- Jessie: The Fire That Stayed
- Tifa: The Quiet Storm
Chapter 93: River Roots
https://freeimage.host/i/KkmCnsI
(AI-generated image of Ping Ping)
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.
Her name was Ping Ping, simple, soft, almost childlike. But her presence was anything but.
We met at a Mandarin-speaking textile exhibition at the then-World Trade Centre, where I was volunteering as part of a small academic collaboration. She was tall,
surprisingly tall
for a southern Chinese woman, with a round, expressive face and a prominent jaw, the kind that showed strength even when she smiled. And she smiled often.
I noticed her at the silk display, gently running her fingers over a bolt of crimson damask.
“你是做布的吗？” I asked. Are you in textiles?
She laughed. “不是，是做人的。”
No, I’m in people.
It turned out she was a regional factory liaison, based in Quanzhou, Fujian, but spending most of her time on the road, moving through Malaysia, Vietnam, Thailand, and now Singapore, where she was helping oversee a new contract for a cotton-blend supply line.
“I don’t stay long in any city,” she said, eyes gleaming. “But I always leave something behind.”
⸻
We shared tea the next evening, at a teahouse tucked behind Bugis, where the ceilings were low and the lanterns dusty.
We spoke in a mixture of Hokkien and Mandarin Chinese, but hers was not the Singaporean kind, but a delicious Fujianese drawl, full of texture and cadence, like old songs whispered into rice paper.
“你看起来不像福建人，” I said.
You don’t look like a Fujianese girl.
She leaned forward, eyes narrowing playfully.
“And what do Fujianese girls look like to you?”
I shrugged. “Not like you. You’re… taller. Firmer. Surer.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t flirtation. It was something gentler.
Like a mother watching a child finally notice something important.
⸻
We ended up walking along Kallang River, past old shophouses and rusted railings. The wind was thick with moisture, and neither of us wanted the night to end.
“我住的地方太小，不方便。” I said carefully.
My place is too small, not convenient.
She looked at me sideways.
“你觉得我会害羞？”
You think I’d be shy?
She took my hand and led me to a modest business hotel off Beach Road, where she was staying for the week.
⸻
The room smelled faintly of jasmine oil and detergent.
Ping Ping closed the door and took off her shoes, then turned to face me.
“I’ve had a long day,” she said. “I don’t want fast.”
“Neither do I.”
She undressed slowly.
Her blouse came off first, revealing a cream-coloured lace bra that cupped her full breasts, which were not oversized, but solid and natural, the kind that needed no padding.
She stepped out of her skirt and stood in her panties, the elastic sitting snug against the curve of her wide hips. When she turned, I saw it… a small mole on the right buttock, dark and striking, like the final brushstroke of a Chinese ink painting.
“You’re still looking,” she said.
“I’m trying to remember everything.”
⸻
I kissed her on the shoulder first, then the curve of her neck, then down to the soft swell of her breasts. She moaned quietly as I cupped them, thumbing her nipples through the fabric before unclasping the bra and letting it fall.
Her nipples were large, dusky, and stiff under my tongue. She held my head there, gasping softly as I sucked and licked… one, then the other.
She pulled me toward the bed, pushed me down, and straddled me.
Her hands undid my shirt button by button, then tugged down my pants. She kissed my navel, then lower, until her lips closed around me, warm and wet.
She didn’t rush. She licked slowly, thoroughly, with the focused care of a woman who didn’t believe in wasted effort.
When I was hard and aching, she helped me with the condom, then climbed up, slid her panties off, and lowered herself onto me… slowly, steadily, until I was fully inside her.
She gasped, closed her eyes, and began to move, slow, grinding circles, her hips pressing into mine, her hands bracing against my chest.
Her breasts bounced gently, her breath coming faster, her body folding into mine.
I gripped her waist, let her lead, let her ride the rhythm until she began to tremble, then flipped her onto her back and took over, thrusting deep, watching her eyes flutter open and her moans deepen.
She wrapped her legs around me and pulled me deeper.
“就这样,” she whispered. “别停…”
Just like that. Don’t stop…
When she came, she cried out, fingernails raking down my back, hips rising violently to meet me.
I followed moments later, collapsing onto her, our bodies slick, our breath shallow and full of salt.
⸻
Later, we lay there, the fan rattling overhead.
She kissed my collarbone.
“You remind me of Quanzhou boys,” she said. “They always act like gentlemen until they get you alone.”
“And then?”
“They remember they’re still animals.”
We laughed. She rested her head on my chest.
⸻
In the morning, I watched her dress, tie her hair back into a neat ponytail, and sip from a paper cup of warm soy milk.
I didn’t ask when we’d meet again.
She didn’t offer.
Some people leave something behind in every city.
With Ping Ping, I left something behind, too, even if I couldn’t name it.
⸻
[End of Chapter 93]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 94: Clay and Flame
https://freeimage.host/i/KveheLJ
(AI-generated image of Yuyan)
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 caught my eye before I heard her voice.
It was at the Singapore Expo, during a trade fair on packaging logistics. I was there helping a professor conduct stakeholder interviews for a market study. She was at the Henan provincial booth, standing out in a way no one else could.
Her name was Yuyan, meaning “
jade swallow
”.
She wore a fitted olive-green uniform, cinched at the waist, with a double-breasted jacket and matching slacks. It looked like a cross between a Red Guard re-enactment costume and an airline ground crew outfit. Her badge said “
Henan Import Authority
.”
But what struck me most wasn’t the outfit.
It was her presence, broad-shouldered, tall, with creamy skin and a full, round face, framed by a low bun. Her breasts were large, pressing gently against the fabric. She didn’t try to hide them. She didn’t need to.
She looked like a Tang dynasty painting brought to life: ripe, commanding, unapologetically feminine.
⸻
I asked her, in Mandarin, if her outfit was standard issue or cosplay.
She smirked. “你是记者？还是来搭讪的？”
Are you a journalist… or just here to flirt?
“Can’t I be both?”
“你也不像乖学生。”
You don’t look like a well-behaved student.
“Only until night falls.”
⸻
We met for dinner two nights later, in a small Sichuan place along Circular Road. She ordered cold noodles with garlic and then downed two beers without blinking. She talked about Henan like someone describing an ex-lover: with equal parts bitterness and nostalgia.
“
My hometown is poor,
” she said. “
But it has heart
. 我妈是厂里的会计。我爸修拖拉机。”
My mum was an accountant in the factory. My dad fixed tractors.
She told me she grew up fighting boys, working early, sleeping in rooms with eight others during her training stint in Zhengzhou.
“You talk like a woman who’s already seen too much,” I said.
She looked at me, then tilted her head.
“那你就应该快点抓紧。”
Then you’d better hold on while you still can.
⸻
She didn’t invite me to her hotel.
She summoned me.
“我住Bugis那边。过来。”
I’m staying near Bugis. Come.
It was a budget business hotel, clean but bland. The receptionist barely looked up as I followed her to her room.
She locked the door and peeled off her jacket in a single motion, revealing a white camisole stretched across her chest. She walked to the bed, unbuttoned her slacks, and slid them down slowly, revealing thick, powerful thighs and dark red cotton panties, damp from heat and humidity.
She stood there, hands on hips.
“看什么？脱啊。”
What are you looking at? Strip.
⸻
I obeyed.
She stepped out of her underwear and pulled me to her. Her body was warm, soft, strong… her belly plush, her breasts full and heavy, her skin smelling faintly of soap and sweat.
I kissed her neck, then her shoulder, down the side of her ribcage. She ran her fingers through my hair and pushed me lower.
I knelt in front of her and kissed the insides of her thighs, spreading her gently as I traced circles on her clit with my tongue.
She moaned, not delicately, but from the gut, a growl almost, as if pleasure was something wrestled with.
“舔慢点…用力点…”
Slower… Harder…
I licked her slowly, building pressure, sliding a finger inside her as she rocked forward, gripping the back of my head.
She came with force, hips shaking, breath hitching, muttering curses in Henan dialect I didn’t fully understand.
⸻
She dragged me up, straddled me on the bed while I quickly capped myself, and lowered herself onto me with a long, primal sigh.
She was hot, wet, tight, her body swallowing mine like it had been waiting.
She moved with powerful rhythm, grinding, thrusting, clenching. Her breasts bounced with force, sweat glistening between them. I gripped her hips, then her ass, then her waist, trying to keep up.
She leaned forward, kissed me deeply, then bit my lower lip.
“别省力气。”
Don’t hold back.
I flipped her over and entered her again from behind, gripping her thick hips, slamming into her, both of us grunting now, lost in the rawness.
She arched back into me, her vaginal walls squeezing with every stroke, until I felt her shudder and scream into the pillow.
I came moments later, milked dry by the warmth within her womanhood, groaning as I emptied into her, our bodies collapsing in a sweaty, tangled heap.
⸻
We lay there, her arm draped over my chest like a lioness claiming her prize.
She said nothing for a while.
Then finally, “你比我想象中结实。”
You’re sturdier than I thought.
“And you’re not half as scary as you act.”
She grinned, eyes half-closed. “只对值得的人温柔。”
I’m only gentle with those who deserve it.
And then she laid her head on my chest.
⸻
In the morning, she packed quickly. Her uniform was pressed. Her voice firm again.
“别加我电话。”
Don’t ask for my number.
“我会记得你。”
I’ll remember you.
She didn’t respond.
But she kissed me fiercely before she left.
And that said enough.
⸻
[End of Chapter 94]
Mirror Site:
The Casanova of Singapore — Contents Page
as of 18 Oct 2025
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 -
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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 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=132
Chapter 60 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=133
Chapter 61 -
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Chapter 62 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=136
Chapter 63 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=137
Chapter 64 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=139
Chapter 65 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=140
Chapter 66 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=142
Chapter 67 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=143
Chapter 68 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=145
Chapter 69 -
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Chapter 70 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=148
Chapter 71 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=150
Chapter 72 -
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Chapter 73 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=154
Chapter 74 -
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Chapter 75 -
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Chapter 76 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=160
Chapter 77 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=161
Chapter 78 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showthrea...5#post24759805
Chapter 79 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpo...&postcount=163
Chapter 80 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=164
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 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=178
Chapter 93 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=179
Chapter 94 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=180
Chapter 95 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=182
Chapter 96 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=183
Chapter 97 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=184
Chapter 98 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=186
Chapter 99 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=187
Chapter 100 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=189
Chapter 101 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=190
Chapter 102 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=192
Chapter 103 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=193
Chapter 104 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=194
Chapter 105 -
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Chapter 106 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost....&postcount=196
Chapter 107 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=197
Chapter 108 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=199
Chapter 109 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=201
Chapter 110 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=202
Chapter 111 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=203
Chapter 112 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost.php...&postcount=204
Chapter 113 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=205
Chapter 114 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=206
Chapter 115 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=207
Chapter 116 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=208
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 95: Like Rain on Bamboo
https://freeimage.host/i/K8RBdv9
(AI-generated image of Trang)
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 Trang on a humid September afternoon at a pop-up Vietnamese arts bazaar in Tiong Bahru. She was standing behind a stall selling handmade cloth dolls, each stitched with tiny embroidered mouths and names like
Mai, Lan, Thuy.
She looked… fragile, almost unreal: pixie-sized, no taller than five feet, with cropped black hair, delicate shoulders, and a tiny, flat chest barely hidden under a loose linen blouse.
She looked up at me with a shy, cautious smile.
“Hello… you like doll?”
“I like the one who made them.”
Her cheeks flushed.
⸻
Her name was Trang, 25, from Hanoi, and she had a toddler son who stayed with her sister during the day while she worked the market. She was in Singapore temporarily, on an informal job attachment through an NGO supporting crafts by single mothers.
She spoke softly, sometimes searching for the English word, sometimes switching to Vietnamese. But when she spoke of her son, her face lit up.
“He very naughty,” she said, laughing. “But very smart. Like fox.”
I bought three dolls. Didn’t even haggle.
She insisted on giving me a cloth pouch for free. When our fingers touched, her eyes flickered up and met mine. That was the moment.
⸻
We met the next day for Vietnamese iced coffee at a small shop in Joo Chiat. She wore a faded
ao dai
over jeans, and I remember watching the breeze press it against her, her chest almost boyish, her body all slender lines and soft motion.
As we walked along East Coast Road, we passed a lingerie shop window. She looked away quickly.
“I no need those,” she murmured.
I stopped. Looked at her.
“I don’t like those.”
She frowned, puzzled.
I leaned in and spoke in a mix of English and broken Vietnamese. “Trang, some men prefer the quiet hills over loud mountains. You have no idea how much I want you right now.”
She blushed so deeply her ears turned pink.
That night, she messaged me from her shared flat in Geylang.
“You come now? I have room alone tonight.”
⸻
Her room was small, warm, with faded curtains and a low mattress on the floor. A single toy truck sat near the door. The scent of lemongrass lingered in the air.
She locked the door behind me and stood there in silence.
Then she reached behind her neck and pulled her shirt over her head.
She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Her chest was flat, her nipples dark and pointed. Her body was slim, almost fragile, her ribs barely visible beneath porcelain skin.
“You sure… you like?” she asked, eyes lowered.
I stepped forward and kissed her collarbone.
“I love.”
⸻
I kissed her down the neck, across the flat of her chest, tracing each nipple gently with my tongue, then softly sucking… not for stimulation, but reverence.
She gasped, then moaned softly, her head tilting back.
I cupped her hips, then slid my hands down and peeled away her shorts.
She was shaved, warm, and slick, her thighs trembling as I kissed her inner thigh, then slid my tongue between her legs.
She whimpered, high-pitched and breathless, gripping the edge of the mattress as I licked slowly, then faster, one hand on her belly, the other holding her open.
Her back arched, her voice broke in Vietnamese:
“Ôi… anh… nhanh… nữa đi…”
Oh… please… faster…
She came in soft, wet pulses, hips twitching, eyes clenched shut, one hand covering her mouth to keep the moans inside.
⸻
I undressed, and she reached for me with small hands, wrapping her fingers around my length, gently stroking with shy precision.
Then she lay back, legs parted, knees bent.
“Come… inside me,” she whispered.
After putting on a condom, I slid into her slowly… and she was tight, impossibly warm, her body wrapping around mine like silk.
Her arms clung to me, her lips found mine.
She moved with short, quick rolls of her hips, her flat chest rising and falling as her breathing quickened.
I kissed her nipples again as I thrust, then gripped her hips and went deeper. She moaned louder now, pulling me closer with each breath.
When she came again, she shivered, whispering my name, her nails digging into my shoulder.
I followed with a deep groan, releasing inside her, collapsing onto her tiny frame, both of us soaked in sweat and breath.
⸻
After, she tucked herself under my arm, tracing my chest with her fingertips.
“I always worry,” she said, gesturing around her chest. “Men want big. I only have small.”
I kissed her forehead.
“You have fire. That’s more than enough.”
⸻
She gave me a kiss at the door and a doll stitched with two names:
hers and her son’s.
“I give you memory,” she said. “Not toy.”
I kept it.
Even years later, I’d find it in the back of a drawer and remember the warmth of her body, the hush of her breath, and how beauty lives in every shape, especially the quiet ones.
⸻
[End of Chapter 95]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 96: Waiting for Cue
https://freeimage.host/i/K8pPnY7
(AI-generated image of Wen Yi)
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 entered the cafe like she had missed her line, slightly out of breath, her bag slung too low, eyes darting as if she was about to apologise for existing.
And yet… she commanded attention.
Not because she was classically beautiful.
But because she looked like someone rehearsing life.
Her name was Wen Yi.
She introduced herself as “
a working actress
.”
Then smiled and added, “
Which really means I’m a waitress who dreams big.
”
She was in her mid-20s, petite but not frail, with bright, alert eyes, short choppy bangs, and a body that moved like it had memorised a hundred different postures: student, lover, daughter, ghost.
I asked if she had ever been on TV.
“
Only as an extra. I walked past the main actor carrying groceries in a Channel 8 drama. My arm was cut off in editing.
”
I laughed. She did too. And that was the beginning.
⸻
We met again the next evening, after her shift at a bar in Clarke Quay. She wore a leather jacket over a cotton dress, lipstick slightly smudged, hair damp from sweat and rain.
“
I did a commercial audition today,
” she said, popping a tic-tac into her mouth, outside the 7-Eleven. “
For breath mints. I had to smile like I didn’t know someone was filming me.
”
“Did you smile like that with me?”
She grinned. “
With you, I can drop the act
.”
⸻
She brought me to a friend’s empty studio apartment near Mount Emily, where she was housesitting for the weekend.
It smelled faintly of paint and incense. The windows were open, and the sound of distant buses filtered in.
She poured us cheap red wine into mismatched mugs. Then put on an old cassette of
Teresa Teng
and began to sway barefoot across the tiled floor.
“
I’m not famous,
” she said. “
I probably won’t ever be.
”
She turned to me. “But tonight… will you pretend I am?”
I walked up, kissed her softly, and whispered, “Every inch of you is a leading lady to me.”
⸻
She kissed me back, hungry and theatrical, her hands sliding under my shirt, her breath already uneven.
She stepped back, tugged her dress over her head, revealing no bra beneath.
Her breasts were small and firm, with wide pink areolas and perky nipples already hardened. Her body was lithe, flexible, dancer-like, her skin still marked with faded bruises from past rehearsals.
She stood in her panties and turned her back to me.
“
Unzip me, director
.”
I pulled the side zipper slowly, then dropped her panties to the floor.
I kissed the small of her back, then her spine, then knelt and kissed her ass, so soft and so round and trembling ever so slightly.
She gasped. “
You really like your actresses, don’t you?
”
“I like real performances. No camera needed.”
⸻
She lay on the mattress on the floor, legs open, arms above her head like she was playing dead for a crime scene.
I kissed her inner thighs, then pressed my mouth to her womanhood… warm, already wet, her scent fresh and sharp.
She moaned and writhed, gripping the blanket as I licked and sucked, my tongue teasing her clit in slow, firm circles.
“
God… I needed this
,” she whispered. “
Don’t stop. Don’t… edit this part out…
”
Her orgasm came suddenly, a high, breathy moan, her legs shaking around my shoulders, her toes curled.
⸻
She pulled me up and tugged my belt loose, her hands moving quickly, almost urgently.
Then she rolled me onto my back, helped with my condom, and mounted me.
She rode me hard, hips pumping, eyes locked on mine, her hair falling across her face as she moved in sync with the rhythm of her breath and mine.
Her breasts bounced lightly, her moans rising as she leaned back, arching like a dancer in final pose.
When she came again, she collapsed forward, kissing my neck as I flipped her and thrust deep into her from behind, gripping her waist, groaning as I emptied into her, both of us shuddering.
⸻
Later, she lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above us.
“
You think I’ll make it?
” she asked.
I turned to her.
“Maybe not in the way you dream. But in some way, yes.”
She nodded and gave a small smile. “
That’s enough.
”
⸻
We never saw each other again.
I passed by that same 7-Eleven a year later and wondered if she had ever booked the breath mint commercial. Or if she was still dancing in studios with peeling paint and no curtains.
But in my exercise book, beneath her initials, I wrote:
“
A leading lady… even if only for one night.
”
⸻
[End of Chapter 96]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 97: The Weight of Inheritance
https://freeimage.host/i/KSa3XGS
(AI-generated image of Suhaila)
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 first noticed her in the lift at Queenstown Polyclinic, where I was meeting a researcher for an interview on patient referral systems. She stepped in just as the doors were closing, clipboard in one hand, handbag in the other.
She had fair skin, lighter than most Malay women I had met, with soft features, neatly lined eyes, and a calm, serious expression.
She wore a long navy blouse with khaki slacks and a tudung, pale pink and pinned with a gold brooch.
I nodded at her, polite. She returned a small smile. The doors closed.
We didn’t speak.
⸻
The second time, I saw her seated alone at the NTUC Foodfare beside the polyclinic. She was out of uniform, her hair loose, in a black long-sleeved top and dark jeans, sipping tea and tapping on a small flip phone.
She looked up when I approached her table with a tray.
“There’s space here, may I?” I asked.
She gestured without a word.
We ate in companionable silence.
After a while, she said, “I’ve seen you at the clinic.”
“I’m not a doctor,” I said. “Just doing some… studies. A project.”
She smiled. “Everyone in this area is studying something.”
⸻
Her name was Suhaila. Thirty-six. She was the clinic operations officer, juggling shifts, scheduling, and complaints from both staff and patients.
A single mother of one daughter. No husband. No elaboration.
There was weariness behind her voice, but also competence, clarity, and an aura of quiet dignity.
I found myself drawn to her.
She wasn’t flirtatious.
But she noticed everything.
And when I mentioned offhand that I liked Malay women, she chuckled.
“That’s a very unique taste, for a cute Chinese boy.”
“I have good taste,” I said.
She looked at me.
“No one’s ever told me that without asking for something next.”
⸻
We began seeing each other occasionally. Lunch. Then dinner. Then a quiet Sunday walk along Labrador Park, just before dusk.
We talked about Singapore. About work. About small things.
She never spoke about her family. And I didn’t pry.
One evening, after a quiet meal at a food centre in Kallang, I walked her to her block. She hesitated at the gate.
“You don’t need to follow me up.”
“I’m not trying to.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then touched my arm.
“I haven’t been with a man in a long time.”
I stepped closer, lowered my voice.
“Let me be gentle with you.”
⸻
She booked a small, clean hotel in Balestier, the kind with floral bedsheets and dusty air-conditioning.
She didn’t want to risk gossip near her home.
And I respected that.
Inside, she sat on the edge of the bed, slowly removing her earrings, then her shoes.
I knelt in front of her.
Undid the buttons of her blouse slowly.
Slid it down her shoulders.
She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Her breasts were full, soft, pale against the lamplight, nipples brown and thick, already hardening.
I kissed her gently… first her collarbone, then the slope of each breast. She moaned softly, one hand gripping my hair.
I undressed her fully, peeled off her slacks and underwear, and lay her back against the pillows.
Then I kissed down her belly.
Spread her thighs.
And tasted her.
She was already wet, her scent earthy, her moans low and breathy.
She whispered in Malay between gasps:
“Sedap… sayang… jangan berhenti…”
So good… darling… don’t stop…
I licked her slowly, deliberately… teasing… pressing… circling… until she arched up and came with a trembling cry, hands over her face.
⸻
When I entered her, she wrapped her legs around my waist, guiding my capped rock hard penis deeper.
She was tight, slick, and warm, her body welcoming every thrust, her breath broken into moans and soft pleas.
I held her close as I moved inside her, first slow, then harder, kissing her neck, her lips, her fingers.
When she came again, she dug her nails into my back and whispered, “
Thank you…
”
I came moments later, groaning as I released into her, holding her as her body softened beneath me.
⸻
We lay together for a long time.
Her head on my chest. Her fingers drawing slow circles on my stomach.
She spoke into the silence.
“My daughter’s 18.”
I said nothing.
“She’s pregnant. Just like I was. At her age.”
I turned toward her.
“She told me last week. I didn’t shout. I didn’t scold.
What for? She’s just continuing the story I already started.”
Her voice was steady. But her eyes were glassy.
“I worked all my life to escape it. Three jobs. Part-time diploma school, worked my way up.
And still,
the road curves back
.”
I touched her cheek.
“You’re not alone.”
She looked at me and smiled sadly.
“You’re kind. But you’re from a different orbit. You don’t know what it’s like to always owe someone something.”
⸻
We met two more times.
Each time, more tender, more deliberate, more silent afterwards.
She never asked me what I wanted from her.
And I never pretended I had answers.
But I listened.
And in those hours, between sweat and softness, I understood something that no book, no lecture, no theory could have taught me:
That some women
carry their families like entire histories
, folded neatly into their routines.
That love, for them, isn’t fairy-tale or firework.
It’s quiet survival.
⸻
When our time ended, there was no final goodbye.
Just one message, typed without punctuation:
“
thank you for not trying to fix me thank you for seeing me anyway
”
I sat with that line longer than I should’ve.
Read it again weeks later. Then again, years on.
And every time, I remembered her, not for how she sounded when she came,
but for how she looked when she whispered nothing at all,
while trying not to cry in a stranger’s arms.
⸻
[End of Chapter 97]
Mirror Site:
Author’s note on Chapter 97: The Weight of Inheritance
Decades later, I still remember her.
Not for passion, but for the quiet truth she shared after.
Her daughter was 18. Pregnant. History repeating itself. She had worked her whole life to break the cycle, holding three jobs, doing part-time school, and climbing up step by step. And yet, she told me, “
the road curves back.
”
We only met a few times more. Each meeting slower, gentler, quieter. When it ended, she sent me one last line:
“
thank you for not trying to fix me thank you for seeing me anyway
”
That sentence has never left me. I still carry it.
And I still hope, wherever they are: she, her daughter, and her grandchild… that life has been kinder to them than it was then.
Chapter 98: All the Things She Never Said
https://freeimage.host/i/KSyAfou
(AI-generated image of Simone)
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 was standing alone near the Perrier station at a corporate showcase in the Mandarin Hotel, sipping sparkling water and scanning the room like she was calculating interest on everyone’s net worth.
She had the posture of someone used to being watched, but rarely touched.
Her name tag read: Simone, “
Regional Sales – Premium Fittings & Surfaces.
”
She wore a deep burgundy silk blouse with a soft bow at the neck, tucked into a black high-slit midi skirt that hugged her hips. On her ears were tiny diamond studs, and her nails were short, pale, unchipped.
I made a bet with myself: she was either divorced, or had long since stopped believing in men who made promises.
So I walked up, extended my hand, and said,
“You look like you sell sharp things to people who pretend to know what sharpness is.”
She blinked. Then smiled faintly.
“You sound like someone who thinks flattery hasn’t gone out of style.”
I held her gaze.
“It hasn’t. It just takes better taste now.”
⸻
I made her laugh three times that evening. Once about her industry, once about mine, and once,
the one that mattered
, about nothing at all.
We didn’t exchange business cards.
But I asked for her number.
She gave it with one eyebrow raised. “Text me. But no emojis.”
⸻
We met three days later at a discreet Japanese whisky bar along Club Street. She arrived in a cream silk dress with a side slit and nude heels that made no sound, her hair in a clean chignon, a black lacquered clutch tucked under one arm.
Over single malts, I teased out slivers of her.
Born to a conservative family in Katong. Estranged from them now.
Top performer in her firm, but always flying… Bangkok, KL, Manila or wherever else.
She had a married ex-lover who still called on bad days.
And a brother who hadn’t spoken to her in four years because she “
didn’t know her place
.”
When I asked if that bothered her, she sipped her whisky.
“It used to. Now I just call it gravity. You learn to fall alone.”
⸻
At her condo near Robertson Quay, she poured us
Yamazaki 12
without comment.
She walked to her bedroom and unzipped her dress in one smooth pull, letting it fall to the floor.
She wasn’t wearing anything beneath.
Her body was sleek and toned, breasts small and high, skin warm and golden, a faint scar curving under one rib, and a tattoo of a fig leaf near her hip.
I approached her slowly, brushed her hair from her shoulder, kissed the back of her neck.
“You’re exquisite,” I whispered.
She turned, kissed me hard, and murmured against my lips,
“Then make it worth remembering.”
⸻
She lay back on her bed, legs parted slightly, watching as I undressed. Her eyes didn’t flinch.
I kissed her slowly, down her neck, shoulders, and collarbone, then sucked each nipple gently, rolling them between my fingers until she gasped.
I kissed lower. Down her stomach. Between her thighs.
She was warm, wet, and smooth, moaning softly as I circled her clit with my tongue, teasing, tasting, until her hips began to rise involuntarily.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, breath hitching. “God,
don’t stop
…”
She came with a gasp, one hand gripping the sheets, the other covering her mouth to muffle the sound.
⸻
I entered her slowly, deep, and unhurried, and she wrapped her legs around me, pulling me in like she never wanted to let go.
She moaned again, this time without restraint, her body rising to meet mine.
Our rhythm built slowly, then faster, sweat slick between us, thighs trembling, fingers clutching.
She came again, her voice cracking in a high, raw gasp.
I followed seconds later, groaning into her shoulder, spent and trembling, pulling my dick out slowly and carefully with a heavy, filled condom.
⸻
After, she lit a cigarette, still naked, and opened the window.
I watched the way the wind pressed against her bare back.
“You okay?” I asked.
She exhaled.
“My father told me I was cursed when I moved out.
My ex says I’m impossible to forget, but not worth staying for.
And I haven’t cried in two years… unless it’s after sex.”
She turned, met my eyes.
“You were kind. That’s why I chose you.
But don’t ask me to bleed.”
⸻
I left at dawn.
There was no goodbye. No message after.
Just a red lipstick smudge on my collar and a question lodged in my chest.
⸻
What I learned:
That not every woman wants to be understood.
That some offer only their body, because their truth costs too much to share.
And that when a woman like Simone gives you her time, her curves, and her silence…
You treat that not as a promise, but a
privilege
.
⸻
[End of Chapter 98]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 99: Materia and Memory
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.
In 1999, I was still playing Final Fantasy VII, late into the night, controller warm in my hands, as the world of Midgar fell apart pixel by pixel and heroes carried on anyway.
There were nights when I played to forget.
And then there were women I met who made me remember.
⸻
https://freeimage.host/i/KUOmeRI
(AI-generated image of Jaravee)
Her name was Jaravee.
I met her at a music bar near Khao San Road during a short solo trip to Bangkok. She was all muscle, command, and ink, running the sound crew like she’d wired the building herself.
She wore ripped black jeans, a cropped tank top, a lion tattoo stretching across her chest as well as a red hair band. On her back, a full phoenix, wings spread across her shoulder blades. Just above her waistband: a Buddhist prayer wrapped around her navel like sacred flame.
She poured me whisky, laughed like she didn’t care, and smirked when I said she reminded me of a character called
Jessie
from
Final Fantasy
.
“You think I’m a fantasy?”
“No,” I said in broken Thai and English. “You’re a side character who deserved her own game.”
⸻
In her flat, concrete walls, incense smoke, and a mattress on the floor, she yanked off her tank top and unclipped her bra in one motion.
Jaravee’s breasts were firm and heavy, the lion’s eyes staring me down, her nipples thick and dark, already taut.
“Clothes off,” she commanded. “I’m not here to chat.”
I obeyed.
She grabbed me by the hair, pulled me onto the mattress, and straddled me, grinding her clothed sex against my cock until I groaned.
Then she stood, pulled her jeans and black lace panties down in one fluid motion, and sank back down on me, hissing as I slid fully inside her.
“Fuck yes,” she growled. “Hard. Don’t hold back.”
⸻
She rode me like a wave, hips slamming into mine, breasts bouncing, nails scraping my chest. Sweat rolled off her back, glistening over the phoenix’s wings as she leaned back and moaned my name.
I gripped her ass, thrusting upward into her, fast, deep, almost brutal. She slapped my face lightly and laughed.
“You can take it,” she panted in Thai. “Come on, soldier boy.”
I flipped her onto her stomach, entered her from behind, and pulled her arms back as I pounded into her, watching her tattoos ripple and her body writhe.
When she came, she screamed into the pillow, her whole body convulsing. I followed with a groan, slamming into her one last time as I spilled deep into a condom, inside her.
⸻
Later, she lit a cigarette, back turned.
“I had a daughter once,” she said. “She calls someone else mother now.”
I said nothing. Just traced the edge of the phoenix on her spine and kissed her shoulder.
“Don’t fall in love with ink, Singapore boy,” she murmured. “It doesn’t bleed the way people do.”
⸻
https://freeimage.host/i/KUOyr8l
(AI-generated image of Thipha)
Her name was Thipha. I met her by accident at an art fair. She was helping set up a cousin’s gallery display. Our hands brushed. Our eyes met. And the silence between us was already a story.
Thipha was slim and toned, not from a gym, but from life, the kind of strength earned through routines, responsibilities, and quiet resilience. Just like the FFVII character, she was fair-skinned, with straight black hair. Her eyes were dark and serious, the kind that saw more than they let on. Her smile, when it came, was small and uncertain, like she didn’t believe it would stay.
She didn’t flirt. She didn’t chase.
But she made you want to stay.
There was something unfinished about her, like she was still rebuilding herself from something no one else could see.
⸻
She lived in a walk-up flat in Queenstown, the kind with old louvre windows and green mosaic tiles. The walls were thin, and her kitchen was barely enough for two people, but it was home.
On a shelf beside the TV were books on trauma healing, a small collection of PlayStation games, and an incense burner shaped like a lotus.
She made us unsweetened oolong tea. Not because it was fashionable, but because that’s what her mother used to brew.
She wore a faded tank top and cotton shorts. No makeup. Her fingernails were short and clean. She didn’t ask me what I wanted, but just handed me a mug and sat beside me, close but careful. We talked, about everything and nothing, slowly drawing towards each other.
When she finally undressed, it wasn’t showmanship… it was surrender.
Her back was inked with a sacred Thai yantra, the lines clean, black, purposeful. Her left shoulder bore a tiger crouched beneath bamboo, and her thigh was wrapped in lotus petals and geometric spirals, each stroke of ink hugging the curves of quiet muscle.
“You got all this for protection?” I asked.
She looked away, fingers tracing the tiger’s teeth.
“I got them when I couldn’t talk about the pain. They were the only way to feel in control.”
⸻
We kissed… slow, almost hesitant. Her mouth was soft, unsure, like she hadn’t kissed in a while. When my hands found the small of her back, she stiffened slightly, then melted against me.
I undressed her with care, peeling each layer like a memory.
Her body was beautiful and strong, but not sculpted, soft but not fragile. Her breasts were large and round, her hips curved just enough to catch my palms. A long, pale scar ran across her right side, half-hidden under her ribcage.
I kissed down her spine, whispering reassurances into her skin. Each vertebra beneath my lips felt like a line in a diary she never let anyone read.
When I pressed my mouth between her legs, she gasped, a sound that seemed to surprise her more than me. She clutched the sheets, whispering my name like a confession. I took my time, tongue moving in slow circles, then gentle flicks, my fingers teasing her open, drawing out her tension until she arched upward and came with a trembling cry, like something long buried had been released.
⸻
When I entered her, she held my face, eyes locked on mine.
We moved slowly, breath syncing with rhythm. Her thighs tightened around me, grounding me, pulling my capped rod in. No words. Just quiet sighs, quickening gasps, and the creak of her old bed beneath us.
She came again, shuddering, biting her lower lip, and arms locked around my neck.
I followed, spilling into her with a groan, pressing my forehead to hers, heart thudding against her chest.
⸻
Afterwards, she curled into me, but not too close. Always a bit of space. A part of her still standing guard.
“You’re different,” she said softly.
I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “How so?”
“You didn’t rush me. You didn’t try to fix me.”
“I didn’t know you were broken.”
She gave the smallest smile. “That’s why I let you in.”
⸻
We met a few more times on short, quiet nights filled with touch and tea and silence. She never asked for promises. Never shared too much.
But I knew she carried things. Grief. Guilt. Maybe even unrequited love. Just not for me.
And that was okay.
Some people come into your life not to stay, but to remind you that healing doesn’t always look like hope.
Sometimes, it looks like holding someone close, even when they’re already halfway gone.
⸻
Two women.
Two summons from another world.
One roared.
One whispered.
And both reminded me:
Some fantasies don’t end when you switch off the screen.
They echo… under the skin, in the dark, when you’re alone with nothing but memory.
⸻
[End of Chapter 99]
Mirror Site:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/68...ters/190050396
Comment on Chapter 99: Materia and Memory
While I’ve been called “
Mr Cloud
” before, probably because of my quiet, introspective nature and tendency to drift between worlds of thought… I’m not Cloud from
Final Fantasy VII
. I don’t carry a Buster Sword, I don’t brood under meteor showers, and I don’t save worlds through angst and redemption arcs.
But I understand why people make the comparison. Like him, I’ve wrestled with memory, identity, and the blurred lines between what was lived and what was dreamed. Maybe that’s why this chapter, Materia and Memory, and the recollection of the events hits me so hard, because it’s not about fantasy at all, but about how our pasts are stitched together through encounters, sensations, and scars that linger longer than we admit.
We don’t all have mako in our veins, but we all carry a bit of memory that glows in the dark.