Chapter 117: Two in One
https://freeimage.host/i/fH9YYep
(AI-generated image of Nerine)
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 women you meet, sleep with, and forget.
And then there are women who split your mind in half, not because they’re dangerous, but because they’re two different women in one body, and you don’t know which one seduced you more.
⸻
I met Nerine at a birthday dinner for a friend of a friend. The type held at a Japanese fusion bar where everyone wore casual black and pretended to like truffle oil.
She arrived late, with minimal makeup, a neat ponytail, cardigan over a floral dress.
She looked warm. Unthreatening. Like someone who spent Saturdays at libraries and Sundays with bubble tea and scrapbooks.
We shared a seat at the bar. She told me she was a kindergarten teacher, and I believed her immediately.
“
I teach the five-year-olds
,” she said. “
The clingy ones. The ones that cry if you blink too long.
”
She laughed, and I pictured construction paper and crayons.
⸻
We exchanged numbers. She texted the next morning.
“
Nice talking last night.
Btw, I moonlight.
Want to see?
”
She sent a club flyer.
A gentlemen’s lounge.
Her name listed simply as
Scarlett
.
I blinked twice.
⸻
I arrived at the lounge two nights later. Velvet booths. A stage bathed in violet light.
And then she came out.
Not Nerine.
Scarlett
.
Hair curled, smoky eyes, red lips. Corset tight, heels sharp, hips swaying like silk pulled taut.
She didn’t see me at first.
She danced to a slow jazz remix of Toxic.
Bent over the pole.
Split on the floor.
Rolled her body like syrup dripping over bare skin.
When she did see me, she winked.
And I was undone.
⸻
After the show, we left through the back exit. She was still in costume.
In the car, she straddled me.
Whispered in my ear, “
Tonight you get Scarlett. If you’re lucky, Nerine comes later.
”
⸻
In her apartment, she pushed me down on the bed, peeled off her corset, and revealed curves that didn’t belong in a PG-rated life.
She wore a sheer thong and nothing else.
She slid down my body, kissing, licking, gripping.
When she took me in her mouth, her tongue moved in skilled spirals, a dancer’s precision with a lover’s urgency.
I reached into my wallet, unwrapped a condom, and rolled it on before she eagerly climbed atop me, guiding me in.
Her hips rolled like waves.
She bit her lip, hair bouncing, breasts full and alive.
I gripped her waist, thrusting deeper, harder.
She slapped my chest. “
Slower. Watch me.
”
And I did.
Her body, her rhythm, her eyes half-lidded.
She came first… long, loud, and clenching around me.
I followed soon after, muffling a groan as I filled the condom, both of us breathless.
“
That was Scarlett
,” she whispered. “
Now… if you’re still awake…
”
⸻
She returned after a shower, hair damp, glasses on, oversized T-shirt falling to her thighs.
Nerine again.
She climbed under the covers and pulled me close.
“
Want something softer?
”
She kissed my neck, chest, down my stomach.
Then she lay back, legs parted, pulling me into her slowly.
Once again, I reached for a fresh condom, slid it on, and entered her, this time, gently.
This time was tender, measured, in missionary, our bodies pressed, lips upon lips.
She moaned with sweetness, gasped my name like it was a secret she wanted to keep.
We moved in sync.
I kissed her forehead. She clutched my back.
We came together, not loud, not wild… just real.
⸻
We fell asleep tangled, her head on my shoulder.
In the morning, she walked me to the door wearing a hoodie and bunny slippers.
Before I left, she said, “
I don’t want to be explained. I want to be experienced.
”
I nodded. “You were, Nerine. You
definitely
were.”
⸻
[End of Chapter 117]
Mirror Site:
The Casanova of Singapore — Contents Page as of 16 Nov 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 -
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Chapter 2 -
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Chapter 3 -
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Chapter 4 -
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Chapter 5 -
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Chapter 6 -
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Chapter 7 -
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Chapter 8 -
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Chapter 9 -
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Chapter 10 -
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Chapter 11 -
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Chapter 12 -
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Chapter 13 -
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Chapter 15 -
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Chapter 22 -
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Chapter 23 -
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Chapter 24 -
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Chapter 25 -
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Chapter 30 -
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Chapter 31 -
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Chapter 32 -
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Chapter 33 -
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Chapter 34 -
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Chapter 35 -
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Chapter 36 -
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Chapter 37 -
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Chapter 38 -
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Chapter 39 -
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Chapter 48 -
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Chapter 49 -
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Chapter 50 -
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Chapter 51 -
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Chapter 52 -
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Chapter 53 -
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Chapter 55 -
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Chapter 56 -
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Chapter 57 -
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Chapter 70 -
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Chapter 78 -
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Chapter 89 -
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Chapter 90 -
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Chapter 91 -
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Chapter 92 -
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Chapter 96 -
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Chapter 97 -
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Chapter 98 -
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Chapter 99 -
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Chapter 100 -
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Chapter 101 -
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Chapter 102 -
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Chapter 103 -
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Chapter 104 -
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Chapter 105 -
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Chapter 106 -
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Chapter 107 -
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Chapter 108 -
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Chapter 109 -
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Chapter 110 -
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Chapter 111 -
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Chapter 112 -
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Chapter 113 -
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Chapter 114 -
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Chapter 115 -
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Chapter 116 -
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Chapter 117 -
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Chapter 118 -
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Chapter 119 -
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Chapter 120 -
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Chapter 121 -
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Chapter 122 -
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Chapter 150 -
Chapter 118: After the Mirror Broke
https://freeimage.host/i/fJXa5b4
(AI-generated image of Tracy)
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, 2005.
She walked into the rooftop event like she owned the DJ deck, not the crowd. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t flashy. But her confidence was new. Fresh. Just ripening.
Her name was Tracy.
I didn’t recognise her at first. It was only when she smiled, a particular slant of the mouth, one dimple deeper than the other, that memory caught up.
She had been the chubby girl from a music appreciation class I sat in on years ago. Round cheeks, oversized T-shirts, always disappearing into corners.
But here she was. Toned arms, tight waist, collarbone peeking beneath a cropped tee, a subtle mole just above her left breast, visible under sheer mesh fabric.
She noticed me before I could process her transformation.
“
I used to be invisible
,” she said, lifting a headphone off one ear. “
Now men don’t stop staring.
”
I blinked. “You look amazing.”
She smiled. “
I know. It’s weird.
”
⸻
We reconnected over teh peng at a nearby kopitiam. She’d lost 28 kilos over a year, through daily HIIT, intermittent fasting and strength training. As well as a dose of therapy.
“
The gym became church
,” she said. “
But I still don’t know how to handle attention. Especially from men like you.
”
“Men like me?”
“
The handsome ones. Confident, and… calculated.
”
“And what does that make you?”
“
Newly dangerous
,” she smirked.
⸻
That night, I dropped her off. She invited me up, without hesitation, without ceremony.
She stood in the living room, backlit by streetlight, and peeled off her crop top.
Her breasts were firm and natural, not large, but high.
My eyes drifted to the mole on her left breast, the one she had teased earlier.
I stepped closer, kissed the mole first, then her neck, then her lips.
She moaned softly, wrapping her arms around my neck.
“
You can go slow,
” she whispered. “
But not too slow.
”
⸻
We moved to the bedroom. She undressed with quiet pride, removing each piece of clothing like a badge earned. Her stomach was washboard flat, her thighs firm, and her hips curved just enough to hold on to.
I kissed down her chest, stopping again at the mole, then further down to her navel, and yet further below.
She spread her legs slowly, her breath quickening as my tongue slid between her pussy folds.
She was already wet, and already pulsing.
Her moans were soft, almost surprised.
I licked her deliberately, tongue circling her clit, teasing her entrance with my fingers, curling them as she arched upward.
She came with a low gasp, clutching my shoulders.
I kissed her, then reached for my wallet on the nightstand. I tore open a condom, rolled it on, and pulled her onto my lap.
She climbed on, guiding me in with a shuddering breath.
Her hips rolled with confidence, her moans growing louder as she found her rhythm, first slow, then urgent, then pounding down onto me as I gripped her waist.
She came again, with hair stuck to her forehead, body trembling, hands pressed to my chest.
Then I flipped her onto the bed and took over, thrusting harder and deeper, her cries rising with each stroke.
I came with a growl, holding her tight, our bodies locked in sweat and motion.
⸻
We lay in silence. She stared at the ceiling.
“
Do you think I’ve changed?
” she asked.
“You’ve evolved.”
“
But am I still… me?
”
I turned to her. “You’re the best version of yourself you’ve ever allowed to surface. The world’s only catching up.”
She exhaled. “
Men didn’t want me before. Now it’s like they all do. I don’t know who to trust.
”
“Trust those who don’t treat your body like a reward,” I said. “And don’t apologise for enjoying what you’ve earned.”
⸻
We made love again, slower this time.
I slipped on another condom before entering her, making love more gently now, our movements syncing like a shared breath.
Her eyes searched mine.
Her body eased into mine like a memory returning to its original form.
Afterwards, she curled into me.
“
I think I’m dangerous now,
” she whispered.
“You always were,” I said. “You just didn’t believe it then.”
⸻
[End of Chapter 118]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 119: Body Without Borders
https://freeimage.host/i/fdUSw6x
(AI-generated image of Pailin)
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.
Bangkok, 2005.
It started as a joke. A colleague had dared me: “Go try one of those Nuru massages. You’re in Bangkok, and you’re not a monk.”
I laughed it off.
But two days later, lust and curiosity took over and I was in the back of a Tuktuk, watching the city thin into suburbia, motorbikes weaving between trucks, storefronts giving way to shop houses and tall grass.
The place didn’t have a flashy sign. Just a small wooden gate, bamboo wind chimes, and the smell of lemongrass in the air.
⸻
She greeted me barefoot at the door.
Her name was Pailin. Twenty-seven. Fair-skinned, slim, and luscious in the kind of effortless way Thai women carry when they’re fully at ease in their bodies.
Her eyes smiled before her mouth did.
And when I took off my shoes, she said:
“
You work out.
”
I nodded.
She reached up and touched my the definition of my biceps on my right arm. “
I like muscles. They’re good for sliding.
”
⸻
The room was warm, with a cushioned futon at one corner, dimly lit, and with a small shelf of warmed Nuru gel bottles and folded towels on the mattress.
She left for a moment, then returned wearing only a silk robe, its slit open, revealing her smooth torso, small perky breasts, and a detailed Thai tattoo of Hanuman leaping across her upper back.
“
You never try Nuru before?
” she asked.
“No,” I said, suddenly aware of my heartbeat.
“
You remember this forever,
” she smiled.
⸻
She undressed me slowly, not seductively, but deliberately, like she was unveiling something she had been looking forward to.
She guided me onto the mat, laid me down flat, and began.
The gel was warm. Almost hot.
She poured it over both our bodies, in a slow, deliberate stream down her chest, her belly, her thighs, before pressing her body down on mine.
Skin to skin.
Breasts to chest.
Thighs against calves.
Her entire body slid over mine in full contact, with the Nuru gel turning friction into fluid poetry.
⸻
She moved with precision, pressing, gliding, and rolling her hips into mine, her nipples teasing my skin, her breath warm against my ear. My penis hardened and became erect uncontrollably.
Her voice was a whisper:
“
Don’t think. Just feel.
”
She turned me over with ease and began again, sliding along my back, her inner thighs brushing mine, her hands kneading into my shoulders, her breasts dragging over my spine.
Then she straddled me, sitting on my chest, gel dripping from her breasts, she rolled on a condom and whispered, “
Now
,” I didn’t hesitate.
I pulled her close, and kissed her… deep and desperate.
She positioned herself, then slowly eased me in.
⸻
The gel made everything hypersensitive.
Her body was tight, warm,
impossibly slick
.
She rode me with grace, hips circling in wide, controlled movements, her hands on my chest, her tattoo flexing with every motion.
“
Slow
,” she said, eyes locked on mine. “
Feel me.
”
I did.
We rocked together, her thighs tight around me, her moans rising with each thrust, her hands moving to her breasts, rubbing her nipples as she bounced faster.
She came once, head thrown back, hair damp and stuck to her temple.
I flipped her over, entered her again, deeper this time, gripping her legs as I thrust hard, the gel making every motion liquid and electric.
She begged me in Thai, incoherent, yet rhythmic.
And when I finally came into my condom deep within her, I held her so close I could feel every pulse inside her body echo in mine.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay side by side, still slick, breathing slowly.
“
You’re strong,
” she whispered, trailing her finger down my arm.
“You’re unforgettable.”
She smiled. “
Nuru is not sex. It’s memory on skin.
”
I stayed an hour longer.
Not for a second round. Just to talk.
She told me she used to study hospitality, but left school when her mother got sick.
The Nuru place paid more than a hotel ever would. And some clients, she said, treated her like a real person.
“
You did,
” she added.
“Because you are.”
She smiled, then stood up, stretching her bare, luscious cream-colored body in the golden afternoon light, breasts full and taut.
⸻
When I left, I could still feel her body sliding over mine, not as lust, but sensation.
Like silk in water.
Like memory without edges.
Like body without borders.
⸻
[End of Chapter 119]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 120: Soraya of the Desert Glass
https://freeimage.host/i/fdy6ZoN
(AI-generated image of Soraya)
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.
Doha, 2005.
It was supposed to be a stopover of two nights, a meeting, a hotel, and a long-awaited connection flight to Athens.
But then came Soraya.
She wasn’t in a hijab.
She wasn’t shy.
And she wasn’t what I thought I’d find in a city where glass skyscrapers rose from sand and silence.
I met her in the hotel’s business centre, of all places, where she was troubleshooting a projector for an NGO presentation.
She wore a navy blouse tucked into tan slacks, with no jewelry and no pretense.
When the screen blinked back to life, she turned to me and said, “
Not all Arab women wear abayas. Just like not all Singaporeans eat chilli crab every day.
”
Her smile was playful, but her eyes were sharp, a shade between amber and smoke.
⸻
We talked over coffee.
She was 24, half-Lebanese, half-Jordanian, born in Amman, raised in Doha.
Her accent was British-schooled but laced with Middle Eastern warmth.
“
I’m Arab
,” she said, “
but I’m also Christian. We exist.
”
I nodded, a little ashamed I hadn’t considered it.
“I guess I’ve been conditioned by what I see in Western media.”
She smirked. “
So have we. But you travel. You get to unlearn.
”
⸻
Dinner became dessert.
Dessert became wine.
Wine became her suite… because… higher floor, better view.
As she poured us red from a bottle she’d smuggled in from Beirut, she said, “
This city shows what it wants you to see. Most Arab cities do.
”
“And what are you showing me now?”
She walked toward me, hips swaying in tailored slacks, hair down.
“
Not a desert flower,
” she said. “
Just a woman who doesn’t like being told what she is.
”
⸻
She undressed slowly, her blouse slipping to the floor, revealing smooth olive skin, perky breasts, and a toned waist that led into the swell of her hips.
“
No lingerie
,” she said. “
It’s not modesty. It’s practicality.
”
I undressed beside her.
Her eyes lingered on my muscled chest, my sculpted arms.
“
You look strong. I like that. But gentle too. Don’t disappoint me.
”
⸻
On the bed, she pulled me over her, kissed me deeply, and whispered:
“
Make it real. No acting.
”
I kissed her neck, down to her breasts, suckling each nipple until her breath caught in her throat.
Her legs parted. My fingers slid between her folds, already wet, already needy.
She gasped, then moaned softly:
“
Ay… ay… ay…
”
It wasn’t performative. It was rhythmic. Natural.
I slipped my tongue between her lips below, circling her clit, pressing gently, then firmer.
Her hands gripped my hair, her thighs tightening.
“
Ay… ay… ay!
” she moaned louder, her hips lifting off the bed.
She came in a rush, her fingers digging into my back, her voice trembling.
⸻
I climbed over her and slid in slowly.
She gasped again “
Ay…
”and wrapped her legs around me.
Her warmth was perfect. Her tightness exquisite.
We moved together, hips aligned, eyes locked.
“
Faster,
” she whispered. “
Make me forget this city.
”
I thrust harder. She bucked beneath me.
Her moans rose louder, primal and breathless:
“
Ay… ay… ay!
”
She came again, body shuddering, nails raking my back.
I came soon after, groaning into her neck, her name a whisper between clenched teeth.
⸻
We lay in silence, bodies tangled in cotton and memory.
Later, she asked softly, “
What will you tell your friends about me?
”
“That I met a woman named Soraya, who made me realise the Arab world is far more beautiful and complex than I’d imagined.”
She smiled, brushing hair from her face.
“
Then I’ll take that as a win.
”
⸻
Weeks later, back in Singapore, I lay beside Elya, my Bidayuh companion and occasional confidante.
“I was in Doha,” I said. “Met an Arab woman called Soraya.”
Elya turned slightly. “
She changed your view of Arabs?
”
“She reminded me the Middle East isn’t a monolith.
Christians, seculars, liberals, conservatives… they’re all there. Just like everywhere else.”
“
And she moaned?
”
I laughed. “A lot. But that wasn’t what stayed with me.”
“
What did?
”
“That for all the sand and steel, Soraya wasn’t trying to be exotic. She just wanted to be understood.”
⸻
[End of Chapter 120]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 121: Snow Blossom, Seoul Heart
https://freeimage.host/i/f2rfeou
(AI-generated image of Hyejin)
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.
Seoul, 2005.
Everything was polished.
The subway stations, the signage, the rows of sleek cafés with soft jazz and digital menus. Even the women seemed curated, with dewy skin, small faces, slim frames, every detail intentional.
But Hyejin wasn’t curated. She was alive.
I met her at a language exchange near Hongdae, one of those structured meetups where locals practiced English, and foreigners pretended they weren’t secretly in awe of K-pop culture.
She was 24, majoring in Japanese at Yonsei University.
Chatty and unapologetically curious.
Her face can only be described as pretty in that effortless way, like she’d just stepped out of a skin-care commercial.
Her body was slim, but with natural C-cup breasts, a soft contrast to her delicate frame.
“
You’re Singaporean?
” she asked.
I nodded.
“
Then why do you speak Korean like a drunk ajusshi?
”
We both laughed.
⸻
Over bingsu later that week, she confessed:
“
I regret my major.
”
“Why?”
“
Japanese is nice. But it won’t pay my rent. I should’ve studied data or UX.
”
“That’s a global problem,” I said. “Passion versus practicality.”
She stirred her shaved ice thoughtfully.
“
In Korea, if you’re not useful or beautiful, you’re invisible.
”
I asked what she meant.
She pointed to her nose. “
This? I was born with it. Lucky. But almost every girl I know gets something done. Eyes, jaw, skin… we build ourselves.
”
“And you?”
“
I haven’t done anything. Yet. But sometimes I feel like I’m the only one playing fair.
”
⸻
She invited me over a week later, to her tiny studio, one with pale blue curtains, and K-drama DVDs stacked beside a rice cooker.
“
I’m not cooking for you,
” she teased. “
But you can stay for a while, while we enjoy a drink.
”
We sat on her floor mattress and shared a bottle of soju.
She leaned into me, touching my bicep. “
You really work out.
”
I brushed hair from her face. “You’re really beautiful.”
She rolled her eyes. “
That’s what everyone says. But when you say it… I want to believe it.
”
⸻
She undressed slowly… t-shirt first, revealing firm, round breasts, high and untouched by any knife.
“
Real
,” she said. “
You can check.”
My lips met her collarbone, then down to her chest.
I kissed each breast, then flicked my tongue over her nipples. She gasped.
She unzipped her jeans, slipping them off. No lingerie. Just smooth, pale skin and the scent of vanilla lotion.
⸻
I laid her back and kissed my way down.
Her legs parted, her breath catching as I licked between her folds, slowly, deliberately, my tongue tantalisingly circling her clit.
She moaned, voice breathy but soft:
“Jugeul geot gata…”
I feel like I’m going to die.
I smiled against her, easily sliding a finger inside, curling upward.
Her back arched. Her thighs clenched. She came with a low whimper, face flushed, fingers clutching the sheets.
⸻
I reached for my jeans, rolled on a condom, and positioned myself above her.
When I entered her, her tightness was exquisite.
Her moans rose in rhythm with my thrusts, her legs wrapped tightly around me.
She whispered nonsense in Korean, fragmented phrases about pleasure, heat, and the stars.
We moved together like a rehearsed confession, first faster, then slower, pausing to kiss, to touch, to watch each other fall apart.
She came again, crying out softly. I followed with a final deep thrust, spilling into the condom, panting against her cheek.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay tangled in a silence made of new comfort.
She traced shapes on my chest.
“
In Seoul,
” she said, “
we learn to look perfect. But no one teaches us how to feel good.
”
“You just did fine,” I whispered.
She laughed. “
Maybe because I didn’t pretend.
”
⸻
[End of Chapter 121]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 122: Mango Skin, Quiet Fire
https://freeimage.host/i/f3ooVe4
(AI-generated image of Marites)
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.
Manila, 2005.
The air smelled of roasted corn and exhaust. Jeepneys honked in tones of disarray. Children played barefoot near the
sari-sari
store. Every corner of the city seemed to hum with life, not orderly, but deeply lived.
I was in Manila for a logistics symposium. Just two days. My client had arranged a local guide, but I preferred wandering solo. It’s when you stop looking for something that you tend to find what matters.
That’s how I met Marites.
She had a gentle, quiet smile and a round, sun-softened face that reminded me of school textbooks and family portraits, the kind of beauty that doesn’t turn heads on billboards, but holds steady in memory.
⸻
I wandered into her shop in Quezon City. It was a humble, two-room bakery with white lace curtains and a handwritten chalk menu that stated:
Pan de sal, ube rolls, leche flan.
“
You want something?
” she asked, barely looking up.
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t know what yet.”
She laughed softly, brushing flour off her apron.
“
I started this bakery last year,
” she said later over coffee. “
Used my mother’s recipes and my savings.
”
She was 27, still living at home, helping raise her niece.
“
I’m not fancy,
” she said. “
But I try to be consistent.
”
That line stuck with me.
⸻
Over the next two days, I visited twice more. She grew less shy, more animated, telling me in her lovely Filipino accented English about her struggles with suppliers, her pride when an order arrived early, and her dream of opening a second stall.
But she was also self-conscious.
“
I’m not thin or pretty like the actresses,
” she said, almost apologetically, looking down at her hands, after I complimented her on the way her eyes smiled when she spoke about her bakery.
“You’re real,” I said. “You’re beautiful in a way that stays.”
She blushed. “
You don’t need to flatter me.
”
“I’m not,” I replied. “I’m here again, aren’t I?”
⸻
That evening, I returned once more. This time, the shutters were half-closed, the kitchen quiet.
She let me in wordlessly. Her eyes softer, deeper.
“
I’ve never done this,
” she said.
“I won’t rush you.”
She nodded. Then reached for my hand.
⸻
We kissed in her back room, flour-scented and warm.
She trembled slightly as I lifted her blouse. Her skin was soft, honeyed like mango flesh, with natural curves that fit perfectly in my arms.
Her bra came off shyly. And her breasts, medium-sized, warm and sensitive, pushed lovingly against my chest as she wrapped her arms around me.
I kissed her neck, her shoulder, down to her belly. She gasped as I slipped my fingers beneath her waistband.
She was wet. She was ready.
I knelt and licked her gently, slowly, drawing circles with my tongue until her knees buckled and she gasped, “
Please
…”
⸻
I lifted her onto the wooden table. Put on a condom, then entered her slowly.
She winced, then exhaled.
Her arms clung around my neck as I moved inside her: tender, rhythmic, and patient.
Her moans were soft, hidden in my shoulder. Her thighs gripped my hips tighter with every thrust.
She came once, then again, her breath catching, fingers clawing gently down my back.
I came with a shudder, whispering her name like a benediction.
⸻
Afterwards, we stayed on the floor, half-dressed, her head resting on my shoulder.
“
I know you won’t stay. But I don’t want this to be a story you forget,
” she said.
“It won’t be,” I promised.
She smiled. “
Then I’m okay.
”
⸻
Back in Singapore, I lay with Elya, my Bidayuh partner. Her hair fanned across my chest like soft leaves.
“
You went to the Philippines,
” she said, half-asleep.
“Yes.”
“
Did you learn anything?
”
I thought of Marites. Of her shy pride. Her hands kneading dough like prayer.
“Yes,” I said. “Sometimes the quietest women carry the strongest fires.
You just need to step close enough to feel it.”
⸻
[End of Chapter 122]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 123: Velvet and Sake (Part 1)
https://freeimage.host/i/fFxDLAl
(AI-generated image of Haruna)
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, 2005.
I had never been to a hostess club before.
There were whispers about them back home, of the velvet rooms, beautiful Japanese women who laughed at your jokes, then charged your drinks to padded bills, and vanished before sunrise.
But on this night in Shinjuku, curiosity got the better of me.
⸻
The club was understated, covered with black curtains, floored with polished wood, and soft jazz piped through hidden speakers.
A hostess in a shimmering dress greeted me with a bow and led me to a booth, where she poured me sake and offered me a towel for my hands.
Then came Haruna.
She was 23, tall for a Japanese woman at around 1.68 meters, with the grace of a model and doe eyes that held something between curiosity and quiet calculation.
Her dress clung to her soft, full breasts, her skin luminous under the low lighting.
“
You’re not used to places like this
,” she said in lightly accented English.
“No,” I admitted. “But I’m open to learning.”
She smiled. “
Then I’ll show you gently.
”
⸻
Over drinks, she explained how the hostess world worked. No touching, no sex, just conversation, flattery, companionship.
“
But sometimes,
” she said, leaning in, “
someone interesting comes along.
”
“Am I interesting?”
“
You’re different. And you’re not pretending to be Japanese.
”
I laughed. “That’s a low bar.”
“
But a good start,
” she whispered.
⸻
She invited me out after her shift.
We took a cab to her apartment in Nakameguro, a small, Japan-minimalist style, with a pale futon and a single framed picture of a snow-covered street.
“
Niigata
,” she said. “
Where I grew up.
”
She poured us tea, then stood before me, slipping out of her dress without a word.
Her body was stunning with long limbs, round hips, large, soft breasts, and a perfectly smooth, shaved vagina that caught the light like satin.
“
I wax every week,
” she said, catching my gaze. “
Do you like it?
”
“I love it.”
⸻
She guided me onto the futon and pushed me down gently.
“
Let me give you a massage first,
” she said.
She knelt beside me, oiling her hands, and began kneading my shoulders, gliding down my back, her bare breasts occasionally brushing my skin.
Her fingers were expert… firm where needed, feather-light elsewhere.
I turned, aroused beyond words.
She smiled, slipped on a condom for me, and lowered herself slowly.
⸻
She rode me with precision, her breasts bouncing lightly, her hands on my chest.
Her moans were soft but unfiltered, making Japanese syllables in half-whispers, her eyes locked on mine.
I reached up, cupped her breasts, then slid my hands to her hips as she quickened her pace.
She leaned down and kissed me deeply as I thrust up into her, her slickness growing by the second.
She came with a gasp, clenching tight, her voice muffled against my shoulder.
I followed soon after, groaning into her neck, our bodies sweaty, stuck together in the heat of the moment.
⸻
Afterwards, she cleaned us with a warm towel, then curled beside me.
“
You don’t seem like the usual foreigner,
” she said.
“And you’re far more than a pretty face.”
She laughed. “
We play roles. But tonight felt real.
”
⸻
I slept lightly, her body wrapped around mine, her scent, sake and jasmine, lingering on the sheets.
I didn’t know then that I’d see her again.
And that the second time would leave a mark far deeper than the first.
⸻
[End of Chapter 123 — to be continued in Chapter 124]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 124: Velvet and Sake (Part 2)
https://freeimage.host/i/fFzFijs
(AI-generated image of Haruna)
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, one week later.
I wasn’t planning to see her again.
But some women linger, not just on the skin, but behind the eyes. In silence. In scent. In the shape of your hands when they’re empty.
Haruna texted me first.
“
Are you still in Tokyo?
”
“One more night.”
“
I’m off at 10. Come?
”
I hesitated. But not for long.
⸻
Her apartment smelled the same: jasmine and memory.
She looked more casual this time: soft cotton tank top, no makeup, hair tied loosely behind her head.
“
You remembered,
” she said.
“I couldn’t forget.”
⸻
We didn’t talk much.
We kissed quickly.
She undressed faster this time. Her large, soft breasts bounced free as she peeled off her top, her smooth, hairless pussy already glistening beneath her panties.
“
I’ve been wet since your message,
” she said in Japanese.
Something about this second encounter felt deeper.
Hungrier.
She lay back on the futon, spreading her legs for me.
I went down on her first, licking slowly, deliberately, watching her react.
Her thighs trembled. Her voice cracked.
She moaned loudly, grinding her hips into my mouth as she came, her fingers gripping my hair.
When I rose, fully erect, she guided me in without pause.
⸻
And I
forgot
.
In the heat. In the wetness. In her scent. In the grip of her body.
I forgot to reach for a condom.
She didn’t stop me.
And I didn’t stop myself.
In Japan, condoms were common, almost expected, as a quiet ritual before sex.
But in moments like this, with heat clouding judgment and skin begging for skin, even the usual rules slipped away.
I thrust into her raw, and the difference was immediate… a warmth, a closeness, a danger I hadn’t felt in years since my encounter with Iselin (
Chapter 3
).
She moaned, clawing my back, whispering, “
More… harder…
”
I pounded into her, her breasts bouncing beneath me, her shaved pussy slick and tight, wrapping around me like it had memorized me.
I came deep inside her, a long, hard release that left me shaking.
Only then, in the breathless silence after, did I remember what Haruna had told me on our first night, that as a hostess, she met many men, and sometimes slept with them if the chemistry was right.
It was part of the trade, albeit unofficially.
Back then, I’d told her to be careful in this city that could swallow you whole.
Now, lying inside her without protection, those words felt like a warning I’d given too late.
She just smiled sweetly, as if the night was all that mattered.
We didn’t speak to each other after that evening, but two days later, I sent a message asking her to get tested. She never replied.
⸻
Back in Singapore, sleep came in short, broken fragments.
I’d wake at 3 a.m. with my chest tight, replaying the night in Tokyo over and over, each time imagining microscopic dangers threading through my bloodstream. My phone glowed in the dark, and I’d search symptoms I didn’t have, read about infections I didn’t fully understand, scroll through medical forums until the sky turned pale.
By Monday morning, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I called the clinic first thing. Told them I needed a full panel… discreetly. The receptionist’s voice was calm, routine, but I felt like I was confessing to a crime.
They ran the works:
• HIV antigen/antibody combo test,
• Syphilis (RPR and TPHA),
• Hepatitis B and C,
• Chlamydia and gonorrhoea NAAT via urine,
• Even HSV-2 IgG, just in case.
I sat in the waiting room like a boy waiting for judgment, my knee bouncing so hard the chair rattled. Every time a nurse walked past, my stomach flipped.
The first batch came back clear after three days. Relief, but not enough… I knew some infections, especially HIV, could take weeks to show. That knowledge sat in my gut like a stone.
I marked my calendar for the 28-day test, then the three-month one, each date like a finish line I wasn’t sure I’d reach unscathed.
During those weeks, I couldn’t bring myself to touch Elya.
She noticed, of course. Her body would slide toward mine, and I’d gently shift away. When she reached for me one night, I turned and said softly:
“I need to make sure I’m clean before I come back to you fully.”
She didn’t ask questions. Just nodded. “
You’re being careful. That’s enough.
”
We still slept beside each other. Still held hands. Still talked like lovers and friends. But there was no skin. No sweat. No surrender.
When the final test came back negative, the relief didn’t hit all at once. It came in waves: gratitude, shame, clarity.
I told her everything. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. Just listened.
“
You thought with your body,
” she said. “
Then remembered with your mind.
”
“And nearly forgot with my heart,” I replied.
We made love that night. Slowly. Carefully. With a reverence born from consequence. And when I came inside her, safely and intimately, I whispered her name not like a confession, but like a vow.
⸻
If you ever find yourself in the same position, here’s what I learned:
Don’t panic immediately.
Fear makes you imagine the worst, but most STIs are treatable, and the earlier you act, the better.
Stop all sexual contact until you know.
No “
just once
” exceptions.
Get tested promptly.
Tell your doctor everything, even if it’s embarrassing. The truth can save you.
Know the window periods.
HIV, for example, may need a retest at 28 days and again at three months for certainty.
Look out for symptoms
, like burning, discharge, sores, but remember that many STIs are silent.
Tell your partners if you test positive.
They deserve the chance to protect themselves.
Follow treatment exactly.
Stop halfway and you risk relapse or resistance.
Use condoms every time.
They’re not perfect, but they cut risk dramatically.
⸻
Testing isn’t shameful. It’s smart. It means you care about your health and the people you touch.
[End of Chapter 124]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 123 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=219
Chapter 124 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=220
Quote:
Originally Posted by
CasanovaSG
Chapter 123: Velvet and Sake (Part 1)
https://freeimage.host/i/fFxDLAl
(AI-generated image of Haruna)
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, 2005.
I had never been to a hostess club before.
There were whispers about them back home, of the velvet rooms, beautiful Japanese women who laughed at your jokes, then charged your drinks to padded bills, and vanished before sunrise.
But on this night in Shinjuku, curiosity got the better of me.
⸻
The club was understated, covered with black curtains, floored with polished wood, and soft jazz piped through hidden speakers.
A hostess in a shimmering dress greeted me with a bow and led me to a booth, where she poured me sake and offered me a towel for my hands.
Then came Haruna.
She was 23, tall for a Japanese woman at around 1.68 meters, with the grace of a model and doe eyes that held something between curiosity and quiet calculation.
Her dress clung to her soft, full breasts, her skin luminous under the low lighting.
“
You’re not used to places like this
,” she said in lightly accented English.
“No,” I admitted. “But I’m open to learning.”
She smiled. “
Then I’ll show you gently.
”
⸻
Over drinks, she explained how the hostess world worked. No touching, no sex, just conversation, flattery, companionship.
“
But sometimes,
” she said, leaning in, “
someone interesting comes along.
”
“Am I interesting?”
“
You’re different. And you’re not pretending to be Japanese.
”
I laughed. “That’s a low bar.”
“
But a good start,
” she whispered.
⸻
She invited me out after her shift.
We took a cab to her apartment in Nakameguro, a small, Japan-minimalist style, with a pale futon and a single framed picture of a snow-covered street.
“
Niigata
,” she said. “
Where I grew up.
”
She poured us tea, then stood before me, slipping out of her dress without a word.
Her body was stunning with long limbs, round hips, large, soft breasts, and a perfectly smooth, shaved vagina that caught the light like satin.
“
I wax every week,
” she said, catching my gaze. “
Do you like it?
”
“I love it.”
⸻
She guided me onto the futon and pushed me down gently.
“
Let me give you a massage first,
” she said.
She knelt beside me, oiling her hands, and began kneading my shoulders, gliding down my back, her bare breasts occasionally brushing my skin.
Her fingers were expert… firm where needed, feather-light elsewhere.
I turned, aroused beyond words.
She smiled, slipped on a condom for me, and lowered herself slowly.
⸻
She rode me with precision, her breasts bouncing lightly, her hands on my chest.
Her moans were soft but unfiltered, making Japanese syllables in half-whispers, her eyes locked on mine.
I reached up, cupped her breasts, then slid my hands to her hips as she quickened her pace.
She leaned down and kissed me deeply as I thrust up into her, her slickness growing by the second.
She came with a gasp, clenching tight, her voice muffled against my shoulder.
I followed soon after, groaning into her neck, our bodies sweaty, stuck together in the heat of the moment.
⸻
Afterwards, she cleaned us with a warm towel, then curled beside me.
“
You don’t seem like the usual foreigner,
” she said.
“And you’re far more than a pretty face.”
She laughed. “
We play roles. But tonight felt real.
”
⸻
I slept lightly, her body wrapped around mine, her scent, sake and jasmine, lingering on the sheets.
I didn’t know then that I’d see her again.
And that the second time would leave a mark far deeper than the first.
⸻
[End of Chapter 123 — to be continued in Chapter 124]
Mirror Site:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/68...ters/194833586
Quote:
Originally Posted by
CasanovaSG
Chapter 124: Velvet and Sake (Part 2)
https://freeimage.host/i/fFzFijs
(AI-generated image of Haruna)
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, one week later.
I wasn’t planning to see her again.
But some women linger, not just on the skin, but behind the eyes. In silence. In scent. In the shape of your hands when they’re empty.
Haruna texted me first.
“
Are you still in Tokyo?
”
“One more night.”
“
I’m off at 10. Come?
”
I hesitated. But not for long.
⸻
Her apartment smelled the same: jasmine and memory.
She looked more casual this time: soft cotton tank top, no makeup, hair tied loosely behind her head.
“
You remembered,
” she said.
“I couldn’t forget.”
⸻
We didn’t talk much.
We kissed quickly.
She undressed faster this time. Her large, soft breasts bounced free as she peeled off her top, her smooth, hairless pussy already glistening beneath her panties.
“
I’ve been wet since your message,
” she said in Japanese.
Something about this second encounter felt deeper.
Hungrier.
She lay back on the futon, spreading her legs for me.
I went down on her first, licking slowly, deliberately, watching her react.
Her thighs trembled. Her voice cracked.
She moaned loudly, grinding her hips into my mouth as she came, her fingers gripping my hair.
When I rose, fully erect, she guided me in without pause.
⸻
And I
forgot
.
In the heat. In the wetness. In her scent. In the grip of her body.
I forgot to reach for a condom.
She didn’t stop me.
And I didn’t stop myself.
In Japan, condoms were common, almost expected, as a quiet ritual before sex.
But in moments like this, with heat clouding judgment and skin begging for skin, even the usual rules slipped away.
I thrust into her raw, and the difference was immediate… a warmth, a closeness, a danger I hadn’t felt in years since my encounter with Iselin (
Chapter 3
).
She moaned, clawing my back, whispering, “
More… harder…
”
I pounded into her, her breasts bouncing beneath me, her shaved pussy slick and tight, wrapping around me like it had memorized me.
I came deep inside her, a long, hard release that left me shaking.
Only then, in the breathless silence after, did I remember what Haruna had told me on our first night, that as a hostess, she met many men, and sometimes slept with them if the chemistry was right.
It was part of the trade, albeit unofficially.
Back then, I’d told her to be careful in this city that could swallow you whole.
Now, lying inside her without protection, those words felt like a warning I’d given too late.
She just smiled sweetly, as if the night was all that mattered.
We didn’t speak to each other after that evening, but two days later, I sent a message asking her to get tested. She never replied.
⸻
Back in Singapore, sleep came in short, broken fragments.
I’d wake at 3 a.m. with my chest tight, replaying the night in Tokyo over and over, each time imagining microscopic dangers threading through my bloodstream. My phone glowed in the dark, and I’d search symptoms I didn’t have, read about infections I didn’t fully understand, scroll through medical forums until the sky turned pale.
By Monday morning, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I called the clinic first thing. Told them I needed a full panel… discreetly. The receptionist’s voice was calm, routine, but I felt like I was confessing to a crime.
They ran the works:
• HIV antigen/antibody combo test,
• Syphilis (RPR and TPHA),
• Hepatitis B and C,
• Chlamydia and gonorrhoea NAAT via urine,
• Even HSV-2 IgG, just in case.
I sat in the waiting room like a boy waiting for judgment, my knee bouncing so hard the chair rattled. Every time a nurse walked past, my stomach flipped.
The first batch came back clear after three days. Relief, but not enough… I knew some infections, especially HIV, could take weeks to show. That knowledge sat in my gut like a stone.
I marked my calendar for the 28-day test, then the three-month one, each date like a finish line I wasn’t sure I’d reach unscathed.
During those weeks, I couldn’t bring myself to touch Elya.
She noticed, of course. Her body would slide toward mine, and I’d gently shift away. When she reached for me one night, I turned and said softly:
“I need to make sure I’m clean before I come back to you fully.”
She didn’t ask questions. Just nodded. “
You’re being careful. That’s enough.
”
We still slept beside each other. Still held hands. Still talked like lovers and friends. But there was no skin. No sweat. No surrender.
When the final test came back negative, the relief didn’t hit all at once. It came in waves: gratitude, shame, clarity.
I told her everything. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. Just listened.
“
You thought with your body,
” she said. “
Then remembered with your mind.
”
“And nearly forgot with my heart,” I replied.
We made love that night. Slowly. Carefully. With a reverence born from consequence. And when I came inside her, safely and intimately, I whispered her name not like a confession, but like a vow.
⸻
If you ever find yourself in the same position, here’s what I learned:
Don’t panic immediately.
Fear makes you imagine the worst, but most STIs are treatable, and the earlier you act, the better.
Stop all sexual contact until you know.
No “
just once
” exceptions.
Get tested promptly.
Tell your doctor everything, even if it’s embarrassing. The truth can save you.
Know the window periods.
HIV, for example, may need a retest at 28 days and again at three months for certainty.
Look out for symptoms
, like burning, discharge, sores, but remember that many STIs are silent.
Tell your partners if you test positive.
They deserve the chance to protect themselves.
Follow treatment exactly.
Stop halfway and you risk relapse or resistance.
Use condoms every time.
They’re not perfect, but they cut risk dramatically.
⸻
Testing isn’t shameful. It’s smart. It means you care about your health and the people you touch.
[End of Chapter 124]
My Reflection on These Two Chapters
These two chapters are not written to glamorise anything. They are meant to show a situation that many men go through quietly, when desire takes over and the fear only comes afterwards.
The actual events in the story are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist, but the feelings are real. The worry, the sleepless nights, the waiting for results, the imagining of the worst. Many people have been in that space before, even if they never talk about it.
If there is one message I hope readers take from this, it is that testing is not shameful. It is responsible, it protects your partner, and it gives you back your peace of mind. One mistake does not define a person. Avoiding the truth does far more harm than facing it early.
If these chapters encourage even one reader to get tested or to think more carefully about their choices, then sharing them has been worthwhile. Stay safe, take care of yourself, and take care of the people you love.