Quote:
Originally Posted by
superkk
Javanese women are incredibly beautiful and blossom very early. A friend of mine spent a lot of time in Java back then to learn their art and culture and was offered a village leader’s daughter’s hand in marriage. He respectfully declined as that was not his intention of being there.
I followed him there from time to time back then and there are so many gorgeous young ladies just waiting for good men to wed.
That’ll have made for a fascinating story, and what you mentioned reflects something I also felt while writing this chapter: that in Java, beauty is deeply intertwined with culture, grace, and self-possession. The women there seem to carry their art and history in how they move and speak. My intent was not only just to describe a Javanese woman’s physical allure, but to explore how Javanese sensuality, spirituality, and restraint can coexist in a culture where power often lies in quietness.
Chapter 109: Silk and Peppercorn
https://freeimage.host/i/KLHSpNs
(AI-generated image of Momo)
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 Sichuan, everything simmered… from the peppercorns to the pace of conversation. The heat didn’t just sit on your tongue. It bloomed. Slowly. Seductively.
I was stationed in Chengdu for six weeks, part of a regional consulting project assessing cross-border logistics in Southwest China. While the other consultants whined about the traffic and air quality, I found the city intoxicating. The food was fire. The dialect musical. The women… self-possessed, sharp-tongued, and surprisingly forthright.
They said Sichuan girls could quarrel and kiss in the same breath.
I met one who didn’t need to quarrel at all; she simply stared until you folded.
Her name was Momo.
⸻
We met at a boutique café near Kuanzhai Alley, where she worked as a barista and part-time design student. She was short, doe-eyed, and impossibly fair, with the kind of porcelain skin that made silk look coarse.
She wore vintage qipao with sneakers. Her curves were impossible to ignore, buxom, yet compact, just like a doll carved from ivory and filled with secrets.
Her voice was soft. But when she laughed, it made heads turn.
I complimented her cheongsam stitching the first day.
She smirked and said in Sichuan-accented Mandarin:
“你肯定不是本地人，本地男人只会盯着我胸部看。”
(“
You’re definitely not local. Local men would just stare at my chest.
”)
I said, “You noticed I didn’t?”
She leaned forward.
“你有看，但你眨眼了。”
(“
You looked. But you blinked.
”)
⸻
We flirted for three days, exchanging casual comments while she made my coffee, subtle glances as I pretended to read the
Chengdu Daily
.
One afternoon, I arrived just before closing.
She was alone. Hair up. Lipstick smudged.
“你每次来，好像都想问什么又不敢开口。”
(“
Every time you come, it’s like you want to ask something but don’t dare.
”)
I smiled. “And you always look like you want to be asked.”
She tilted her head and smiled back.
“那你今天敢问了吗？”
(“
So are you brave enough to ask today?
”)
That night, we walked down Jinli Street under red lanterns, brushing shoulders but never holding hands.
At her flat, a cozy space near Sichuan University, she lit a single sandalwood stick and poured two thimbles of
baijiu
.
“你想留下来吗？”
(“
Do you want to stay?
”)
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
I simply kissed her.
⸻
She guided me to her bed without hesitation, undoing the side zipper of her
qipao
with practiced grace.
Her bra was black lace, barely holding her full, perfectly rounded breasts.
Her skin was almost luminous: smooth, pale, unmarred except for the tattoo I saw when she turned.
It wrapped around her waist like a belt of ink, a cherry blossom girdle, fine-lined and shaded, disappearing into her hip creases.
“你喜欢？”
(“
You like?
”) she asked, catching my stare.
“It’s beautiful.”
“你还没看到全部。”
(“
You haven’t seen all of it yet.
”)
⸻
I undressed, slowly. She watched, lips parted slightly, until I was fully exposed before her.
She reached out, grazed my abs with her fingertips, and then pulled me onto the bed.
⸻
She lay beneath me, arms spread, hair fanned out like black ink in water.
I kissed her throat, her collarbone, her breasts… taking time with each, feeling her heartbeat quicken.
She was already wet when I touched her, moaning softly as I circled her clit and whispered:
“你真美… 你的小身体太完美了…”
(“
You’re beautiful… your little body is perfect…
”)
When I finally slid inside her, she gasped and arched… tight, hot, and clutching me like silk wound in tension.
We moved slowly at first, our hips grinding, her nails digging into my back.
Then faster, as she clutched me with her thighs, whispering:
“别停… 更深一点… 就这样…”
(“
Don’t stop… deeper… just like that…
”)
Her climax came like a wave, sudden, full-bodied, her cry muffled into my neck.
And I kept going, rolling us over, letting her ride me.
Her breasts bounced in rhythm.
Her girdle tattoo shimmered with sweat.
She looked down at me with half-lidded eyes and said:
“从你眨眼的那天起，我就想要你了。”
(“
I’ve wanted you since the day you blinked.
”)
When I came, it was with a groan so loud I was sure the neighbors heard.
⸻
We lay tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest, her fingertip tracing the line of my jaw.
“你们新加坡男人… 表面安静，其实很危险。”
(“
You Singaporean men… you seem quiet, but you’re dangerous.
”)
“你们四川女人… 笑得温柔，其实会灼人。”
(“
You Sichuan women… you smile sweetly, but you burn.
”)
She chuckled.
“那就扯平咯。”
(“
Then let’s call it even.
”)
⸻
I saw her once more, a final night of silent, searing heat.
Then I left for the next city.
But whenever I smell peppercorn or see a cherry blossom tattoo, I remember Momo, fair-skinned and fire-tongued, wrapped in ink and sweat, pulling me into the kind of madness that doesn’t need words.
⸻
[End of Chapter 109]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 110: The Mountain Moves With Her
https://freeimage.host/i/KLNVaRt
(AI-generated image of Yinyue)
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.
Guangxi wasn’t part of the original itinerary. I was meant to fly from Chengdu to Guangzhou, present findings to a logistics client, and head home. But an unexpected delay, thanks to a last-minute stakeholder pivot, gave me three days to burn in Guilin.
I took it as a gift.
Guangxi was a different China.
Less vertical. More lyrical.
Karst hills like dragon spines.
Villages cradled by rivers that ran cold and clean.
The Bai people, one of China’s 56 ethnic groups, had lived here for centuries: known for their white-walled houses, silver headdresses, and a matrilineal strength that surprised many who only saw their delicate stitching and embroidered fans.
And then there was her.
⸻
Her name was Yinyue — “
Silver Moon.
”
I saw her first in rehearsal, barefoot on a temple stage, practicing a modern piece infused with Bai courtship dance. She wore flowing red cloth wrapped around her torso and legs, arms sculpted and expressive, her movements slow, then explosive, then fluid again.
I stayed through the whole session, seated in a corner as if I were invisible.
Somehow, she noticed.
⸻
Later that evening, I found her near the food stalls by the river.
“你一直坐在角落里，看完了整个排练。”
(“
You sat in the corner and watched the whole rehearsal.
”)
“I did.”
“为什么？”
(“
Why?
”)
“Because I forgot how to breathe.”
She gave a skeptical smile.
“你是做咨询的吧？”
(“
You’re a consultant, aren’t you?
”)
I nodded.
“那你不是来学习的，是来计算的。”
(“
Then you’re not here to learn. You’re here to calculate.
”)
“Not tonight,” I said. “Tonight I want to remember what it means to feel.”
She tilted her head, studying me for a moment.
“那就走走吧。”
(“
Then come walk.
”)
⸻
We strolled beside the Li River under soft lanterns. She told me about her life: training in Kunming, dancing in Dali, and now touring with a semi-funded arts group struggling to stay alive. Her people, she explained, believed that the soul danced even when the body rested.
“我们白族人相信，灵魂一直在跳舞。”
(“
Our Bai people believe the soul is always dancing.
”)
“爱情也是舞蹈，有时独舞，有时双人舞，更多时候是即兴的。”
(“
Love is also a dance, sometimes solo, sometimes a duet, often improvised.
”)
Back in her shared apartment, its walls bare, but floor clean with only one mattress, she poured me hot water. Her roommates were not back yet.
“你是想留下来，还是只是想跳一支舞？”
(“
Are you asking to stay, or just to dance?
”)
“I’m asking to dance.”
She smiled and pulled her hair loose.
⸻
She was lithe. Muscles like a bow pulled taut beneath her skin.
Her breasts were small, firm, perfect for movement.
Her waist tapered to narrow hips, her belly flat, thighs toned from years of floorwork and form.
I kissed her shoulder, trailing down her spine as she turned away.
She wore nothing but a wrap, now unraveling slowly with each of my fingers.
⸻
She lay back on the mattress and raised one leg slowly, like a swan unfurling.
I knelt between her thighs, kissing them both, tasting the soft salt of her skin.
She gasped when I circled her clit with my tongue: slow, then quick, then slow again.
“不要停…”
(“
Don’t stop…
”) she whispered, breath catching.
I slipped two fingers inside her, curling them, finding the rhythm of her hips as she began to undulate, not frantically, but with grace, like a wave folding into itself.
She came once, which manifested softly, silently, fingers clutching the sheets.
Then again, this time louder, breathless, thighs locked around my head.
When I slid inside her, she wrapped her arms around my neck and moved in tight spirals, her body dancing around me, not just with me.
Her moans were short, and musical. Measured.
“这样… 别停… 深一点…”
(“
Like that… don’t stop… deeper…
”)
She whispered things I didn’t understand, and it didn’t matter.
We climaxed together, her fingernails in my back, my name on her lips.
⸻
Later, we lay naked under a thin cotton sheet.
“我不是跟每个人都这样。”
(“
I don’t do this with everyone.
”)
“I know.”
“你明早就要走了。”
(“
You’ll be gone in the morning.
”)
“I will.”
“但你以后听到笛子的时候，会想到我。”
(“
But when you hear a flute, you’ll think of me.
”)
“Every time,” I replied.
She didn’t ask for more.
And I didn’t promise what I couldn’t give.
But I knew then, that some women didn’t leave marks on your skin.
They left them on your pace. Your stillness.
Your ability to move in sync with someone else, even if only for a night.
⸻
[End of Chapter 110]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 111: The One Who Refused to Belong
https://freeimage.host/i/KQ7zVBS
(AI-generated image of Qianru)
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.
Fujian had always intrigued me, not for its coastal beauty or its chaotic tea markets, but for its contradictions.
A place of ancestral altars and smugglers.
Of tight-knit clans and those desperate to leave them.
In Xiamen, I wasn’t there for tourism. I had been flown in to consult on a coastal industrial park designed to attract Taiwanese capital. The air smelled of sea salt and diesel. The old city was charming in a chipped-teacup kind of way, but the new zones sprouted concrete like weeds.
That’s where I met Qianru.
⸻
She was the PR liaison for a Taiwanese investor group, 27, fluent in English, and unreasonably good at hiding her disdain for most things around her.
She wore muted dresses, carried herself like she belonged in Hong Kong, and had the kind of eyes that sized you up before you spoke.
At our first meeting, I mentioned how picturesque Fujian’s coastline looked from the train.
She smirked.
“好看的东西，常常下面都烂掉了。”
(“
Pretty things often have rotten roots.
”)
⸻
We ended up at a rooftop bar two nights later, the air thick with the smell of roasted peanuts and cheap perfume.
She leaned into me while lighting a cigarette.
“你太有礼貌，不像是这里的人。”
(“
You’re too polite, you can’t be from here.
”)
“I’m Singaporean.”
“怪不得。你笑得像不需要别人的认同。”
(“
That explains it. You smile like you don’t need anyone’s approval.
”)
“And you frown like you’ve had to fight for yours.”
She exhaled slowly.
“你说得没错。”
(“
You’re not wrong.
”)
⸻
We walked along the harbour wall, away from the taxis. She didn’t invite me to her place. She just stopped walking and looked at me.
“我不喜欢假装正经的男人。”
(“
I don’t like men who pretend to be good.
”)
“I’m not good,” I replied. “I’m just careful.”
She took my hand and led me into a boutique hotel she clearly knew well.
⸻
Her body was all contrast: slim shoulders, full hips, and long legs.
She undressed herself, slowly, like unpeeling a mask.
Her breasts were soft and natural, the skin of her stomach slightly tanned.
She wore no makeup. Just eyeliner, faint but surgical.
She climbed into the bed and pulled me on top of her, whispering:
“别温柔。”
(“
Don’t go gentle.
”)
⸻
I didn’t.
I kissed her neck, her collarbone, trailing my tongue down to her breasts, where she arched under my mouth.
I then slid my fingers between her thighs, already dripping wet, and teased her slowly, circling her clit until she gasped, then cursed softly in Hokkien.
“你是白目，还是故意的？”
(“
Are you clueless, or just playing with me?
”)
I didn’t answer.
I then slid two fingers into her and kissed her, swallowing her moan.
⸻
She wrapped her legs around me when I entered her. Tight.
Her eyes locked on mine, her voice breathy.
“再用力一点。”
(“
Harder.
”)
I complied, and we moved fast… rough, rhythmic, not frantic but furiously controlled.
She came once, then again, her fingers digging crescents into my back.
When I climaxed, I bit her shoulder to stifle the groan, her thighs squeezing tight around my waist.
⸻
Afterwards, she lay on her side, smoking quietly.
“你不属于这里。”
(“
You don’t belong here.
”)
“Neither do you.”
She looked at me for a moment, then nodded.
“我知道。就是因为这样，我才讨厌这里。”
(“
I know. That’s why I hate this place.
”)
⸻
I saw her once more, over coffee.
She was civil. But distant.
“这段关系，不用太认真。”
(“
This wasn’t personal.
”)
“不需要。”
(“It didn’t have to be,”) I replied.
She looked relieved. Or disappointed. I couldn’t tell.
⸻
Fujian gave me one of the most passionate nights of that year.
And Qianru?
She reminded me that some women aren’t looking for anchors, they’re just trying to outrun the tide.
⸻
[End of Chapter 111]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 112: Her Body, Her Myth
https://freeimage.host/i/KZfNpN2
(AI-generated image of Xiangling)
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.
By the time I reached Guizhou, I was already tired.
Not of the travel. Not of the work.
Of the sameness, the corporate dinners, the scripted Chinese interactions, the women who folded into the same roles before disappearing like night rain on concrete.
But Guizhou felt different the moment I stepped off the train.
It wasn’t a province that courted attention.
It hid itself in green mountains, buried rivers underground, and whispered in a dozen minority dialects.
The Han called it wild.
The Miao and Bouyei called it home.
And I came to understand that some women were like Guizhou: discreet, layered, resilient beneath softness.
⸻
She was a pharmacist, 28, and moonlighting at a conference booth for a traditional medicine company we were evaluating.
Her name was Xiangling.
She wore a crisp white coat over a black turtleneck, fitted trousers that ended just above her ankles, and heels too sharp for her small frame.
She had a fast mouth and a resting smirk, eyes that flickered with challenge and something deeper, the kind of woman who asked three questions before giving you her number.
⸻
We met over a herbal sample discussion.
She saw right through the script.
“你根本不是来评估采购的吧？”
(“
You’re not really here to evaluate procurement, are you?
”)
“I’m here to see what makes the people behind the tables tick.”
She grinned.
“我也是啊。我推销的这些中药粉，自己都不吃。”
(“
Same. I’m selling herbal powders I wouldn’t take myself.
”)
We had drinks that night at a small bar tucked into Guiyang’s side streets, the kind with wooden beams, cups of millet wine, and delicate Miao embroidery on the lampshades.
She told me about her childhood in Anshun, growing up surrounded by waterfalls and stunted expectations.
“贵州的女生不是做梦长大的。”
(“
Guizhou girls don’t grow up dreaming.
”)
“我们是算计着长大的。”
(“
We grow up calculating.
”)
She laughed easily. But her words had angles.
⸻
I walked her back to her apartment on a narrow street behind a pagoda-style clinic.
When I hesitated at the gate, she pulled me in by the collar.
“你今晚的眼神都在脱我衣服。”
(“
You’ve been undressing me with your eyes all night.
”)
“我倒想看看，你的手是不是也这么厉害。”
(“
Let’s see if your hands are just as skilled.
”)
⸻
Her apartment was neat, minimalist, and warm, and scented with something herbal.
She removed her coat and turned away from me, pulling the turtleneck over her head.
That was when I saw it…
a full-back tattoo, spanning from her shoulders to her upper buttocks.
A long-haired girl, eyes closed, hair cascading like river silk down her spine, inked in greyscale, her expression unreadable, neither sorrowful nor serene.
“你喜欢她吗？”
(“
Do you like her?
”) she asked, glancing back.
“She’s the reason I followed you up the hill.”
“她是另一个我。”
(“
She’s another version of me.
”)
“她替我看着我自己。”
(“
She watches me when I can’t.
”)
⸻
She faced me, then unclasped her bra, revealing augmented breasts, high and firm, framed by the soft taper of her torso.
“别装惊讶。”
(“
Don’t act surprised.
”)
“我做过选择，也承担它。”
(“
I made choices. And I own them.
”)
I stepped forward and kissed her without a word.
⸻
We undressed in rhythm, our clothes falling like leaves in wind.
She was slim, but not fragile, with muscle and elegance, a body that moved with purpose.
I kissed her shoulders, tracing the edge of the tattoo with my tongue.
She gasped when I ran my hand along the curve of her back, down to her hip, and pulled her against me.
⸻
I laid her on the bed, and knelt between her legs.
I kissed the inside of her thighs, the base of her belly, then circled her clit with my tongue… slow at first, letting her breathe into the moment.
She moaned, rolling her hips against me.
She was wet, impossibly wet, her breath hitching with every flick, every pause.
I slid two fingers into her, curling upward, feeling her walls tighten, her voice a rising cry in Mandarin:
“再来… 不要停…”
(“
More… don’t stop…
”)
She came fast, but didn’t stop me.
I brought her over again, her thighs clenching, her back arching, her fingers gripping the sheets like she was falling.
⸻
When she finally lay back, panting, I reached over to my pants on the chair and tore open a condom wrapper.
She watched with a faint smile.
“还挺有准备。”
(“
Prepared, I see.
”)
“I’m careful,” I said, rolling it on.
“好男人不多了。”
(“
There aren’t many good men left.
”) she murmured.
Then she locked her legs around me and pulled me in deep.
Her moans were low and deliberate. She kissed my ear, my neck, then bit my lower lip as we moved together, not in rhythm, but in sync.
I felt her whole body working, just like a dancer, just like a storm wrapped in silk.
She came again as I thrust deeper, her breath in my mouth, the tattooed girl rippling on her back as her body twisted under me.
I followed with a guttural groan, holding her as close as I could, feeling her warmth swallow me whole.
⸻
We lay side by side, our fingers tangled.
She rested her cheek on my chest, silent for a long while. Then:
“我和别人不一样。”
(“
I’m not like other women.
”)
“No,” I said. “You’re more.”
She exhaled softly.
“我不求被记得，只希望…别被忘记。”
(“
I don’t ask to be remembered. I just don’t want to be forgotten.
”)
And I didn’t forget.
Not the curves of her back.
Not the whisper of her thighs.
Not the inked girl on her spine who watched us both: silently, eternally.
⸻
[End of Chapter 112]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 113: Sensei no Hada (先生の肌)
https://freeimage.host/i/KZpODTN
(AI-generated image of Reina)
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.
Tokyo, 2004.
The city felt like a fever dream. Lights in perpetual motion. Train chimes echoing like lullabies for insomniacs. Vending machines offering both refreshment and loneliness.
I was there for work, for regional meetings, and for backchannel negotiations. But I extended my stay by three days, for no professional reason at all.
Maybe I just needed to be somewhere where no one spoke my name with familiarity.
⸻
I met Reina in
Shimokitazawa
, at a smoky jazz bar tucked above a record shop.
She was mid-30s, porcelain-skinned, small-framed, but with eyes that carried weight. She wore a slate-blue cardigan, heavy eyeliner, and no attempt to hide the light wrinkles at the corner of her mouth.
We shared a booth. She ordered
shōchū
. I ordered
sake
. We didn’t talk for the first twenty minutes.
Then she looked at me sideways.
“
You’re not Japanese,
” she said.
“No.”
“
But you know how not to stare.
”
“I try.”
She sipped, then nodded at the stage.
“
I used to do films. The kind where the women pretend to be your mother.
”
I didn’t flinch.
She watched me like she expected revulsion. Or arousal.
Instead, I said, “I’ve seen some of those. I think… you were in one I watched years ago.”
Her eyebrow arched slightly, but she didn’t look away.
“
Was I convincing?
”
“You didn’t look like you were pretending.”
⸻
Later, outside, she lit a cigarette.
“
I’m not ashamed. But I’m tired.
”
She told me she’d done over 120 adult videos. Mostly teacher, nurse, stepmother.
“
They never let me play the young girl,
” she said, smirking.
“
They said I had eyes that understood too much
.”
She quit two years ago. Now she taught English part-time and modeled for discreet magazines.
“
But the money’s gone. And you don’t get your face back.
”
⸻
We went to a love hotel, not because we had to, but because she said she preferred the anonymity of places built for forgetting.
She chose a room named
Himawari
or sunflower.
There were mirrors on the ceiling, karaoke in the bathroom, and a discreet box of wet tissues on the nightstand.
⸻
She undressed slowly. Not seductively, but professionally.
Her body was petite, but real. Small, natural breasts. Slight stretch marks on her hips. Skin like folded silk.
She stood fully naked under the fluorescent lights, watching me undress.
Then she climbed onto the bed, opened her legs, and said softly:
“
Don’t pretend I’m someone you love. Just be honest with me.
”
⸻
I lowered myself between her thighs, kissing the soft insides as she trembled.
She was already wet, maybe from the talk, or maybe from the memories.
I licked her slowly, deliberately, circling her clit as she moaned in that same soft AV cadence I remembered, but without the camera.
“もっと…” she whispered.
More
…
I slid two fingers into her. She gasped. Arched. Moaned louder now, not performative, but hungry.
She came once, legs shaking, eyes glazed.
Then she pulled me up, kissed me deeply, and whispered in English:
“
Now. I want all of you.
”
⸻
I reached into my wallet on the nightstand and took out a condom.
She noticed, gave a faint smile.
“
You came prepared.
”
“I’m not filming,” I said. “I’m living.”
I rolled it on, then entered her.
It was like slipping into someone’s memory… tight, wet, practiced… but somehow fragile beneath the surface.
She wrapped her arms around my back, nails light but deliberate.
Her hips met mine with rhythm, her voice now deeper.
“
Don’t stop. Just take me like I’m still filming
.”
So I did.
I pounded her, rough, raw, and deep, holding her wrists above her head as she begged and cursed in Japanese.
Sweat poured. The bed creaked. Her thighs locked around me like a final take.
When I came, it was hard and urgent, our breath tangled, her eyes wide and unreadable.
⸻
Afterward, she lay on her side, back to me, tracing the sheets.
“
I used to think every man wanted to save me,
” she said.
“
But I only ever needed someone to listen.
”
“You weren’t acting tonight,” I said.
She turned, half-smiled.
“
Neither were you.
”
⸻
Two days later, I was back in Singapore.
Elya, the Bidayuh woman who saw more of me than anyone else, was waiting at my flat.
I told her about Reina.
Not the sex.
Just the eyes.
The scars.
The way she said “
don’t pretend
.”
Elya sat beside me on the balcony, looking out at the sunset.
“
She wasn’t looking for love,
” she said.
“No.”
“
She just wanted to know she wasn’t broken.
”
“She isn’t,” I replied.
Elya nodded.
“
Neither are you. But you still haven’t stopped running.
”
⸻
And I didn’t answer.
Because she was right.
⸻
[End of Chapter 113]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 114: The Land of the Quiet Lotus
https://freeimage.host/i/Kt8tEVS
(AI-generated image of Sophea)
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.
Phnom Penh, 2004.
Evenings fell quickly in Cambodia, like the sun knew it had overstayed its welcome.
The light dimmed to copper, shadows stretching across old French balconies and dusty riverside cafés.
And the air… thick with incense, engine fumes, and the echo of things never spoken aloud.
I was there on a short-term consulting project, advising an NGO-backed logistics startup attempting to modernize Cambodia’s fractured supply chains. It wasn’t glamorous. But I’d always been drawn to places still healing.
Cambodia in 2004 was just that, healing, but unevenly.
The Khmer Rouge trials hadn’t started yet. The wounds were political, generational, spiritual.
Yet the smiles in the market were real. The laughter of tuk-tuk drivers felt unforced.
And the people, especially the women, moved with a quiet, resilient grace that humbled me.
That’s how I remember Sophea.
⸻
She worked at the guesthouse I stayed in, not at the front desk, but quietly cleaning the rooms in the late afternoons, slipping in and out like wind through paper screens.
She couldn’t have been more than 24.
Petite. Sharp Khmer features. Skin the color of fresh palm sugar.
Hair in a long plait, tied with a faded ribbon.
And a silence that felt deliberate, like she had learned young that the world listened poorly anyway.
Our first exchange was over a spilled cup of water, while I was walking out of my hotel room door, deep in my thoughts.
I apologized in Mandarin out of habit.
She looked confused, then replied softly in English, “
It’s okay, sir. No worry.
”
That voice, breathy and uncertain, stayed with me the entire day.
⸻
The second time I saw her that evening, she was folding towels outside my room. I offered her a lychee candy.
She took it, smiled, and whispered, “
Khmer don’t eat too sweet.
”
“But I’m not Khmer,” I said.
She looked at me, blinked.
Then laughed. The sound was like warm rain on dry soil.
⸻
She began leaving fresh towels folded in lotus shapes on my bed.
A few days later, she started slipping a stick of incense under the edge of my teacup.
Always silent. Always smiling.
On my last night, I found her waiting near the garden.
She didn’t say anything. Just held out a small woven bag. Inside was a handkerchief, embroidered clumsily with a single lotus flower.
“
You made this?
”
She nodded. Then looked away.
“Will you sit with me?” I asked.
She hesitated. Then sat beside me on the bench, knees together, hands folded on her lap.
We didn’t talk much.
But when she turned toward me, I brushed a strand of hair from her face.
She didn’t pull away.
⸻
We made our way to my room, quietly, like two people sneaking into a shared dream.
She stood near the bed, her body still.
“
Only if you want,
” I said.
She nodded, eyes lowered.
⸻
I undressed her slowly, starting with the ribbon that held her braid, then the buttons of her blouse, pausing at each clasp as her breath quickened. Her skirt slipped down with a soft whisper, revealing modest white cotton underwear, slightly worn.
Her body was delicately built, almost weightless in my hands: smooth shoulders, a soft waist, gentle hips, and small, perfect breasts with dark, sensitive nipples that puckered under my breath.
She trembled as I cupped her face, then kissed the hollow of her neck, my hands caressing her back, trailing to her hips, pulling her close until our skin met.
I guided her to the bed and gently laid her down. Her legs parted with uncertainty, not fear, like a flower slowly unfurling to moonlight.
I knelt between them and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then up her thigh. Her skin was warm, slightly scented from jasmine soap.
She gasped sharply as I touched my tongue to her folds, already slick, tender, and trembling with anticipation.
I circled her clit slowly, letting her body rise toward sensation.
Her moans came shyly at first, quiet sighs that grew with each flick, each firm lick as I suckled and teased her with focused, deliberate hunger.
I slid a finger inside her. She arched. Another finger inserted, this time even deeper. She clutched the sheets, legs tightening around my head as her hips bucked against me.
Then, with a soft whimper, she came, with her body shaking, her voice breaking into a long exhale as she whispered something in Khmer that melted on her tongue.
⸻
When I moved above her, she looked up at me, her eyes wide, lips parted, body still quivering.
“Okay?” I asked.
She nodded. Then opened her legs for me.
I put on a condom and entered her slowly, savoring the warmth, the tightness, the way she gasped and bit her lip as I pushed deeper.
She was snug, gripping me like a glove. Her small breasts rose and fell with each thrust, her hands gliding down my back, then up to pull me closer.
I kissed her, deeply and hungrily, as I began to move inside her. First gently, then harder, as her whimpers turned to moans, then breathy pleas in broken English:
“
Don’t stop… please… like that…
”
Her hips met mine now, rhythm steady and raw, our sweat mingling, her body rocking beneath me like a tide rising to meet its moon.
She came again, this time louder, fingers clawing at my shoulders, her thighs trembling, her breath catching on each syllable of my name.
I held back as long as I could, taking in her scent, her softness, and the wildness rising in her, until I surged forward, buried myself deep inside her, and came with a deep, aching groan that seemed to echo through both our bodies.
⸻
We lay in silence, her head on my chest, her fingers tracing gentle circles on my stomach.
“
You will forget me,
” she said, softly.
“No,” I whispered. “Never.”
“
You will try.
”
⸻
I left Cambodia with the handkerchief still folded in my suitcase.
And the memory of a girl whose silence told me everything the city couldn’t.
⸻
[End of Chapter 114]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 115: Twice for the Temptation
https://freeimage.host/i/KDVrBGR
(AI-generated image of Marilyn)
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, late 2004.
I had just returned from Cambodia. Sunburned, lighter by three kilos, and heavier by one memory I wasn’t ready to explain.
The consultancy picked up fast, loading me with strategy meetings, logistics backlogs, and yet another government pilot project for intermodal freight. I moved like a man in control again, clean-shaven, suited, standing tall in boardrooms with my words sharpened to points.
But at night, the world felt quieter.
And sometimes, temptation doesn’t knock.
It texts.
⸻
Her name was Clara — no…
wait
. We used that name before in Chapter 10.
Let’s just say she was Marilyn. In her early 40s. A friend’s older sister I used to nod at politely during Chinese New Year gatherings. Divorced, with a teenage son in polytechnic. Hair always done. Eyeliner slightly too thick.
She had that MILF face with faint crow’s feet, full lips, and eyes that looked like they knew things you wouldn’t admit on paper.
She messaged me late one evening:
“
You look different now. Sharper. More… filled out.
”
“In a good way?”
“
In a very bad way.
”
⸻
We met for coffee, then wine, then no pretense at all.
She wore a dress that clung to her curves, black and low at the back, and heels that clicked like punctuation.
The first time, we didn’t even get to the bed.
I lifted her onto my kitchen counter, pulled down the neckline of her dress, and kissed her breasts like I’d been denied them for years.
Her moans were low and hungry, her fingers tugging at my belt before I even undid her zipper.
“
You’ve gotten stronger,
” she gasped, as I slid inside her.
Her body was soft, slightly saggier, but lush, like something well-lived and well-worn.
I thrust into her fast, hard, pressing her down on the countertop as she wrapped her legs around me, heels knocking against the cabinets.
She came hard, gasping, clenching tight around me.
I followed with a groan into her shoulder, both of us breathless, flushed, and slightly stunned.
⸻
The second time was in her apartment. Her son wasn’t home.
She came out in a bathrobe and heels.
Opened it slowly.
No lingerie.
She knelt before me and took me into her mouth without a word.
Warm, wet, confident.
Her tongue knew where to linger.
When she bent over the couch, her ass high, her voice was teasing:
“
Let’s see what all that overseas experience taught you.
”
I spanked her once, lightly. She moaned.
I gripped her hips, entered her from behind, and pounded her while she gripped the cushions, hair falling across her back.
Her body rippled with each thrust, soft flesh colliding, her moans rising.
She screamed when she came, fully unfiltered and unashamed.
⸻
But afterward, as she wrapped herself in the bathrobe, her tone shifted.
“
Your eyes don’t match your mouth,
” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“
You touch me like a man, but your mind’s somewhere else.
”
I didn’t deny it. I couldn’t.
⸻
I waited two days before I wrote her a message.
“Hey. I’ve been thinking. What we shared was good… it really was… but I don’t want to be the man who takes more than he gives. You deserve someone fully present, not someone who’s half in, half elsewhere. Thank you for your trust and warmth. I won’t forget it.”
She didn’t reply immediately.
But that night, she sent one line:
“
You ended it like a man. That’s more than most.
”
⸻
A week later, I sat with Elya, my Bidayuh companion and sometime-lover, on the floor of my flat, legs tangled, a single glass of red between us.
“
You’ve been quiet,
” she said.
“I’ve been tempted,” I replied.
She raised an eyebrow.
“I hooked up twice with someone. Someone older. It was good. Too good. But it felt like watching myself fall into a version I’d choose to leave behind.”
“
Did you hurt her?
”
“I tried not to. I ended it gently.”
Elya leaned forward, rested her chin on my shoulder.
“
You don’t have to be a good man all the time,
” she said. “
But you should know when you’re being a coward.
”
“I think I did the right thing. For both of us.”
She kissed me lightly.
“
Then come back to something that already is.
”
⸻
And we made love… slowly, no rush, no games.
The kind of sex where breathing together meant more than climax.
The kind where her body wasn’t an invitation, but home.
⸻
[End of Chapter 115]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 116: The Familiar Stranger
https://freeimage.host/i/KbnTtyJ
(AI-generated image of Valerie)
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.
There are moments in life where the universe seems to play a prank… the kind that makes you laugh first, then feel unsettled later.
For me, it happened on a Thursday night in Singapore. I was attending a niche professional meetup, the small, technical, and harmless kind. In fact, I almost didn’t go. I had planned to catch up on reports, clear emails, then call Elya over. But something nudged me out.
Maybe fate. Maybe curiosity.
Maybe a lesson I didn’t know I was about to learn.
⸻
She walked in wearing a rust-red blouse and dark jeans, holding a paper cup of green tea. She laughed at something the emcee said. Her laugh was gentle, familiar.
Then she turned, and my breath caught.
She looked exactly like someone I worked with, the same round face, the same bright, wide smile. Even the mole near her jawline was in the same spot.
But she wasn’t her.
The resemblance was so uncanny, I froze.
I tried to avoid eye contact. Sipped my drink too quickly, and wanted to leave early.
Except that she caught up with me at the escalators.
“
You didn’t say much inside
,” she said, smiling. “
Were you bored?
”
“No,” I said. “Just distracted.”
She tilted her head. “
Do I look like someone you know?
”
I laughed… a little too loud.
“Yes,” I admitted.
She smiled. “
Happens to me all the time.
”
⸻
Her name was Valerie. She worked in human resources, but in a different sector altogether. She wasn’t my colleague. She’d never heard of my department. She didn’t even know of anyone in my social circle.
And yet, talking to her felt like déjà vu. Everything about her, from the cadence of her voice, to the warmth of her laugh evoked a woman I’d never touched but knew too well.
It was like flirting with a ghost you had no history with.
⸻
Somehow, we ended up at her place that night. A small, clean HDB flat in Toa Payoh.
“
I usually don’t do this
,” she said, pouring us water instead of wine.
“Neither do I,” I said truthfully, thinking of my ex-colleague. Someone whom I never touched, as I don’t shit where I eat since the events of Chapter 34, especially those in the same sector as I.
We laughed at our own clichés. But the silence that followed was charged.
⸻
We undressed without ceremony.
But I realised that her body was different, curvier and slightly shorter.
But her smile, her eyes… those undid me.
She lay on the bed, naked, expectant. I moved above her slowly, kissing her shoulder, her breasts, down her belly. She moaned when I parted her legs, her voice soft and real.
I licked her slowly, drawing circles around her clit until her hips bucked.
She came fast, gripping the sheets, whispering my name like she’d known it in a dream.
When I slid into her, her warmth made me pause. I kissed her deeply, trying to forget who she reminded me of. But the illusion persisted.
Her hands, her breath, her rhythm… it was all her, but I couldn’t help seeing someone else.
I came hard, buried deep, my voice hoarse against her neck.
And when she curled up beside me afterward, smiling, eyes content, I felt hollow.
⸻
She fell asleep quickly.
I stayed awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, haunted not by what I’d done, but by why I did it.
⸻
Two days later, I told Elya, my Bidayuh friend.
We were in bed again on a slow Sunday morning, sunlight on her bare back, her feet tangled in my sheets.
“There was a girl,” I said.
“
She looked like someone?
”
“She looked like someone I respect. Someone I’d never touch. But that night, I touched the echo of her.”
Elya rolled over, resting her head on my chest.
“
Did it feel wrong?
”
“Not at the time. But now… I wonder if I crossed some unseen line.”
She was quiet. Then said, “
Desire doesn’t always ask permission from memory.
”
“That’s poetic,” I replied.
She smiled.
“
It’s true.
”
⸻
Later, when we made love, slowly and honestly, I didn’t see anyone else.
Just Elya.
⸻
[End of Chapter 116]
Mirror Site:
Hey everyone, just a quick note that I’ll be taking a short break from posting "
The Casanova of Singapore
“. There’s about a quarter of the story left, so stay tuned for the final part soon!
In the meantime, feel free to drop a comment or share the story if you’ve enjoyed it so far. I’d like to know which chapter you liked or resonated with the most, and which image you found the most attractive. Thanks for reading and for all the support so far!