Forbidden Heat: The Pleasure Palace

So here's the thing about shagging your dad's maid twice in less than 24 hours: it's just the bloody warm-up act. Mental, I know. But that's Singapore for you - turns even Cambridge graduates into absolute degenerates within about forty-eight hours. The heat does something to your brain, I swear.

---

Chapter 2: The Pleasure Palace

After that morning session with Maria, the whole tights-bondage thing in front of the mirror still playing on repeat in my mind, I was knackered but buzzing. Proper spent. Needed another shower, obviously. Can't be walking around smelling of sex in your dad's penthouse, can you? Well, maybe you can, but probably shouldn't.

This fucking Singapore heat isn't helping. 30-plus degrees with humidity that makes you feel like you're swimming through soup. Makes a bloke permanently horny, I swear. Or maybe that's just me. Been like this since I got off the plane, actually. That fit BA stewardess Charlotte with her regulation hold-ups and no knickers had me hard half the flight. Keep catching glimpses of her wedding ring as she poured drinks, like something straight out of a dodgy porn film. Must've been at least fifteen years older than me - proper MILF territory. Kept imagining her silver pubes against my cock in that tiny airplane toilet. Something weirdly hot about the age gap, like the perfect combo of her experience and my stamina. Bonkers, I know.

Honestly, I never used to be this sex-obsessed back in London. But something about this place, the heat, the sweat, being in Dad's perfect bloody penthouse - it's like my cock's possessed. Maybe it's my subconscious wanting to fuck up Dad's perfect life. Wouldn't be the first time I've done something just to spite the bastard.

As I stepped out of the shower, the intercom buzzed. Maria's voice came through, all prim and proper again like she hadn't been tied up with her own tights just hours before.

'Mr. Jamie, Madam requests your presence in the living room in thirty minutes. She suggests the navy shirt in your wardrobe.'

Madam "requests." Madam "suggests." The way everyone in this house talked about Ting, you'd think she was the Queen of bloody England instead of just my dad's trophy wife.

Found the navy shirt hanging in the wardrobe, definitely wasn't mine. Brand new Tom Ford, still had the tags on. When did that get there? Next to it was a pair of tailored black trousers. Christ, these people and their money. Dad always was a flash git, showing off with designer bollocks!

Something silky caught my eye at the back of the wardrobe. I reached in and pulled out a pair of sheer black stockings, still warm like they'd just been worn. Had to be Ting's. Fuck me, the thought of her legs wrapped in these made my cock twitch back to life. Couldn't help myself. Pressed them to my face, inhaling deeply. Expensive perfume and something more intimate. Christ.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was wanking into them, imagining Ting walking around in them later, my spunk rubbing against her thighs all day without her knowing. Came harder than I should have, considering I'd already shagged Maria twice in the last day. Felt a bit like marking my territory - a Bennett family tradition, apparently, just with different methods.

I know, I know. Proper dirty bastard, aren't I? Wanking into my stepmum's stockings like some pervy teenager. But there's something weirdly territorial about it, like marking my scent all over Dad's wife. Every time she crosses those perfect legs of hers, she'll be sitting in my mess without even knowing it. Childish? Definitely. Satisfying? Abso-fucking-lutely. Class act, me.

Carefully folded them back exactly as I'd found them, making sure the wet part was on the inside. Let's see if she notices.

When I walked into the living room, Ting was already waiting, sipping something amber from a crystal tumbler. She wore a black dress that hugged every curve, the slit up one side revealing a tantalizing glimpse of thigh each time she shifted position. Her legs were wrapped in sheer black stockings that caught the light in a way that made my mouth go dry. Fresh ones, obviously, not my... handiwork. Felt like a right pervert now, but too late to put them back.

'The shirt suits you,' she said, eyes travelling over me with undisguised appreciation. 'I had Maria select it this morning.'

'Planning ahead, were you?'

Her smile was slow and deliberate. 'Always.' She set down her glass and stood. 'Your father called again. His meetings in Jakarta will continue through tomorrow. The storm has gotten worse and they've closed the airport completely.'

'That's... unfortunate,' I said, not meaning it at all. Dad could stay in Jakarta forever as far as I was concerned. Tosser never had time for me growing up, always off making his millions.

'Indeed.' Her eyes met mine, holding a wicked promise. 'I had planned to show you Singapore's nightlife anyway. This just means we won't be rushed.'

'What kind of nightlife?'

Ting's laugh was musical. 'Not the sanitized version in travel brochures. Something more... authentic.' She moved closer, same scent I'd detected on those stockings I'd borrowed earlier. Felt my face heat up remembering what I'd done with them. 'There's a place called Pleasure Palace. Very exclusive. Very private.'

'Sounds intriguing,' I managed, acutely aware of how close she was standing.

'It can be many things,' she replied. 'Depending on what one seeks.' Her hand brushed against mine, the touch brief but electric. 'We leave at ten. Wear your father's Rolex.' She nodded toward a small box on the side table. 'It opens certain doors.'

Had a few hours to kill, so I went back to my room and flicked through channels on the massive telly. Singapore news was all about the post-COVID tourism boom and some new luxury development on Sentosa Island. Boring as fuck. Ended up having another wank, this time thinking about Ms. Richardson, my English teacher back at school. She used to wear these pencil skirts with sheer black tights, and teenage me had spent most lessons trying to hide a hard-on. Funny how life works out. Here I was at twenty-two, living out fantasies I'd had since I was at school.

At nine-thirty, I got ready. The Tom Ford shirt fit perfectly, which was a bit creepy. How did they know my size? The Rolex felt heavy on my wrist, a proper flash watch that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home. Dad had five of these, the greedy bastard.

Singapore's night air hit me like a warm, wet flannel when we stepped outside. Even after dark, it was still pushing thirty degrees with humidity that made you sweat just standing still. Post-COVID Singapore was as pristine as ever, all gleaming skyscrapers and spotless streets. The only sign anything had ever happened was the occasional mask on older locals and temperature check stations gathering dust in some building lobbies.

Suddenly got hit with this unholy stench - like someone had left a corpse in a bin for a week. Nearly gagged.

'What the fuck is that?' I asked, covering my nose.

Ting laughed. 'Durian. The king of fruits.'

'Smells like the king of shit, more like.'

'It's an acquired taste,' she said. 'Very popular here. Your father hates it too.'

'First sensible thing I've heard about him.'

---

Car stopped at some fancy building. No signs, just tinted doors and a bouncer who knew Ting.

Inside was posh as fuck - rich tossers pretending they weren't just there for shagging. Orchard Towers for the wealthy, basically.

Spotted a ladyboy by the bar - gorgeous but with that telltale Adam's apple. Reminded me of Bangkok where girls shot ping pong balls from their fannies. Bloody mental, that was.

Then noticed Charlotte from my flight, chatting up some young looking banker type.

'Know her?' Ting asked.

'Flight attendant,' I said. 'Been picturing her silver bush since takeoff.'

'We could arrange something later,' Ting suggested.

'Serious?'

'Very.'

Fat Mr. Wong waddled over, belly straining his expensive suit. Mentioned Dad was a 'valued client.' Didn't need that image in my head.

He clicked his fingers and suddenly a Russian bird called Natasha was next to me. Proper fit with massive tits.

Now I was wedged between Dad's wife and a high-class hooker. Like that MasterCard ad - Tom Ford shirt: £500. Dad's Rolex: £10k. Hard-on between stepmum and escort: priceless.

'We have Singapore Slings,' Natasha offered, noticing me eyeing the cocktail menu. 'Very popular with tourists.'

I almost said yes out of politeness, then caught myself. 'Christ no, those things are like alcoholic Calpol. Whisky's fine. Proper drink.'

Ting smirked. 'Wise choice. Your father ordered a Singapore Sling his first time here. Never lived it down.'

She laughed when I asked about other clubs. 'Not quite Orchard Towers and its famous seven floors of whores. This is a more... refined experience.'

After another drink, Ting stood up. 'Time to show you the private rooms.'

Natasha grabbed my hand, led us down a corridor to a door marked '8'. Ting punched in a code (8888-8888) and we went in. They love the number eight here by the way, sounds like money to them. Mental eh!

Fucking hell. Room was pure filth - massive bed with red sheets, mirrors everywhere including the ceiling, and enough sex toys on the wall to stock Ann Summers. Proper porn palace.

'My favorite room,' Ting said, kicking her heels off. 'Thoughts?'

'It's... a bit much,' I said, while my cock clearly disagreed. 'But I can work with it.'

'Pleasure Palace has rules,' Ting said, her voice dropping to a tone I hadn't heard before - commanding, almost stern. 'First, nothing leaves this room. Not stories, not photos, nothing.'

'Obviously,' I nodded. Sounds a bit like Fight Club but less homo-erotic!

'Second,' she continued, 'I'm in charge. This is my room, my rules.'

Natasha was already mixing drinks at a small bar in the corner, like this was all perfectly normal. Looked like she'd done this routine a hundred times before. Noticed a bit of white powder on the edge of her nostril when she turned. Ting had the same dusty remnant on hers. Must've been sharing a sherbet dip before I arrived.

'And third,' Ting moved closer, her fingers working at my shirt buttons, 'everyone participates. No spectators.'

'Wouldn't dream of just watching,' I managed, as her hand brushed against my erection. She seemed extra energetic tonight, pupils like dinner plates. Definitely not just whisky fueling this party.

Minutes later, there I was with Natasha's tongue down my throat, tasting like fancy vodka, while Ting grabbed my hair and made me proper dizzy. Talk about multitasking. Felt like I'd won some kinda competition I didn't know I'd entered.

Caught sight of us in them mirrors and nearly spat laughing. Like some posh wank material - the kind you'd pay extra for pornhub.

'Bloody hell,' I panted when Natasha finally let me come up for air, 'this is absolutely fucking bonkers.'

Ting smirked up at me, hand still between my legs. 'That's rather the idea, darling.'

'Such a good son,' she purred, and Christ if that didn't make my cock twitch. 'Natasha, I think our guest needs to be properly welcomed, don't you?'

Natasha approached with two glasses of amber liquid. 'Drink,' she instructed, handing me one. 'Dutch courage.'

I knocked it back, feeling the expensive whisky burn all the way down. Ting took the empty glass, then nodded at Natasha, who immediately dropped to her knees in front of me.

'Fuck,' I breathed, as she unzipped my trousers with her teeth. Proper porn star move, that.

'Relax,' Ting whispered in my ear, her hands sliding around to unbutton my shirt from behind. 'Enjoy.'

What followed was the most mental experience of my life. Ting shoved me onto the bed while Natasha got between my legs and did stuff with her mouth that'd probably get you arrested back home. The mirrors were like having my own porno playing from every angle - could see Ting watching my face like she was taking mental notes or something.

'Like the view, do ya?' Ting asked, nodding at our reflection overhead. 'Most blokes do.'

'Hard not to,' I groaned, as Natasha did this swirly thing with her tongue that nearly made me lose it.

Ting laughed. 'Your father hates mirrors. Always keeps his eyes shut tight.'

There she went again, bringing up Dad at the most inappropriate moment. Should have been a mood killer, but somehow made everything more forbidden.

'What about rule 3?,' I cheekily said...'No spectating mother!'

'You are funny guy Jamie,' Ting laughed, then pushed me back on the bed. 'Now is a good moment to taste my cunt...'

I agreed. Made perfect sense!

She straddled my face, still dressed, while Natasha kept working her magic down below. Ting's stockinged thighs against my cheeks drove me mental. Kept thinking about what I'd done with her other pair. Wonder if she'd find my little present yet?

'Your mind's wandering,' Ting said, grinding harder against my face. 'Focus on the job, Jamie.'

'Sorry,' I mumbled into her knickers, which just made her moan. Hard to concentrate with a Russian bird's lips round your cock and your stepmum's wet pussy on your face, innit?

At some point, Ting moved off me and went to one of the cabinets. Came back with leather cuffs and a wicked smile.

'Now for the real fun,' she said, dangling them in front of me. 'Wrists, please.'

'Bit presumptuous,' I said, but offered my hands anyway.

She fastened the cuffs with practised efficiency, then attached them to hooks I hadn't noticed in the headboard. Properly restrained now, unable to do anything but watch as she and Natasha put on a show for me.

Natasha slipped off one of her stockings and dangled it playfully before my face. 'You like, yes?'

Before I could answer, she'd handed it to Ting with a knowing look. Ting took it with a smirk, sliding the silky material through her fingers.

'Ever had a stocking blowjob, Jamie?' Ting asked, her voice pure silk itself.

'Can't say I have,' I managed, throat suddenly dry.

'Gonna love this,' she said with a smirk, draping the stocking over and getting down to business.

Fucking hell. The silk plus her mouth. Hot and cold at the same time. Mad feeling. Proper brilliant. Like wanking into a silk glove while getting head. If they don't sell this as a sex toy, they bloody should.

I caught my reflection in one of the countless mirrors -- me, tied up in some posh Singapore sex club with my dad's wife and a Russian model doing things that would make a porn director blush. Had to laugh, didn't I? Cambridge careers advisor never mentioned this as a potential post-graduation opportunity. 'History degree? Ever considered being tied up in an Asian sex club while your father's wife does unspeakable things to you?'

Had to grin, didn't I? Even with Natasha doing her best work. YOLO and all that bollocks. Not like anyone'd believe me if I told 'em anyway. Felt like waving at myself in the mirror. 'Oi, future Jamie! Remember this when you're eating sad microwave meals in your shit flat!'

And what a show it was. These two clearly weren't first-timers, knew exactly how to touch each other, how to pose so I could see all the juicy bits in the mirrors. Natasha's tits were incredible - definitely not factory standard. Ting's body was tight as fuck for her age - clearly spent serious time at the gym when she wasn't shagging strangers in sex clubs.

'This why you come here?' I asked Ting between heavy breaths. 'To fuck other birds while Dad's off making money?'

She smiled, all predatory grace. 'Sometimes women. Sometimes men. Sometimes both.' She trailed a finger down my chest. 'Variety is the spice of life, don't you think?'

When they finally untied me, I was desperate. Rock hard and aching. Practically jumped on Ting, pushing her back on the sheets. She looked shocked for a sec, then well pleased, like I'd passed some kinda test.

Started kissing her neck and playing with her tits, same combo that always got Emily dripping wet. That was my signature move - bit like a chef's special dish, innit?

'Where'd you learn that?' Ting murmured, arching her back.

'Just something I figured out,' I lied. Didn't feel right mentioning the ex while shagging my stepmum. Even I have some standards. Not many, clearly, but some.

When I tried the same move on Natasha later, she practically yawned. Talk about ego-bruising. Nothing like having a professional sex worker look bored while you're giving it your best shot. Bit like turning up to a Michelin star restaurant with your pot noodle cooking skills.

'She prefers this,' Ting demonstrated, using her teeth more aggressively on the Russian's neck while pinching her nipples hard enough to make me wince. Natasha moaned like she was being paid to. Which, I suppose, she was.

'Different strokes,' I muttered, feeling slightly inadequate. 'Noted for future reference.' Add that to the list of 'Things Dad Never Taught Me' -- right between 'How to do taxes' and 'How to please Russian escorts.'

At some point, Ting caught me glancing at Natasha's stockinged foot.

'You like feet?' she asked, not judgmental, just curious.

'Bit, yeah,' I admitted, feeling my face heat up.

She smiled. 'Quentin Tarantino does too. All his films have foot scenes.'

'I know! That's where it started for me. Kill Bill, when I was younger.'

'Then you're in good company,' she said, stretching out on the silk sheets, offering her foot while Natasha did the same from the other side of the bed. 'Indulge yourself.'

As I got stuck in, found myself thinking about Emily. Poor girl would've had a heart attack seeing me now. Two birds' feet in my mouth in some posh Singapore sex den. She was so bloody vanilla - missionary with the lights off, mostly. We talked about anal play once and she didn't speak to me for a week. Proper offended, she was. Ting seemed the type who'd try anything once... or twice. I wonder what the rate is for that here. Probably comes with a surcharge, like ordering anchovies on a pizza. 'Yes sir, anal play is an additional 500 Singapore dollars, would you like to add that to your experience today?' Fucking bonkers, this place.

The grand finale was Ting riding me in front of that big mirror, her tits bouncing while Natasha whispered dirty shit in Russian. Those stockings I'd wanked into earlier? Now wrapped round my mouth as a gag. Talk about coming full circle.

'Look at us,' Ting ordered, yanking my head towards the mirror. 'See what your father's missing? What he's too old and boring to handle.'

Could see everything - Dad's trophy wife, totally fucking wild, using me like some sex toy she'd ordered online. Her wedding ring flashing as she grabbed my chest for balance. Proper filthy.

'God, I've fucking needed this,' she moaned, bouncing faster. 'Your father hasn't touched me in months.'

Should've killed the mood, her bringing up Dad, but it just made my cock harder. Like I was winning something he'd lost. Taking what was his. Proper caveman shit, but there ya go.

After we both came, Ting flopped next to me, laughing through heavy breaths. 'Nothing like your father, are you?'

'Thank fuck for that,' I replied, still trying to catch my breath. Couldn't help adding, 'Though I suppose I've just properly marked my old man's territory, haven't I?' Bit crass, but hey, what do you expect after three glasses of expensive whisky and the night I'd just had?

There was something so ridiculous about the whole scenario - me, my dad's wife, and a Russian model in some posh sex club in Singapore. Life's fucking weird sometimes.

But also pretty bloody fantastic.

When we finally decided to leave, I needed a slash first - all that whisky needed somewhere to go, didn't it? Told Ting I'd meet her by the entrance in a sec.

'Down the hall, third door on right,' she mumbled, already texting the driver.

Bit pissed by this point, I was. Stumbled down the hallway, counting doors. One, two... pushed open what I thought was the third door and - fucking hell.

There was a woman bent over some fancy chaise lounge with a bloke at each end. Two posh banker types in half-undone expensive suits, looking like they'd just stepped out of some wanky hedge fund brochure. She was tied up and blindfolded, wearing nothin' but stockings, but I'd bet my left bollock it was Charlotte, the BA stewardess from my flight. Same blonde hair, same fit figure. Same tight arse that I'd been staring at while she served drinks at 30,000 feet. Caught a glimpse of silver pubes that matched exactly what I'd been picturing the whole bloody flight over. One City boy was behind her, hammering away, the other getting his cock sucked like it was going out of fashion.

Both bankers' heads snapped toward me, but blindfold-girl carried on, oblivious.

'Shit! Wrong room!' I yelped, backing out. One of the City boys actually gave me a thumbs up as I closed the door. Cheeky twat.

For a second I actually thought about introducing myself. 'Hi, I'm Jamie, just shagged my stepmum two doors down, fancy a swap?' But even I'm not that mental. Well, not sober anyway.

Might not have been Charlotte, course. But looked enough like her to definitely make it into the wank bank for later. Between this and the mirror room with Ting, reckon I've got enough mental porn to last till I'm ninety. Funny how many blonde flight attendants end up in sex clubs in Singapore, innit? Must be something about the job. Or maybe it's just that this place is like Disneyland for pervs.

Found the actual bog two doors down. Proper needed it by then, though my cock was getting confused about the evening's schedule. 'Not now, mate,' I muttered, looking down at my semi. 'You've had enough fun for one night.'

I know what you're thinking - Jamie's having quite the night, eh? First his stepmum and a Russian prozzy, now catching the flight attendant from his London flight getting spit-roasted by City boys. Told ya it's the Singapore heat! Does strange things to people. Turn a Cambridge grad into a walking hard-on within hours, it will.

When I met Ting at the entrance, must've looked proper shellshocked cause she raised an eyebrow. Probably had that 'just saw someone I fancy getting shagged' look that every bloke recognizes.

'You alright?'

'Just took a wrong turn,' I said, trying not to smirk. 'Saw some shit.'

Natasha kissed us both goodbye at the door, taking a fat tip from Ting with a wink.

'Singapore's full of surprises innit!' I laughed, still a bit stunned.

'You've no idea,' she said, leading me out into the sweaty night.

---

In the car back to Dad's place, Ting sat close, hand on my thigh. 'Enjoy your first taste of Singapore nightlife then?'

'If that's just the starter, I'll be dead before main course,' I mumbled, still buzzing. 'Think I've just used up my lifetime allowance of kink in one night.'

She laughed, that musical sound again, and squeezed my leg. 'We're just getting started, love. Dad's away for two more days, y'know.'

Bit terrifying, bit exciting that. What else she had planned? And how the fuck was I supposed to look Dad in the eye after all this? Maybe I'd develop sudden-onset blindness before he got back. Or selective amnesia. 'Sorry Dad, can't remember a thing about my visit. Your wife? Lovely woman, very hospitable. No idea why I wake up screaming "stockings" in the middle of the night though.'

'Hungry?' she asked as we drove through traffic.

Hadn't even thought about food till she mentioned it, but suddenly I was starving. 'Fuckin ravenous actually. Turns out shagging your stepmum burns more calories than CrossFit.'

'Good,' she nodded to the driver. 'Lau Pa Sat.'

So having been balls deep in my stepmum and a Russian model for the better part of the night, I found myself at some street food market at three in the morning, wolfing down the most incredible chicken satay from what Ting called 'the Satay King of Singapore.' Smoky, peanutty skewers were bloody amazing -- second best thing I'd tasted all night, if I'm honest. Felt like I'd died and gone to heaven - first the sex club, now street food paradise. Proper British lad's holiday, this, except with my dad's wife instead of the lads from uni.

'Dad know about this place too?' I asked, licking sauce off my fingers.

'Your father,' Ting said with this little smile, 'thinks street food's beneath him.'

'His loss,' I mumbled through a mouthful. 'This is better than that fancy French bollocks he's always on about.' Never understood Dad's obsession with tiny portions of food you can't pronounce. Give me proper grub any day.

'Yes,' she agreed, watching me with those calculating eyes. 'Seems he's missing out on quite a lot these days.'

That made me snort-laugh, nearly choking on a chunk of chicken. Talk about bloody understatement of the century.