction isn’t always about chase: sometimes, it’s invitation.
And that the deepest intimacy can come from those who love their culture,
their curves, and their boundaries, all at once.
⸻
[End of Chapter 65]
Mirror Site:
The Casanova of Singapore — Contents Page
Due to forum limitations, I am unable to edit my older posts anymore and therefore cannot revise the contents page. This will therefore be the newest contents page for links to the chapters, until I cannot and a subsequent one will be created.
Chapter 1 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...90&postcount=2
Chapter 2 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...03&postcount=3
Chapter 3 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...12&postcount=4
Chapter 4 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...27&postcount=5
Chapter 5 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...33&postcount=6
Chapter 6 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...4&postcount=11
Chapter 7 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...6&postcount=12
Chapter 8 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...5&postcount=13
Chapter 9 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...0&postcount=14
Chapter 10 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...6&postcount=15
Chapter 11 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...6&postcount=24
Chapter 12 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...2&postcount=25
Chapter 13 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...1&postcount=26
Chapter 14 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...4&postcount=27
Chapter 15 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...8&postcount=28
Chapter 16 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...5&postcount=38
Chapter 17 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...3&postcount=39
Chapter 18 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...8&postcount=40
Chapter 19 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...5&postcount=49
Chapter 20 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...6&postcount=50
Chapter 21 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...5&postcount=51
Chapter 22 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...2&postcount=53
Chapter 23 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...2&postcount=54
Chapter 24 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...8&postcount=55
Chapter 25 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...8&postcount=58
Chapter 26 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...1&postcount=60
Chapter 27 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...9&postcount=63
Chapter 28 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...7&postcount=67
Chapter 29 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...7&postcount=69
Chapter 30 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...1&postcount=70
Chapter 31 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...0&postcount=74
Chapter 32 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...1&postcount=77
Chapter 33 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...0&postcount=78
Chapter 34 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...4&postcount=82
Chapter 35 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...8&postcount=88
Chapter 36 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...1&postcount=89
Chapter 37 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...1&postcount=91
Chapter 38 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...3&postcount=92
Chapter 39 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...0&postcount=94
Chapter 40 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...8&postcount=99
Chapter 41 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=101
Chapter 42 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=102
Chapter 43 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=103
Chapter 44 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=110
Chapter 45 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=111
Chapter 46 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=112
Chapter 47 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=116
Chapter 48 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=117
Chapter 49 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=118
Chapter 50 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=119
Chapter 51 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=121
Chapter 52 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=123
Chapter 53 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=124
Chapter 54 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=126
Chapter 55 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=127
Chapter 56 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=129
Chapter 57 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=130
Chapter 58 -
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Chapter 59 -
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Chapter 60 -
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Chapter 61 -
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Chapter 62 -
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Chapter 63 -
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Chapter 64 -
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Chapter 65 -
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Chapter 66 -
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Chapter 67 -
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Chapter 68 -
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Chapter 69 -
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Chapter 70 -
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Chapter 71 -
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Chapter 72 -
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Chapter 73 -
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Chapter 74 -
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Chapter 75 -
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Chapter 76 -
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Chapter 77 -
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Chapter 78 -
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Chapter 80 -
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Chapter 81 -
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Chapter 82 -
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Chapter 83 -
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Chapter 84 -
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Chapter 85 -
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Chapter 86 -
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Chapter 87 -
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Chapter 88 -
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Chapter 89 -
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Chapter 90 -
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Chapter 91 -
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Chapter 92 -
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Chapter 93 -
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Chapter 94 -
Chapter 95 -
Chapter 96 -
Chapter 97 -
Chapter 98 -
Chapter 99 -
Chapter 100 -
Chapter 101 -
Chapter 102 -
Chapter 103 -
Chapter 104 -
Chapter 105 -
Chapter 106 -
Chapter 107 -
Chapter 108 -
Chapter 109 -
Chapter 110 -
Chapter 111 -
Chapter 112 -
Chapter 113 -
Chapter 114 -
Chapter 115 -
Chapter 116 -
Chapter 117 -
Chapter 118 -
Chapter 119 -
Chapter 120 -
Chapter 121 -
Chapter 122 -
Chapter 123 -
Chapter 124 -
Chapter 125 -
Chapter 126 -
Chapter 127 -
Chapter 128 -
Chapter 129 -
Chapter 130 -
Chapter 131 -
Chapter 132 -
Chapter 133 -
Chapter 134 -
Chapter 135 -
Chapter 136 -
Chapter 137 -
Chapter 138 -
Chapter 139 -
Chapter 140 -
Chapter 141 -
Chapter 142 -
Chapter 143 -
Chapter 144 -
Chapter 145 -
Chapter 146 -
Chapter 147 -
Chapter 148 -
Chapter 149 -
Chapter 150 -
Chapter 66: The One With the Hidden Tailbone
https://freeimage.host/i/K7joXcJ
(AI-generated image of Linh)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Singapore, circa 1999.
Still humid. Still noisy. Still full of unexpected invitations… if you listened closely.
A week after Nadia left my bed, and a warm imprint on my memory, I walked into the same Tiong Bahru salon, expecting routine.
What I didn’t expect was Linh.
She looked like silk in human form.
Willowy, soft-spoken, and utterly poised… everything Nadia wasn’t, and yet… something that stirred a more delicate hunger.
Linh was 25, fresh from Ho Chi Minh City, working part-time at the salon while waiting for her nursing course to start.
She didn’t wear a tudung. She wore her long, straight black hair in a low ponytail, and her voice, gentle, musical, careful with consonants, sounded like an old Vietnamese lullaby.
She bowed slightly when we met. Said hello with a shy smile.
Her blouse was fitted but modest.
Her hands were dainty.
But what caught my eye, almost absurdly, was her tailbone.
Visible even through her jeans. A slight, pointed protrusion.
Not deformed. Just… accentuated.
Almost animalistic. Erotic in the most unexpected way.
She noticed me noticing.
She blushed.
Said nothing.
And from that moment, I knew.
⸻
A City With Two Names
Ho Chi Minh City, once Saigon, was a contradiction, like Linh herself.
Bustling, alive, chaotic. A melting pot of French colonial ghosts, American pop culture, Buddhist temples, and market-stall capitalism.
Southern Vietnamese like Linh were often seen, even by their northern cousins, as more easygoing. More emotional. More expressive.
And often, more beautiful.
They were raised on rice, resilience, and the rhythm of motorcycles on dusty roads.
They knew how to serve tea without spilling, how to argue gently, how to smile when they meant no.
Linh was the daughter of a clinic manager.
She came to Singapore alone.
Wanted to “
start over
,” she said, with a small, guarded laugh.
⸻
She came by one Sunday evening to drop off a small jar of homemade lemongrass balm Nadia had forgotten to pass me.
I invited her in.
We drank barley water. Talked about old Saigon, which I’d visited once, in 1995, before it gentrified.
She opened up, but just a little.
When I moved closer, she didn’t lean away.
When I touched her hair, she didn’t flinch. And I knew she was game.
We kissed slowly.
She undressed shyly, blouse first, then skirt, revealing white cotton panties and delicate skin the color of tea with milk.
I laid her on my bed.
She was soft, yet firm where it mattered, her hips surprisingly full, breasts small but pert, her tailbone rising like a hidden invitation.
“I’m shy,” she whispered. “But I want.”
She guided me in, her legs folding around me like silk ropes.
We moved gently, slowly… no dirty talk, no thrusting urgency… just deep, rhythmic connection.
She moaned softly, a faint whimper escaping only when I stroked her clit with my thumb in circular motion.
“Yes… that’s right… there,” she breathed, in perfect English.
She came quietly, convulsing around me.
Then held me close, forehead against my chest, breathing deeply.
⸻
The next night, she came again.
Wore a pale yellow sundress.
No bra.
This time, I couldn’t wait.
I bent her over my study desk, pulled aside her panties, and entered her from behind, with my hands gripping her slim waist, my eyes locked on that perfect tailbone rising above her curves.
“Like this?” I asked.
“Yes,” she whispered, breath shaky. “Like last time. But more.”
She was wetter. Wilder.
Moaning in Vietnamese now.
Her hips moved back into me, deeper, hungrier.
She came again, her thighs trembling, her head thrown back, then reached behind to cup my hand over her chest as I exploded inside her.
We cleaned up in silence.
She kissed me once on the cheek.
“I might not be here long,” she said. “Don’t miss me too much.”
⸻
And then she was gone.
Phone line disconnected.
Salon said she left to take up another course in KL instead of Singapore.
No goodbye note.
Just the faint smell of lemongrass on my pillow.
⸻
Linh taught me that sometimes, elegance isn’t about what’s spoken; it’s about what’s withheld.
That desire doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it whispers in Vietnamese, from lips that won’t stay.
And that the body remembers what the heart wasn’t ready to hold.
⸻
[End of Chapter 66]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 67: The One Who Burned Brightest
https://freeimage.host/i/KYcWtjt
(AI-generated image of Maggie)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
A Saturday food fair at Suntec City.
Crowds. Chaos. Too many smells. Too little breeze.
I was weaving through the exhibition hall when I heard it, a sharp voice with a singsong accent, arguing with a fishball noodle vendor.
“你这叫什么重庆辣！This is Singapore spicy! Where’s the
real
heat?”
She turned.
And I froze.
Short bob haircut, jet black and slightly flared.
Scarlet lips.
Slim waist, narrow hips, confident stance: a little like a news anchor, a little like a kungfu villainess.
Her name, she announced without being asked, was Maggie.
“Like the instant noodle,” she added, grinning. “But better ingredients.”
⸻
Chongqing Women: A Nation of Their Own
Chongqing isn’t just another Chinese city.
It’s a mountain metropolis.
Foggy, fiery, and known for producing women who don’t back down.
The city was once the wartime capital of China, which was steeped in resilience, shaped by politics and Sichuan peppercorns.
Unlike Shanghai’s glam or Beijing’s pomp, Chongqing women were known for being hot-tempered, fiercely independent, and brutally direct.
“We don’t cry,” Maggie said. “We scold. And then we laugh.”
She wasn’t lying.
⸻
We met again two days later, at the same food fair, this time, not by accident.
She called my bluff on my spice tolerance.
“You Singapore boys talk big, but your tongues melt at medium mala.”
I took her challenge.
Tears streamed down my face by the fifth bite.
She laughed so hard she snorted.
I fell a little in love.
⸻
I invited her over to my Tiong Bahru flat.
She showed up in jeans and a tight black tank top.
No makeup.
Hair still wet from a shower.
“I don’t like lipstick when I kiss,” she declared.
We didn’t waste time.
She climbed onto my lap, straddled me, and kissed like she was trying to knock teeth loose.
“Hold me,” she said. “No, tighter.”
Her skin was fair and flushed, her legs surprisingly strong.
She took control: grinding, panting, her rhythm fast, erratic, hungry.
I flipped her onto the bed, spread her thighs, and went down on her, with her gasps turning into sharp Mandarin expletives.
“你这个坏蛋… 不要停…”
She came in pulses, clutching my hair, back arching, eyes wide.
Then yanked me up and pulled me into her, her vaginal walls already slick and ready.
“Now. I want you now.”
I thrust into her, hard and fast.
She scratched my back. Bit my shoulder.
Her moans were breathy, staccato… fierce and unashamed.
She came again, louder this time, then pushed me over the edge with a whisper in my ear:
“You’re better than I expected. Not bad for a Singapore boy.”
⸻
The next night, we didn’t make it to the bedroom.
She leaned over the counter, skirt lifted, panties pushed aside.
“Fast,” she hissed. “I’m late for dinner with friends.”
We did it quick, breathless, and urgent.
Her hands gripping the sink, my fingers digging into her hips.
She came with a shout that echoed off the cabinets.
I came moments later, my head swimming, and breath gone.
She adjusted her skirt, looked at me, and grinned.
“You’ll remember me, right?”
“I’ll never forget you.”
⸻
And then she
ghosted
me.
No calls.
No replies.
Just vanished.
A month later, I heard she had gone back to Chongqing… no idea why, they said.
But part of me wondered if that had always been the plan.
⸻
Maggie taught me that not all flames are meant to be fanned.
Some are meant to sear you, just once, to remind you what heat really feels like.
And that women who burn bright don’t always leave smoke behind.
Just memory.
⸻
[End of Chapter 67]
Mirror Site:
Author’s note on Chapter 67: The One Who Burned Brightest
This was another chapter I really enjoyed writing, partly because living through it felt like trying to bottle lightning. Maggie embodied everything I know about Chongqing girls: fiery, sharp-tongued, quick to laugh, and impossible to tame. There’s a saying that women from that mountain city are raised on spice and storm: they don’t wilt, they blaze. She was unpredictable and unyielding, and putting that energy into words was both exhausting and exhilarating.
I hope readers can feel the same spark and intensity I did when revisiting this memory.