- Get Her Out of Her Head
- Use Your Hands Like They’re an Instrument
- Oral Is Not Optional
- Talk To Her (But Not Like Porn)
- Don’t Expect Every Woman to Come (And Never Fake It)
Quote:
Originally Posted by
raxip
Ah yes the era of europop like Aqua and Toy Box… I was from the 3310 era though, but owning a 8210/8250 meant that you were either a working professional or… female.
I remember the hours spent playing Snake on my old 3210 and 3310…
Chapter 75: Fire and Spice in the South
https://freeimage.host/i/KEYTcFf
(AI-generated image of Yan Ling)
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.
If Shandong was earth, grounded, full-bodied, and steady…
then Hunan was pure flame.
I met Yan Ling in Changsha, the capital city, during the second leg of my academic trip. Our group had stopped for a few days to observe inland logistics and industrial transitions, which was an excuse, really, for visiting another province before heading back to Singapore.
She wasn’t part of the seminar.
She was part of the hotel staff, specifically, guest services and regional liaison for visiting academics.
Elegant. Sharp. Quick with her tongue.
“你们这些学生啊，就爱装老成。”
“
You students always try to act so mature
,” she said when I asked for directions.
“那你觉得我看起来几岁？”
“
Then how old do I look?
” I asked.
“太干净了，看得出来才刚出社会。”
“
Too clean. I can tell you’ve just entered the world.
”
She was in her mid-30s, maybe five years older than me, with defined cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and a lean, feline body that moved with a dancer’s ease.
She wore black slacks, a white silk blouse, and a side-swept fringe.
Not conventionally beautiful… but arresting.
There was something in her smile that dared me to try.
⸻
That evening, I lingered in the hotel lobby pretending to read a logistics report.
She passed by and paused.
“你是来看报告，还是来看我的？”
“
Are you here for the report, or for me?
”
“都想看。”
“
Both.
”
She rolled her eyes.
But didn’t walk away.
⸻
Her apartment was ten minutes away on a narrow street filled with noodle stalls, mahjong echoes, and lazy cats.
She poured me rice wine, which was stronger than I expected.
“你敢喝，就敢做。”
“
If you dare drink, you dare do.
”
She touched my cheek.
Then kissed me. Before pushing the cup to my lips.
⸻
Yan Ling was
not gentle
.
She led me to the bed, pulled off her blouse, and stood bare-chested with a cool gaze.
“你先脱。”
“
You undress first.
”
Her breasts were small but firm, nipples a dusky rose. Her hips were narrow, her stomach flat. She moved like she owned the room, and me.
When I reached for her, she pushed me onto the bed.
She straddled me slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.
She guided my capped penis in, wet and unhurried, and started to move.
It wasn’t frantic.
It was precise.
She rolled her hips in slow, deliberate circles, watching my reaction, then leaned forward to whisper:
“慢慢来，别急。”
“
Take your time. Don’t rush.
”
She pressed her lips to mine, bit gently, then kissed my neck, my chest, lower… only to come back up and wrap her arms around my shoulders while she rode me with agonising control.
When I tried to speed up, she slapped my thigh lightly.
“你听我的。”
“
You listen to me.
”
I did.
And when I came finally, explosively, she smiled like a woman who had just finished teaching a lesson.
⸻
We lay there tangled in sweat and breath.
She ran a finger down my chest and asked,
“你想找老婆吗？还是找故事？”
“
Are you looking for a wife, or just another story?
”
“故事。”
“
A story.
”
She nodded.
Then stood and slipped on her robe.
“那你今晚找到了。”
“
Then you’ve found it tonight.
”
⸻
Yan Ling wasn’t emotional.
She didn’t leave souvenirs or ask for promises.
She gave herself entirely, once, and expected you to know it was enough.
When I left two days later, she didn’t walk me out.
She just kissed me, hard, and said:
“别忘了湖南的辣。”
“
Don’t forget the Hunan heat.
”
As if I ever could.
[End of Chapter 75]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 76: Mist and Memory
https://freeimage.host/i/KGo14xR
(AI-generated image of Su Rong)
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.
Anhui was quieter than I expected.
After the buzz of Changsha and the assertive rhythms of Shandong and Hunan, arriving in Anqing felt like landing in a forgotten stanza of a southern poem. There was no neon blur, no mad honking of horns. Just the Yangtze River, wide and watchful, and rows of grey-tiled roofs beneath pale, misty skies.
Old bicycles lined narrow streets.
Vendors sold steamed buns and warm soy milk before sunrise.
The scent of osmanthus trees floated down from courtyards.
Even the rain, which seemed constant, didn’t rush… it drizzled, politely, like it had all the time in the world.
The people moved slower.
They spoke softer.
There was no rush to impress.
And neither was Su Rong.
⸻
I met her at the port administration office, a plain concrete building with faded characters on the wall. She worked there as an administrative lead, managing cargo documentation and staff schedules. Her hair was tied back loosely, wisps escaping around her cheeks. She wore a light wool cardigan over a blue blouse, a long skirt that brushed her ankles.
“你是研究生？”
“You’re a postgraduate student?” she asked, studying my pass.
“对，新加坡来的。”
“Yes, from Singapore.”
“我以为你们那边的人都不说普通话。”
“I thought your people didn’t speak Mandarin.”
“我们说的，不太标准。”
“We do. Just not very well.”
She smiled warmly.
“那我慢慢教你。”
“Then I’ll teach you. Slowly.”
⸻
Dinner was simple: tasty shānguā tāng (winter melon soup), smoked tofu, and a dish of xiāngcài huángguā (pickled cucumbers with coriander). She took me to a riverside diner where the elderly waitress didn’t bother to write down orders.
“我们这里啊，节奏慢，人情重。”
“Here, life moves slower, but people care more.”
“那你怎么还没结婚？”
“So why aren’t you married yet?”
She paused.
“结过。离了。”
“I was. Divorced.”
“他说我太冷静，不够热情。”
“He said I was too calm, not passionate enough.”
I looked at her, took another sip of warm beer, and said:
“我觉得你像雾。”
“You remind me of mist.”
She blinked.
“为什么？”
“Why?”
“安静、柔软、不黏人。可是走了以后才发现原来湿透了。”
“Quiet, soft, doesn’t cling. But only when it’s gone do you realise you’re soaked.”
She stared at me for a beat.
Then reached over and touched my hand.
“今晚有空吗？”
“Are you free tonight?”
⸻
Her apartment was on the third floor of a weathered walk-up, which was modest, tidy, and lined with books. She lit a coil of mugwort incense near the window and brewed two cups of green tea.
No rush.
No seduction.
Just silence that felt safe. We drank the tea together, quietly, tenderly, looking into each other’s eyes deeply.
She then unbuttoned her blouse slowly, revealing ivory skin, subtle curves, and small, full breasts that dipped gently with each breath. Her nipples were dusky, already firm. When her skirt dropped, I saw she wore nothing underneath.
“你想摸吗？”
“Do you want to touch?”
I stepped forward, hands brushing her waist, fingertips trailing up her back as I leaned in to kiss the base of her neck. Her body was warm, soft, welcoming.
She guided me to the bed.
⸻
Su Rong didn’t moan; she breathed. Deep, rhythmic sighs as I kissed her chest, circled her nipples with my tongue, traced the lines of her ribs with my hands.
“慢一点… 别急…”
“Slower… don’t rush…”
She spread her legs as I kissed my way down, her inner thighs smooth and slightly trembling, the scent of her rising with a sweetness that felt both foreign and familiar. She gasped softly as I ran my tongue between her folds, her hips twitching with each flick and swirl.
When I slid into her womanhood, she wrapped her legs around my back, arms across my shoulders, pulling me in deep.
We moved slowly, bodies pressed close, skin sticking, breath syncing.
She whispered, almost absently:
“我不想做情人… 也不想做回忆。”
“I don’t want to be a lover… or a memory.”
“那你想做什么？”
“Then what do you want to be?”
“就这几分钟的全部。”
“Everything… just for these few minutes.”
⸻
She came with a long exhale, like she’d been holding her breath for years.
And I followed, holding her face, watching her eyes flutter as we both let go.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay there under a thin cotton sheet, window open, the scent of rain drifting in.
She reached for her cigarette tin but didn’t light one.
“你要走了吧。”
“You’ll be leaving soon.”
“明天。”
“Tomorrow.”
She nodded. Said nothing more.
⸻
In the morning, she handed me a small tin of
hóng táng huāshēng
(brown sugar peanuts).
“火车上吃。别忘了安徽。”
“For the train. Don’t forget Anhui.”
And then she kissed me once, on the forehead.
⸻
Su Rong was neither a spark nor a flame.
She was a quiet, persistent ache, like a memory that lingers at the edge of dreams.
She didn’t want to be loved.
She just wanted to be fully seen, for once.
And for one night, I did.
[End of Chapter 76]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 77: The Art of Composure
https://freeimage.host/i/KGQcKmv
(AI-generated image of Vivienne)
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 walked like she was gliding above the floor… not walking, never rushing.
Her hair was swept into a tight chignon, and she dressed like she had just stepped out of an old Shenton Way executive training brochure: crisp pastel blouses, matching skirt suits, low heels that never made a sound. The kind of woman who carried a fountain pen in her handbag and used linen handkerchiefs with embroidered initials.
Her name was Vivienne. Not Vivian —
Vivienne
, as she corrected me the first time we met, during a charity event hosted by the Rotary Club at a hotel ballroom near Raffles Place. I had been dragged there by a classmate. She had been hired to deliver a presentation on
Continental vs. American table settings
, complete with fish forks, dessert spoons, and the appropriate angle for one’s wrist when sipping tea.
She was around 34, maybe older. Poised. Pronounced. Every movement calculated.
I said something cheeky during her demonstration, something about whether one had to align one’s breath too, and she shot me a look that could frost glass.
Afterward, I caught her by the drinks table, gently stirring a lime soda with a glass swizzle stick.
“You were impertinent,” she said, without looking at me.
“You were… majestic,” I replied. “Like an empress in a sea of clueless fish forks.”
She didn’t laugh. But her mouth twitched, the smallest betrayal of amusement.
We began to talk. She spoke of Geneva, where she had trained at a finishing school that no longer existed, and of “
correct posture
” being a metaphor for life. I said I was doing my postgrad and struggling to sit up straight through the endless seminars.
“You slouch in your chair,” she said, deadpan. “And in your morals, I suspect.”
I was intrigued. She was amused. That was enough to begin.
⸻
Our first encounter happened a week later, at her home, a high-floor condo unit in River Valley, where the furniture gleamed and the air smelled faintly of tuberose and classy perfume.
She had laid out wine, music, and monogrammed cloth napkins, not for dinner, but for foreplay. Everything about her apartment felt curated, choreographed. She handed me a drink like a queen entertaining a court jester.
When she kissed me, it was with sharp precision, with her lips brushing mine with the careful control of someone who never lost composure. But beneath the porcelain surface, I felt heat, tension, want.
She undressed in silence, not sensually, but clinically. Blouse off, skirt folded, heels placed neatly by the sofa. Her underwear was ivory, minimal, and exquisitely tailored.
When we made love, it was like watching a well-rehearsed performance unravel. She guided me to the bedroom, pulled me onto the mattress, and spread her legs with deliberate elegance. She didn’t moan; she exhaled. Sharp, short, clipped breaths.
But when I entered her, something broke.
Her fingers dug into my arms. She whispered words in French (
plus fort, ne t’arrête pas
) and moved her hips with a rhythm that betrayed years of repression. I thrust harder, gripping her thighs, feeling her lose herself under me. She climaxed with her teeth against my shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise.
Afterward, she rose without a word and returned with a warm towel. It was more ritual than affection.
⸻
The second time was more carnal.
She came to my flat, in a dress that hugged her hips and gloves she didn’t remove until she reached the mattress. This time, she was ravenous. She straddled me, unzipped me with a swift flick, and took my entire throbbing length into her mouth… slowly, expertly, with eyes never leaving mine.
She licked and teased until I was gasping, then climbed atop me and sank down with a gasp of her own.
She rode me fiercely, her hair coming undone, moans slipping out like forbidden confessions. Her control was shattered, replaced by pure, naked need.
When we finished, she buttoned her dress and lit a slim cigarette at the window.
“I don’t do third rounds,” she said plainly. “Repetition kills mystique.”
I smiled. “I thought etiquette was about comfort.”
“Etiquette,” she said, flicking the ash, “is about knowing exactly when to leave.”
⸻
And she did. Two weeks later, she sent me a handwritten note, in perfect cursive, pressed on thick cream stock.
“You are a delightful digression, but I must realign with decorum. Yours gracefully, Vivienne.”
I never saw her again.
But sometimes, when I’m at a formal dinner or hear the word “
cutlery
,” I think of her. Of the woman who made etiquette feel indecent. Who taught me that even the most polished surfaces can hide an exquisite chaos underneath.
She was elegance. She was artifice. She was appetite, refined and ruthless.
[End of Chapter 77]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 78: Tied and Unravelled
https://freeimage.host/i/KMQYV7p
(AI-generated image of Delphine)
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 introduced herself as Delphine, a name that already sounded like a whisper wrapped in silk.
We met at a friend’s gallery opening on Neil Road. She wore a black leather choker and a red silk slip dress, even though it was a humid evening. Her hair was short, curled inward like a curtain around her cheekbones. She had a feline quality… every blink slow, every step deliberate.
She complimented my shoes, then said something casually unnerving like, “I always notice how people lace up what they walk in.” Her smile never reached her eyes.
She wasn’t coy. She wasn’t shy. She exuded power with a sensual undertow… the kind of woman who didn’t wait for permission, only opportunities.
We sat at a corner of the gallery, sipping red wine with the conversation drifting towards talking about
The Story of O
, followed by Anaïs Nin’s work and her thesis on consent and morality in 20th-century erotic literature.
“I used to be a ballet dancer,” she said, almost wistfully. “But I preferred the discipline of ropes.”
I laughed, unsure if it was metaphor.
It wasn’t.
⸻
Delphine was thirty-two, a copy editor by day, and something else by night. Her flat in Novena was minimalist, but immaculate, with floor cushions, blackout curtains, a faint scent of sandalwood and leather polish. Her bedroom contained a rack… not of clothes, but of neatly hung restraints, blindfolds, floggers, and Japanese silk ropes coiled like garden hoses.
“I don’t need pain to feel pleasure,” she said the first night. “But I do need control. Or the surrender of it.”
She asked if I was game.
I said yes.
Of course
I did. At this point in my life, I’d said yes to far less interesting things.
⸻
The first time, I was bound to her headboard, wrists cuffed, blindfolded, mouth silenced by a firm kiss. She undressed me herself, one button at a time, narrating my reactions like she was both participant and playwright.
She straddled me in reverse, letting my length slide into her slowly, hands bracing her thighs. Then she moved, slow, unrelenting, while her fingernails left red trails across my body. She controlled the rhythm, the timing, the pace. I came only when she permitted, her breath in my ear: “
Now
.”
It was like sex and theatre and surrender rolled into one.
I left her flat dazed, sore, and oddly exhilarated.
⸻
The second time, she pushed things further. I arrived and found a note on the door:
“Strip. Wait. Don’t speak unless asked. You’ll thank me later.”
I obeyed.
She led me inside, tied my hands behind my back with red rope, and made me kneel. Her voice was calm, almost clinical, as she whispered instructions. She teased me, denied me, used ice cubes and feathers and hot wax in equal measure. My body throbbed in confusion: half desire, half restraint.
Finally, she climbed onto my lap and rode me hard, her hands gripping my shoulders, moaning my name like a taunt. When I came, she slapped me lightly, not in cruelty, but punctuation.
It was thrilling. But also… not quite me.
⸻
The third time, I tried to regain control.
We met at my place. I lit candles. Put on music. Tried to make it sensual, not ceremonial. Delphine indulged me, but I could tell something was missing. She needed the edge, the structure, the rules. I needed the dance, the tease, the mess of romance.
We made love anyway. This time, it was gentler, and I pulled her close, kissed her neck, held her tight. She moaned softly, came quietly, but didn’t stay.
“I think you’re too poetic for me,” she said as she buttoned her shirt. “You’re Casanova. I’m a little more…
de Sade
.”
⸻
We didn’t see each other again after that.
No hard feelings. No regrets.
Just two people who met at the intersection of lust and longing, and turned in different directions.
Delphine taught me something important: that not all pleasure is about chasing highs. Sometimes, it’s about knowing your limits. And respecting hers.
And I, for all my conquests, had never wanted to dominate.
I wanted to be desired. To be chosen. To be consumed in the madness of intimacy, not in the theatre of control.
She was artfully tied.
But I preferred unravelling.
[End of Chapter 78]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 79: Her Necklace in the Wind
https://freeimage.host/i/KVe9LPI
(AI-generated image of Zara)
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 revved into my life with the screech of tires and the scent of petrol, a streak of energy in a black leather jacket and jeans ripped at the knees.
Zara.
Just Zara, she said, when I asked for her full name. “No binte, no titles. Just Zara.”
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. I met her at a Shell station near Bukit Timah, where I was buying kopi and she was topping up fuel for her cherry-red Yamaha RXZ. Her helmet was tucked under one arm, her hijab-less hair dyed burnt orange and streaked with blonde tips. Her smile was wide, contagious… and completely disarming.
Around her neck hung a metal pendant, shaped like a winged skull with a tiny spinning wheel in the centre. “Lucky charm,” she said, catching me staring. “Bought it at a Pasir Gudang race. I never take it off.”
She was the antithesis of the gentle tudung-wearing girls I’d dated earlier, those whose shyness I had unwrapped slowly like a poem. Zara was a firecracker. Brazen. Alive. Fast.
I bought her kopi. She gave me a joyride.
⸻
We saw each other a few times over the next couple of months, always spontaneous. No plans. No pretense. She’d show up at my flat, engine rumbling like thunder in the carpark, then text:
“Oi Casanova. You in or not?”
She liked teasing me. Called me
Abang Scholar
, mimicking my proper diction. Laughed when I offered to open doors. Flicked my forehead when I used long words.
But beneath the roughness, she had a surprising light: always warm, sometimes silly, and eternally loyal. She wasn’t trying to be anything but herself. And that was her charm.
The first time we made love, it was in the back room of a motorcycle workshop in Ubi, after hours. She dragged me in by the collar, oil-stained concrete under our feet, tool racks rattling against the walls.
Her jacket came off fast, revealing a black tube top that barely held her in. Her skin was warm and smooth, her body taut and strong. Her necklace bounced between her breasts as she kissed me… a wild, messy kiss full of bite and breath.
I pushed her against a workbench, hands gripping her hips. She moaned into my neck, whispering vulgarities in Malay with a giggle. I entered her from behind, her body bent over the bench, the pendant swinging wildly as we rocked to the rhythm of mechanical ghosts. When she came, she bit down on her sleeve and cried out, loud and unfiltered.
It was dirty. Unplanned. Electrifying.
⸻
The second time, she showed up at my place at 3 a.m., rain-soaked and shivering.
“Your turn to warm me up,” she said, tossing her wet shirt onto the floor.
We tumbled onto my mattress, wet skin against skin. I pulled her pendant gently as I kissed down her collarbone, tracing the curves of her body with my tongue. She wrapped her legs around me, laughing through every gasp.
This time was slower, tender… surprisingly so. She kissed my cheek afterward and whispered, “You’re not just a player, huh?”
I didn’t reply. I just held her.
⸻
The third and last time was under a flyover near East Coast, after a night ride. She’d parked the bike and led me by the hand to a dark corner where no one would see.
We lay on the grass, the city lights glowing faintly overhead.
“I want to do it outside,” she said, mischievously. “Like one of your ang moh novels.”
We undressed each other clumsily, laughing as belt buckles snagged and zippers resisted. I entered her under the open sky, her moans muffled into my neck as her body writhed beneath mine.
We didn’t talk about what we were. We never needed to.
⸻
A few weeks later, she messaged:
“
Don’t wait up. Got my sights on a long ride north. Maybe Thailand.
”
I didn’t reply.
She wasn’t the type to be caged. Not by men, not by words, not by anything.
But I still think of her sometimes, whenever I hear the growl of a motorbike at a traffic light, or see a necklace swinging freely against a brown, sun-warmed chest.
Zara.
Who never needed saving.
Only space to ride.
[End of Chapter 79]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 80: Almost Sacred
https://freeimage.host/i/KWakpLu
(AI-generated image of Therese)
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 wasn’t the kind of woman I usually pursued.
Not because she wasn’t attractive, far from it, but because she carried herself with a quiet depth, the kind that made you hesitate before speaking, and made you think twice before joking. And I, at that point in my life, rarely thought once.
Therese was in her late twenties, a Filipino Chinese lady studying theology at a theological college in Singapore. We met at a joint university forum on ethics and public health, of all places. I was there to impress someone else. She was there because she believed in the subject matter.
Her questions were sharp but never aggressive. Her voice soft, but resolute. She wore simple dresses and no makeup, but her gaze could disarm the most flamboyant intellectual in the room. There was something luminous about her, not seductive, but serene.
We ended up on the same discussion panel during Q&A. She offered a thoughtful rebuttal to my comment about moral relativism, and I half-mockingly offered to “
buy her coffee and confess my sins.
”
She smiled. “You wouldn’t
survive
my penance.”
⸻
We met again, and again. Over coffee. In bookstores. At late-night lectures. I learned she wasn’t ordained, but came close, as she left a convent in the Philippines before taking the final vows. Something about
feeling God in people more than in rules
. I admired that.
And yet… I was who I was. Still chasing beauty, still restless, still delighting in seeing how far I could walk the line without crossing it.
She intrigued me. She never flirted, but she didn’t flinch either. She held her ground when I leaned in close. She laughed easily when I teased her, and once, after too much wine at a friend’s housewarming, she whispered, “You’re
dangerous
. But not evil.”
I didn’t touch her… not at first.
But one night, on a stormy March evening, the power went out at my flat. She was already there, having dropped by to lend me a book on Christian mysticism. We lit candles. We made tea.
And when she sat beside me on the couch, knees barely grazing, I looked at her and asked, “Do you want me to behave?”
She looked deeply into the flame, then at me. “No,” she said. “But only tonight.”
⸻
We undressed slowly, as if unsure whether this was real or metaphor. Her dress slipped off her shoulders with surprising ease, revealing pale skin and a simple white bra. Her body was natural, modest, untouched by performance. She trembled slightly when I kissed her neck.
“This doesn’t make me less faithful,” she whispered. “Just more human.”
We lay on the mattress in the candlelight, our bodies curling together like vines. I entered her slowly, watching her face as her breath caught and her fingers found mine.
We didn’t speak much, just moved, gently, like two people borrowing a moment they knew they couldn’t keep. She moaned softly when she came, her lips brushing my ear like a benediction.
Afterward, we held each other for a while. Not lustfully, not possessively, just reverently. Two pilgrims sharing shelter in the rain.
⸻
She left before dawn. No drama, no guilt, no promises.
“I don’t regret it,” she said, slipping on her sandals. “But it was never meant to be repeated.”
I nodded. “I understand.”
She smiled. “I hope you find what you’re really chasing.”
She kissed my cheek, not passionately, but with warmth, and stepped out into the drizzle.
⸻
I never saw her again. Not properly, at least. Once, from a distance, I saw her standing outside a chapel in Toa Payoh. She didn’t see me… or maybe she did, and chose not to acknowledge it.
But that night, that
sacred, stolen night
… stayed with me.
Not because I conquered. But because I didn’t need to.
Because for once, it wasn’t about possession.
It was about
permission
, quietly given, gracefully withdrawn.
And sometimes, even the Casanova understands when not to chase.
[End of Chapter 80]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 81: Trims and Incense
https://freeimage.host/i/KXKCZjn
(AI-generated image of Hà)
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 smelled of jasmine and menthol and something older… like earth after rain.
Hà, she said softly, her voice barely above the hum of clippers in the background. I met her at a modest Vietnamese salon in one of odd numbered the Geylang Lorongs. I’d only gone in for a cheap trim, but I walked out wondering how soon I could return.
She was from Huế, the former imperial capital of Vietnam, a city of emperors, temples, and poetic melancholy. “We don’t rush in Huế,” she told me on our second meeting. “Even when we’re sad, we take our time.”
There was something in her eyes, dark, glassy, almond-shaped, that held centuries of war, prayer, and unspoken love. Her accent, sing-song and lilting, rolled the Vietnamese words like incense smoke. When she spoke in English, every syllable came like a soft step on wooden floors.
She wore a scoop-neck blouse that revealed just a hint of a tattoo above her left breast, a koi swimming around a chrysanthemum flower, drawn in delicate ink that throbbed with her heartbeat. And just above her elbow, a small dark mole, perfectly round like a mark left by a thumb dipped in ink.
But it was her figure that left me disarmed… full breasts that curved like offerings beneath her blouse… a soft waist… and generous hips that moved with quiet confidence. She was built like an hourglass carved from candle wax: warm, yielding, and unhurried.
⸻
Over supper, she told me about Huế, not the tourist version, but her version.
She described Thien Mu Pagoda, the sound of drums during Buddhist rites, the Purple Forbidden City with its empty halls echoing loss. She remembered how the Perfume River flooded every year, turning the streets into streams. Her grandfather was a poet. Her aunt, a medium. Her childhood was filled with incense smoke, ancestral altars, and whispered lullabies about love and reincarnation.
She had left it all to earn money for her younger sister’s schooling. “One day,” she said, “I want to go back and open a salon near the river. Do hair for brides. Simple things.”
⸻
The first time we made love, it was at my flat, on a humid Saturday evening.
She wore a white dress that clung to her in all the right places. No bra. No jewellery. Only that tattoo, rising like a prayer from her chest.
She undressed shyly, letting the fabric slide off her shoulders like falling silk. Her breasts were heavy, natural, with pink-brown areolas and full, soft weight that filled my hands. Her nipples stiffened as I kissed them, tongue tracing the outline of the lotus inked just above her heart.
Her waist tapered into generous hips, smooth thighs, and a petite mound with a soft dusting of hair. She moaned when I ran my fingers along the inside of her legs, her voice breathy, almost musical.
I laid her down and spread her thighs, her arms reaching up to pull me into her. She was warm, wet, and tight, her body clutching mine with eager grace. Her breasts pressed into my chest, her legs wrapped tightly around me.
She gasped in Vietnamese, whispering:
“
Nhanh chút nữa… sâu hơn…
”
(Faster… deeper…)
I moved harder, grinding into her as she arched her back and cried out, her nails raking down my spine, her breasts bouncing with every thrust. Her orgasm came like a tidal wave, shaking through her body in shudders. I held her close, our skin sticky with sweat and breathless silence.
Afterward, we lay there, the ceiling fan spinning above, her head resting on my arm. She pressed my hand to the mole on her arm and smiled.
“I always let lovers touch it,” she said. “Only if they make me feel safe.”
⸻
We made love twice more in the following weeks, once in the back of the salon after closing, the chair tilted all the way back, her legs hooked over the armrests, moaning as I thrust into her with reckless abandon. Her blouse half-open, breasts heaving, her hands gripping my wrists as she came.
The third time was in my flat again, slower, tender, lotus seed paste on her lips, her breasts swaying softly with every kiss, every grind, every sigh. Her body moved like a memory she wanted to preserve. And I gave her everything I had.
⸻
Before she returned to Huế for Tết, she handed me a folded red packet with a paper lotus inside.
“For luck,” she said. “You don’t need love. But I think you need peace.”
I never saw her again. But every so often, I when I think of Huế, I think of her.
Of Hà, the woman from Huế, with inked skin, deep eyes, and a body that swayed like temple bells in the wind.
She wasn’t just a lover. She was a prayer I dared to whisper once, and never again.
[End of Chapter 81]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 82: The Pursuit of Her Pleasure
https://freeimage.host/i/KXSjxhg
(AI-generated image of Climax)
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.
They call it a climax.
But for many women I’ve known, it’s more of a labyrinth: winding, elusive, unpredictable.
Over the years, in beds and backseats, on couches, floors, and against walls, I learned that making a woman orgasm is not a formula. It’s a conversation. A dance. A test of patience and presence. And sometimes, it doesn’t happen, not because she doesn’t want it or I don’t try, but because pleasure, for some, comes wrapped in layers of history, shame, or silence.
I didn’t always understand that. At first, like many men, I measured my worth by how quickly I could
make
her come. I used to think it was about pressure, rhythm, or that mythical “
G-spot
.” I read the guides, watched the videos, asked the questions. I took pride in my technique.
But it wasn’t until I slowed down,
really slowed down
, that I started to learn what mattered.
Connection. Attention. Trust.
⸻
With Therese, the theology student (Chapter 80), I learned that sometimes,
giving
pleasure was more intimate than reaching a finish line. She trembled when I kissed her inner thighs, but her orgasm came slowly and late that night, and that was fine. What mattered was the way she sighed against my chest, eyes soft, saying, “
You made me feel sacred
.”
With Delphine, the sadomasochist (Chapter 78), orgasms came on cue, but were part of choreography. She wanted
control
, even in surrender. She taught me about pacing, anticipation, and the subtle power of denial. Sometimes, the orgasm isn’t the peak; it’s the long, slow build-up that breaks her first.
With Hà, the tattooed hairdresser from Huế (Chapter 81), it was all about softness, tongue circling her nipples, my hand cupped gently against her warmth, slowly working in rhythm with her breath. She liked pressure from below, a thumb hooked lightly inside while I kissed her deeply from above. She came only when she stopped trying to, when we both forgot about the goal.
⸻
So, if you’re asking:
how do you make a woman orgasm
?
Let me offer you, not a guarantee, but a field-tested guide, built on memory and mistakes:
Many women don’t climax because they’re not in their bodies. They’re worrying, about how they look, sound, smell, feel.
Your job is to hold space. Compliment her sincerely. Make her laugh. Let her see herself through your eyes, desirable, not judged.
Don’t pounce. Don’t jab. Start slow.
• Circle her breasts with the back of your fingers.
• Trace her spine with a single fingertip.
• Cup her mound gently, applying pressure before slipping between her lips.
I learned from Hannah (Chapter 73) that two fingers, slowly curling inside while the palm rocks against her clit, can work magic, but only if synced with her breath.
Use your mouth like a worshipper.
• Flatten your tongue for broad strokes.
• Tip of your tongue for flicks and circles.
• Seal your mouth around her clit and hum. Let her guide your rhythm.
With Vivienne (Chapter 77), it was about control. I had to read her gasps like cues: adjust pace, go slower when she tensed, faster when her hands gripped tighter.
Say her name. Ask if it feels good. Tell her what you love about her body.
But read the room. Some women want dirty talk; others want whispers.
With Raven (you’ll meet her in Chapter 101), the femme fatale, she wanted silence, only her own breath. Anything more would have broken the spell.
Some women need hours. Others can’t climax without toys, or trust, or time.
Zara (Chapter 79), wild, playful, energetic, could come mid-thrust on a workbench.
But Elena, the flight attendant (Chapter 72), sometimes just needed to be held after sex. Her climax took time but it wasn’t important. Comfort was.
And you know what? That’s not failure. That’s
intimacy
.
⸻
If I had to sum it up in one line?
It’s not about technique. It’s about presence.
Too many men chase the “
orgasm
” like a trophy. But when you do that, you stop listening. And sex, good sex, is always a dialogue, never a performance.
Soon, I’ll pass the hundred mark. I’ve learned that the most memorable lovers weren’t the loudest or the wildest. They were the ones who let me see them
come undone
, not just in body, but in trust.
And that’s when her pleasure becomes yours.
[End of Chapter 82]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 83: The Scent of Her Flowers
https://freeimage.host/i/KXSaOIp
(AI-generated image of Hoa Tâm)
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 met Hoa Tâm at the Tiong Bahru wet market, one rainy weekday morning while buying kopi and kaya toast after pulling an all-nighter editing my thesis draft.
She was standing under the green awning of a modest flower stall, in pale blue jeans, oversized white shirt tied at the waist, a baseball cap shielding her from the drizzle. Around her neck was a string of dried lavender. On the table: roses, orchids, stalks of lily and heliconia still damp from the cold room.
She was 27, from Hanoi, here on a long-term social visit pass, helping her uncle with his wholesale flower distribution business. She spoke English with a gentle, throaty lilt, always with a smile that made it sound like she was telling you a secret.
“I like this rain,” she said, handing me a bundle of baby’s breath I hadn’t asked for. “Make people look slower.”
I nodded, sipping my kopi. “It makes people remember.”
⸻
Hanoi had always fascinated me. I had visited once in 1997 and stayed near
Hoàn Kiếm
Lake, drank
cà phê phin
every morning in dark cafés tucked behind mossy walls, and watched lovers on mopeds buzz by like dragonflies.
I told Hoa Tâm about my time there. She lit up.
“People from Hanoi… we’re not fast like
Sài Gòn
,” she said. “We wait. We watch. And sometimes, we remember too much.”
She had a tattoo on her lower tummy, she said. Hidden beneath her waistband. “Something only one man has kissed. So far.”
That was the first hook.
⸻
Over the next two weeks, I stopped by her stall every other day.
Sometimes I bought flowers. Sometimes I brought kopi for both of us, Vietnamese-style, the old-school way: slowly filtered through a metal
phin
into condensed milk, left to drip until the cup was dark as sin and just as addictive.
We talked about Hà Nội winter, about French poetry, about how she missed the smell of warm
banh mi
wrapped in wax paper and the sound of her mother’s radio humming
Trịnh Công Sơn
love songs.
She never invited me in. But she never pushed me away.
The seduction was slow. Intentional.
I complimented the mole on her cheek, the way her hands arranged orchids without looking, the faint scent of tuberose in her hair. She asked about my research, then laughed when I tried to explain the policy thesis I was working on. “So boring. But you say it with love.”
One evening, as I was preparing to move out of my rental flat, I found her waiting at my door with a bundle of white lilies wrapped in recycled newspaper.
“For your new home,” she said.
“It’s not ready yet.”
“Then maybe you still need somewhere soft to sleep.”
She stepped inside.
⸻
She took off her shoes and walked barefoot across my empty floor, the soles of her feet silent against the terrazzo tiles. The only furniture left was my mattress and a standing fan.
She untied her shirt slowly, revealing a simple black bra, the swell of her breasts full and soft, rising and falling with her breath. Her jeans slipped off, and with them, her hesitation.
There it was, the tattoo: a thin line-drawn
Hoa Sữa
(Milk Flower), just above her pubic bone, where her belly curved and dipped like a brushstroke on parchment.
“You can kiss it now,” she said.
And I did, slowly, reverently, pressing my lips to her inked skin, inhaling the faint scent of lavender and afternoon sweat. She moaned when I slid my tongue lower, parting her thighs, tasting her gently. Her folds were soft, delicate, her clit sensitive to every flick. She gripped my hair, whispering in Vietnamese, words I didn’t understand but understood.
When I entered her, she gasped, her legs wrapping around me, her arms pulling me down.
She was wet, warm, and tight, her body moving with mine in a rhythm slow and soulful, like a Hanoi ballad.
I kissed her deeply, her mouth sweet and open, her breath catching every time I thrust deeper.
She arched her back when I cupped her breasts, pinching her nipples gently, making her cry out. She came with a shudder, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her voice breaking into breathless laughter as her orgasm rolled through her.
I held her after, our bodies tangled on the mattress, my hand resting on her belly, feeling the rise and fall beneath that fading lotus.
“You feel like Hà Nội,” I whispered.
“And you,” she said, brushing my cheek, “you feel like something I won’t forget.”
⸻
The next morning, she left without ceremony.
She didn’t want more. She wasn’t looking for permanence. Neither was I.
But that night, the smell of flowers, the taste of drip coffee on our lips, the softness of her thighs around me, it stayed.
Even now, when I sip
cà phê sữa đá
(Vietnamese iced coffee) in a glass cup on a hot Singapore day, I think of Hoa Tâm.
The florist. The Hanoi girl.
The milk flower tattoo that opened only once.
[End of Chapter 83]
Mirror Site:
