Quote:
Originally Posted by
donkeygru123
Seldom give comment and diving in SBF for a while, but this time would give exception. As a Chinese dating a younger Malay single mom for years, it is lovely to see stories like Anissa and Aisyah, it echoes with few real scenes happened in my life. My one can drink, smoke and laugh with alcohol in hand without fear in public restaurant full of her own race people. Insisting to resist wearing tudong and baju kurung during Raya open house because she felt that it is quite faking the real life . However, she still says that she would not want her baby daughter become like her when she grows up. I sometimes do see confusions and struggle in Malay girls when they are facing ethnic identity. Some tried to break the life, and some choose to live with it. I guess this is why I prefer Malay more than my own race girls.
Thanks for taking the time to share such a thoughtful comment, I really appreciate it, especially since you don’t usually post. I’m glad the stories of Anissa and Aisyah resonated with you. What you shared about your partner, with the tension between identity, tradition, and personal freedom, is exactly the kind of rich, Singaporean and Southeast Asian complexity I will be exploring in future chapters.
There’ll be more stories coming that delve into the lives of pribumi women from across Southeast Asia, what makes them unique, magnetic, and real.
Stay tuned, and I hope you continue to find reflections of your own experiences in these tales.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
juzz
Hello, TS
Just a few questions if I may :
Other than Iselin in chapter 3, did you raw any of the other ladies written so far?
On how many occasions did you ended in bed with Aisyah? Was she the instigator?
Chloe and shy Clarice were not virgins?
Did the ladies shave their pubic during those years?
Hi bro, appreciate your close reading of the story and your curiosity!
But to clarify, this series is
inspired
by the real experiences of the Casanova of Singapore, but it’s
not meant
to be a blow-by-blow documentary. As noted in the disclaimer at the start of every chapter:
all characters, events, and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes. Any resemblance to real individuals is purely coincidental.
As for the more intimate details, rest assured the Casanova always practices safe sex unless explicitly stated otherwise. The rest is intentionally left to the reader’s imagination. After all, part of the allure is in the mystery. 😉
Thanks again for reading, and do stay tuned, as more chapters are on the way!
Chapter 16: Mei Fen from Ipoh (University, Second Year)
https://freeimage.host/i/Fb14QeV
(AI-generated image of Mei Fen)
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.
Some people you don’t remember for how they looked.
You remember them for how they made you feel.
Mei Fen was like that.
We met during an elective on Southeast Asian development, on Tuesday mornings, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences. She was always the first in the seminar room. Always sat beside me. Always brought her notes in a blue plastic folder labelled “GREAT EASTERN FREE.”
Malaysian Chinese, from Ipoh. Here on a Public Service Department scholarship, bonded for a few years after graduation.
She wasn’t a head-turner. Not the kind of girl you noticed across a canteen.
Short, slightly rounded, with a broad nose and small eyes behind thick, metal-framed glasses. Her hair was parted down the middle and tied in a no-nonsense ponytail. Long skirts. White Bata sneakers. No makeup, no accessories, except for a jade bracelet she never removed.
But she was warm.
The kind of person who offered her umbrella without hesitation. Who remembered if you said you had a sore throat last week and brought lozenges wrapped in tissue. Who made you feel,
inexplicably
, like you were safe.
She laughed at my jokes, even when they were half-formed. Once brought kaya buns from Killiney Road to class “because Tuesday morning lectures are like punishment.” I started walking with her to the MRT station after class. Then she started saving a seat for me in tutorial.
We got close slowly. There were no games. No seduction.
Just shared notes, late-night calls on my dorm’s landline, and notes passed during lectures scribbled with “Are you awake?” and “This prof really like to talk cock hor?”
She worked part-time at a bookstore near Bras Basah. She said she liked the smell of new books. Hated the cashier machine… “still use Windows 3.1 sia, every time hang I must reboot.
”
⸻
One Thursday night, after a long study session at Central Library, she asked, “Do you want to come over for dinner? My place. I cook simple lah. Don’t expect restaurant level.”
I said yes.
Her hostel room was neat. Postcards from Ipoh lined the walls. A small rice cooker sat near the window. Her bed had cartoon pillowcases, faded Kerokerokeroppi and Doraemon. A thermos flask sat beside her desk with two mismatched mugs.
She made egg fried rice with ikan bilis and kai lan.
After we ate, we sat on her bed, knees touching. The fan creaked above us. We didn’t talk much.
She rested her head on my shoulder and said, “I like you, okay?”
Just like that. No build-up.
I didn’t say it back.
But I didn’t stop her when she leaned in to kiss me.
⸻
We undressed shyly. Her shirt came off first, then mine. Her bra was a little old, a bit too tight. Her body was soft, doughy, unshaven. Her thighs had faint stretch marks, and her belly had the gentle slope of someone who’d never thought much about dieting.
Her panties slid down slowly, bunching at her knees before she stepped out of them. She didn’t cover herself. Instead, she lay back and looked at me with a mixture of vulnerability and trust, her knees drawing up slightly, her arms open.
I took my time.
I kissed the underside of her breast, the soft folds of her belly, the stretch-marked curve of her hip. Her skin tasted of salt and faint rice powder. When I reached between her legs and touched her, she gasped and pressed her face into my neck.
“I’ve never really… with anyone I liked,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” I said. “Just feel.”
She guided me in with one hand, awkwardly at first. Her body was warm, tight, hesitant. I eased into her slowly, inch by inch, until I was fully inside her. She whimpered slightly, not from pain, but from the sheer unfamiliarity of it all.
I stayed still, letting her get used to the sensation.
Her fingers dug into my arms, then softened as her body adjusted. We began to move together, gently, in sync, the bed creaking softly beneath us, the fan above humming like background music.
She moaned again, breathy and high-pitched, her legs wrapping around me. Her glasses had fogged slightly, so she took them off and placed them on the floor. I kissed her eyelids, her nose, her open mouth. Her body trembled under mine, not from fear, but release.
There was no rush. No performance. Just skin against skin, breath against breath, the steady rhythm of two people learning each other for the first time.
When she came, it was quiet, her hands gripping my back, her hips rising instinctively, her whole body arching once, then collapsing into soft sighs. I followed soon after, spilling into her with a low groan, burying my face in the crook of her neck.
Afterwards, she pulled the blanket over us, tracing circles on my chest. “You’re very gentle,” she said. “Not like I imagined.”
And I didn’t know what to say.
⸻
We saw each other more after that. Took bus rides to HarbourFront. Shared fried kuay teow at Seah Im hawker centre. Held hands at the bus stop. She liked rubbing my knuckles with her thumb, like she was smoothing out some invisible wound.
We made love again. In her room. On my narrow bunk. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes with her soft laughter in my ear.
But something inside me started to drift.
She was kind. Reliable. Affectionate.
But I wasn’t in love.
And if I’m honest, if I peel away the layers of guilt and shame, it wasn’t just emotional.
It was physical.
She didn’t arouse me the way other women had. I missed edge. I missed tension. I missed the ache of wanting.
With Mei Fen, I felt safe.
But not stirred.
And I hated myself for that.
⸻
Two months in, I couldn’t pretend anymore.
One evening, after dinner, I told her gently. “I’m not ready for a relationship. You deserve someone who can give you more.”
She bit her lip. Nodded. Didn’t cry.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I think… I already knew.”
I offered to stay friends. She smiled politely. “Let’s just… take space.”
⸻
She finished her degree, did her bond, and returned to Malaysia. Last I heard, through a mutual friend, she moved to Brisbane with a partner she met on a work trip. Some Aussie Chinese dude who liked durians and drove a Corolla.
She looked radiant in her wedding photos on Facebook.
She has a golden retriever now. Still posts pictures of homemade curry puffs and her weekend garden on Facebook.
I never messaged.
But sometimes, when I pass Bras Basah or smell Tiger Balm in a crowded corridor, I think of her.
⸻
Mei Fen taught me that warmth isn’t always enough.
That kindness can be suffocating when you don’t return it.
And that it’s cruel to accept love you cannot fully give back — even if part of you wishes you could.
She deserved someone who looked at her and burned.
I looked at her… and only hoped not to hurt her.
[End of Chapter 16]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 17: The Woman Upstairs (University Vacation Break)
https://freeimage.host/i/Fb1iuxS
(AI-generated image of Serene)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
I was renting a short-term room in a walk-up block near Clementi, just for the holidays.
The kind of place where the taps creaked, the windows rattled, and the sound of Channel 8 dramas filtered through the walls every evening. Nobody spoke much in the lift. Everyone just looked tired.
She lived upstairs.
I first noticed her during a Sunday laundry run. She was struggling to carry a basket of clothes in one hand and manage her toddler in the other. The boy (
around three
) kept stopping at every landing to pick at a cigarette stub or poke a dead leaf with his toy spoon.
She looked exhausted, but steady. Not messy. Just… worn. Like someone who hadn’t had time to think of herself in years.
We exchanged a nod. That was all.
Until one night, I found her sitting outside the void deck, barefoot on the bench, sipping from a Pokka green tea can while her son pushed a squeaky toy truck back and forth on the pavement tiles.
“Long day?” I asked.
She looked up. “Long year.”
I laughed. She didn’t. Then she smiled. “You from the University, right?”
“Yeah. Just crashing nearby for the break.”
“I’m Serene,” she said. “Thirty-three. Admin exec at a transport company. Divorced. That’s Jayden.”
She said it like a checklist. No shame. Just fact.
⸻
Over the next few weeks, we talked more.
Never in a rush. Just passing moments, when I helped her carry groceries, or when she passed by and muttered something sarcastic about the neighbours’ noisy mahjong sessions. She was sharp, funny, and had this way of giving you her full attention, like you were worth the time.
One night, she knocked on my door holding a Tupperware of fried rice.
“I cooked too much,” she said, though it was clear she hadn’t. “Eat lah, student like you confirm hungry.”
We ate sitting on the floor, cross-legged, using mismatched forks. Jayden had fallen asleep two hours ago, swaddled in a cartoon blanket and surrounded by Yakult bottles and laundry pegs.
We opened a couple of Tiger beers she had in her fridge. She told me about her ex… five years younger, big promises, disappeared when she was seven months pregnant.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m raising a kid or carrying a punishment,” she said, then immediately regretted it.
“I think you’re doing both. And doing damn well,” I said.
She looked at me for a long time. Then
kissed
me.
⸻
It was quiet, hesitant.
But when we reached her room, there was no more hesitation.
We undressed slowly. Her blouse peeled off, revealing a body shaped by life, stretch marks across her hips, soft belly, faded tan lines, and a deep scar just above her bikini line.
She caught me looking.
“That’s from the C-section. Glamorous, right?”
I touched her cheek. “Still beautiful.”
She exhaled.
Then pulled me close.
⸻
We made love slowly, gently.
She was warm, deliberate. Not chasing pleasure, but reclaiming something long buried. Her hands held my back like she hadn’t touched softness in years. Her breath was hot against my neck. She closed her eyes tight when she came, chest heaving.
We lay tangled under the spinning fan, her hair sticking to my collarbone, her hand resting on my chest.
She hummed something under her breath, soft, wordless.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Just a lullaby I made up. Rockabye baby, no cradle, just bones and heart.”
I didn’t realise until much later how much that line would
haunt
me.
⸻
We slept together three more times that month.
Always after Jayden was asleep.
She never asked for anything. But I could feel it… that hunger for something steady. Not love. Not promises. Just someone who stayed past breakfast.
And I couldn’t give that.
One night, as I was pulling on my shirt, she said, “You know what the hardest part of being a single mum is?”
“Everything?”
She shook her head. “It’s not the work. It’s the
silence
. The long hours when no one touches you. Or asks if you’re okay. When the only person who hugs you is a child who doesn’t know how to say ‘thank you.’”
I didn’t say anything.
Because anything would’ve felt like a lie.
⸻
We didn’t really end.
My short-term lease ended. I went back to hostel. She stayed.
A year later, I saw her in Bedok, at a bus stop, with Jayden in uniform. She waved. I waved back. That was all.
⸻
Serene taught me that intimacy is more than sex.
It’s holding someone’s exhaustion.
It’s telling them they matter… even if only for one night.
It’s saying, you are still beautiful, even when they’ve forgotten it themselves.
And above all:
That some women
don’t need saving
.
They just need someone
who won’t look away
.
[End of Chapter 17]
Mirror Site:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/68...ters/177600591
⸻
Note to readers
:
Singapore in the 90s didn’t have many paths for women like her. Single mothers were still whispered about. Housing policies weren’t kind. Support was patchy. Workplaces rarely offered flexibility. No maternity benefits unless you were married. No subsidies for childcare unless you checked the right boxes.
If you were a single mother in that era, you were expected to
survive
.
Not thrive.
We’ve gotten better.
But we can do more.
Cheaper childcare, flexible working hours, easier access to public housing, and a little less judgement go a long way.
With love to all single mothers struggling out there
- The Casanova of Singapore
Chapter 18: Denise (Just After the University Holidays)
https://freeimage.host/i/Fb1m6J9
(AI-generated image of Denise)
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.
Sometimes, when you’re young and still learning the difference between compassion and desire, you say “yes” not because you want to, but because you don’t yet know how to say “no” with kindness.
That’s how I ended up in Denise’s bed.
It wasn’t out of lust.
It wasn’t even really about her.
It was about Serene.
⸻
Serene had invited her over for kopi one Sunday evening, just before I moved out of that Clementi walk-up flat. Jayden was asleep on a thin mattress in the living room, and Serene had placed a towel over the TV to dim the light.
“She’s my good friend,” Serene whispered. “You’ll like her. She needs to laugh.”
Denise was thirty-one. A finance executive working near Shenton Way. She wore a dark blue blouse and ankle-length slacks, her limbs moving with subtle effort. A slight, dragging limp, with her left leg slower than the right. She didn’t hide it. But she didn’t explain it either.
I later learned it was from a road accident when she was seventeen: a shattered femur, two surgeries, and a permanent metal pin. She walked with quiet grace, but it took
effort
. And some days, pain.
Her smile was gentle. Her voice even more so.
“Serene says you’re
dangerous
,” she teased lightly, after Serene had gone to the kitchen.
I grinned. “Emotionally or logistically?”
“Maybe both,” she replied. “But I’m not scared. Just… curious.”
We spoke for a long time. Her accent was crisp (
convent school, probably
) but her words came slowly, like she always chose her phrases with care. She had the kind of presence that felt earned, not performed.
That night, as I left, Serene pulled me aside. “If you’re free tomorrow, go walk her home. She hasn’t been out properly in months.”
I don’t know if it was matchmaking or just kindness. But I said okay.
⸻
The next evening, we walked through Holland Village after dinner. Denise kept pace, but I noticed how she leaned slightly to the right, compensating for the weaker leg.
“People always try to help me cross the road,” she said. “Like I’m made of
glass
. But honestly, the hardest part isn’t walking. It’s people treating you like you’re
not quite a woman
.”
I looked at her. “You don’t seem unsure of yourself.”
She gave a small smile. “Doesn’t mean I don’t wonder if anyone else will see me fully. And stay.”
⸻
When we reached her flat, she asked softly, “Do you want to come up? No expectations.”
We sat for a while in her living room, a small rented HDB, well-kept, a bit austere. One framed photo of her family. Lots of books. A cassette radio playing softly in the background… Anita Mui, maybe. She offered me barley water.
When we kissed, it was cautious. Slow. Her lips were cool at first, then gradually warmed against mine. Her body leaned into me carefully, her hands finding my chest, then my waist.
“I haven’t done this in a while,” she said, her voice low.
We undressed each other slowly. Her blouse slipped off. Then her bra. Her breasts were full, her belly soft, marked faintly from old weight shifts and the surgical scar that curved across her hip. Her right thigh bore the shape of an old incision, raised and pale.
She noticed me looking, and for a second, the air stilled.
“Still want to?” she asked.
I didn’t answer with words.
I kissed her shoulder, traced my fingers along the scar, then gently lowered her onto the bed.
⸻
The sex was tender, deliberate.
She guided me in carefully, not with eagerness, but with care. Her breath was shallow at first, then deeper. She closed her eyes and bit her lip as I moved inside her, her arms wrapped tightly around my back.
She didn’t moan loudly. She didn’t thrash.
She just held me, like this was something she hadn’t dared hope for in years.
When she came, she trembled quietly — not from orgasm alone, but from release. From being wanted.
Afterwards, I lay beside her. The ceiling fan whirred above us. The cassette had stopped.
“I know you’re not staying,” she said softly.
I turned to her. “You don’t know that.”
She smiled faintly. “I do. It’s okay.”
I reached over and touched her cheek. “You’re
beautiful
, Denise. I mean that.”
She kissed my fingers. “I know you do. That’s why I let you in. And inside.”
⸻
We never spoke again.
No calls. No notes. No awkward follow-ups.
But something from her stayed in my memory.
⸻
Denise taught me that sex can be an offering.
Not of the body, but of trust.
And that sometimes, it takes more courage to let someone in than to walk away.
She didn’t ask me to stay.
But for one night, I saw her fully.
And she let me.
[End of Chapter 18]
⸻
Note to readers
:
Disabled women in 1990s Singapore had it even harder than most people realise. There were no dating apps. Little social acceptance. No visibility. Society offered pity, but rarely passion. And worse… it assumed they had no sexuality, no desires, no longing to be seen as full people.
We can do better.
If you’re disabled and looking for love today, know this:
• You are not a burden.
• Join interest-based communities, from sports to art to writing, where connection grows organically.
• Use platforms that prioritise communication over appearance.
• Let people know what you want. Say it plainly. People who matter will listen.
Most of all,
don’t wait for perfect timing
. Or perfect bodies.
Desire isn’t about symmetry. It’s about presence.
- Love, Casanova of Singapore
Mirror Site:
Reflection from Casanova:
Not every chapter in a man’s life is written in
lust
. Some are written in
silence
, in sitting beside someone, holding space, and knowing you cannot stay.
Chapters 16 to 18 were not about sex; they were about restraint, clarity, and quiet exits. One woman I wasn’t attracted to, but respected too much to pretend. Another I could have loved, but knew I couldn’t stay for. And one reminded me that desire doesn’t always take the shape we’re taught to recognise, yet her dignity and strength moved me more than any touch.
Sometimes what stays with you is not the thrill of the night, but the quiet courage of someone showing up, single, disabled, forgotten by society, still willing to risk their heart. These chapters are about them. And perhaps they are also a reminder that the world is not kind to women who don’t fit the fantasy, and that men like me, who have taken so much, owe them truth, tenderness, and the wish that they find the love they deserve.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
raxip
Came for the erotic parts. Stayed for the supra-sexual reflections/lessons.
Also, I am unsure if you noticed but chapters 1 to 15 have the usual dose of em dashes that are found in AI-augmented prose, but your chapters 16-18 have very few of them, if any. These chapters are also the least erotic and most reflective thus far. I am unsure if it is a coincidence or I am just being hyper allergic to em dashes, but it seems like you can write very very well even without the usual signs of AI augmentation (pardon me if I am wrong). Keep it up and I am eagerly awaiting your upcoming chapters!
Due to the sensitivity of some of the content, I used AI (
rather than try to convince a fellow human!
) to help proofread my chapters, though I inadvertently left in some of the em dashes in the earlier parts. I’m glad chapters 16 to 18 resonated with you in a more reflective way. Your comment means a lot, and I really appreciate your continued interest. I hope you’ll keep coming back for more, and if you enjoy the story, do consider recommending it to others too!
Quote:
Originally Posted by
Gingkosan
Keep up the great work bro!
Wasn’t expecting so many reflections and learnings from this. Every relationship is definitely a lesson on something we can improve ourselves on, and to learn from indeed.
Thanks so much, bro! This story was inspired by a lifetime of learning (
and hard knocks
), and I really hope readers find value in it. If it resonated with you, do recommend it to others too, it would mean a lot to me!
It’s been a long time since I last used Sammyboy Forum (
more than a decade!
) before posting this story, so I’m a bit rusty, does anyone know how to
post images directly into the thread
instead of linking to an external site? I’d really like to make the reading experience more enjoyable by showing the ladies right in the post. The images are AI-generated to protect privacy, not real photos.
Do I need to gain more reputation or power first? Would appreciate any tips from regulars!
[Thanks - Sorted out]
Chapter 19: The Hunk’s Girlfriend (Start of University Third Year)
https://freeimage.host/i/FbEJ2YN
(AI-generated image of Michelle)
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.
⸻
Some mistakes don’t feel like mistakes… not until you’ve crossed the line and realise you can’t step back.
I was back in hall after the semester break, settling into the slow thrum of campus life again. I’d just come off a stretch of experiences I hadn’t fully processed: Denise, Serene, Jayden’s tiny socks on the floor. Women who knew what they wanted, even when I didn’t.
And maybe because of that, or because of the creeping sense of insignificance, I decided to do something different.
I grew a
beard
.
It wasn’t much. A scratchy, patchy thing. More arts-faculty TA than rugged man. But it made me feel older, harder to read. Less like the polite boy girls used to pat on the arm and call “sweet.”
At the same time, I was growing increasingly irritated by one of the guys on my floor.
Justin.
The hall’s self-appointed hunk.
Tall, tanned, V-neck singlets that clung to his biceps like declarations of war. He had a stash of MuscleMag back issues and a Sony cassette deck he used to blast
2 Unlimited
and
Culture Beat
at 8am on Sundays.
He drove his dad’s second-hand Celica, styled his hair with Brylcreem, and referred to women as “babes” without irony.
His latest girlfriend was Michelle.
She was one of those girls who looked like she stepped out of a Cleo cover shoot, with long legs, cropped tank tops, high-waisted jeans with metal buckles, and oval sunglasses perched on her head even indoors. But she wasn’t dumb. I overheard her once correcting Justin’s grammar during supper at the canteen.
He laughed and called her “brainy babe.”
That’s when curiosity crept in.
It wasn’t just about her.
It was about what it would mean to pull someone like her out of orbit from someone like him.
It wasn’t romantic.
It was ego.
⸻
We started talking at a hall “laundry mixer”, a dumb event meant to encourage interaction by forcing us to socialise while folding clothes at the communal drying racks.
She was waiting for her jeans to dry, reading Teenage magazine and flipping her Motorola pager idly.
I complimented her tote bag, the type with padded straps and stitched cartoon bears. She rolled her eyes.
“It’s from Chatuchak,” she said. “Probably fake. Like most things.”
We kept chatting. I made her laugh with something dry. She pointed at my beard and said, “You growing that to scare off girls?”
I shrugged. “Only the clingy ones.”
“Then it’s not working on me.”
That was how it began.
⸻
We didn’t text. That didn’t exist.
We exchanged note slips slipped under each other’s doors. We paged each other at odd hours with codes we made up: 1432 for “I want to talk, not flirt.” 911 for “urgent call me.” We spoke softly outside the vending machines after midnight.
One evening, her pager beeped under my door:
9657xxxx: 143 911 – come over. now. no drama.
I slipped into slippers and walked.
Her door was slightly ajar. The room dim. A joss stick burning near the window grille. She wore a grey oversized NTUC fairprice tee and FBT shorts, bare feet, hair tied in a bun.
We didn’t say a word.
She pulled me in and kissed me, hard, dispassionate. Her breath was hot, but not hungry. Her hands moved under my shirt with the urgency of someone rifling through a drawer, not touching a person.
I kissed her neck, tried to slow the pace, but she turned her face away and muttered, “Not here for sweet talk.”
Her body was warm, but her skin was taut with tension. I undressed awkwardly, trying to keep it smooth, but my belt caught in the loop and clinked loudly on the tile when I tugged it free. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t help.
When I moved on top of her, she opened her legs mechanically, her FBT shorts already half off. Her eyes were half-lidded but unfocused, as though she was watching something on the ceiling only she could see.
Her thighs were firm, her breath shallow. I entered her womanhood slowly, hoping for some signal, some soft gasp, a tightening of fingers, anything.
There was none.
Only her body beneath mine, moving just enough to keep rhythm, but never meeting me with any kind of want.
Her skin felt hot from the joss stick still burning in the corner. I kissed her collarbone; she flinched slightly.
Halfway through, she pushed against my chest, not to stop me, but to shift me back.
“Your beard,” she whispered flatly. “It’s prickly like hell.”
“I can go slower…”
“Just finish,” she said, eyes still fixed somewhere past my shoulder. “I’m not here for comfort.”
I obeyed. Quietly. Reluctantly. Every motion felt transactional, an unspoken bartering of touch for distraction. She moaned once, but it sounded more like a sigh of impatience than pleasure.
When it was over, I stayed still for a moment, unsure what came next.
She turned her head away.
“You can wash up if you want. Or just go.”
She stood, wrapped a towel around herself, and sat at her desk with her back to me. She flipped open a notebook, her pen tapping idly against the page, already somewhere else.
The room smelled of musk and burnt incense.
I dressed in silence, heart heavy with something I didn’t yet know how to name: regret, shame, maybe both.
Before I left, she spoke again.
“This was a mistake,” she said.
I nodded slowly, unsure what to say.
She turned back, her face unreadable but her voice ice-cold.
“Don’t come again. Don’t page me. Don’t smile at me in the canteen. If you do, I’ll tell people you forced yourself on me.”
My stomach dropped.
“You don’t mean that.”
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
“Don’t test me,” she said. “
You won’t win.
”
I left. Quietly. Quickly.
The beard went just as quickly.
⸻
We never spoke again.
I didn’t know if she told Justin. Or anyone. I spent weeks watching the faces of strangers, waiting for something: a confrontation, a warning, a whisper.
Nothing came.
But the silence didn’t feel like escape.
It felt like punishment.
⸻
Michelle taught me something no woman before her had:
That there are no rules once you mistake attention for meaning.
That desire, when mixed with pride, turns love into conquest.
And that crossing emotional boundaries can leave marks no one else can see.
Some stories stay unwritten because they’re dangerous.
Others stay hidden because they’re shameful.
This one was both.
⸻
[End of Chapter 19]
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