Forbidden Heat: The Final Fling

Forbidden Heat: Jamie Bennett's Singapore Diaries

Thanks for reading, here is the final chapter along with the full short story. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Singapore Fuckery

So here's the thing. I shagged my dad's wife. And his maid. Sometimes both together.

Not what I expected when I got on that BA flight heading East, but there you go. Life's full of surprises, innit? Especially when your old man's a globe-trotting wanker who thinks a 'change of scenery' involves his stepson nailing his staff.

I'm Jamie. Twenty-two. Finished at Cambridge last year with a shit degree and even shittier prospects. Been kipping on my mate Dave's sofa in Clapham since Emily told me to sod off three months ago. Dad called out of the blue, said I should 'come out East for a bit, clear your head.' Translation: he was sick of Mum going on about what a state I was in. He probably hoped the strict laws of the Lion City would, for once, curb my... enthusiasms. Little did he know.

So off I went. Thirteen hours on BA with a hangover and a monumental erection, thanks to the new cabin crew uniforms. The stewardess on my aisle had these legs that went on forever, all wrapped up in those sheer tights they wear. Reminded me of Ms Richardson, my English teacher back at school when I was sixteen. Same air of untouchable sophistication. Same effect on my cock.

Must've dozed off somewhere over Turkey 'cos next thing I know I'm dreaming about that stewardess. She's got me in the toilet, cramped as hell, bent over that tiny sink with her skirt hiked up. No knickers, obviously, 'cos that's how dreams work. 'We've got three minutes before they notice I'm gone,' she keeps saying, all posh BA accent. Her name badge says 'Charlotte' and she's definitely older than me, probably mid-thirties, wedding ring glinting under the harsh bathroom lights. She keeps looking back at me with this filthy smile, her eyes promising naughtiness. Woke up with a start when the food cart clanged my elbow, sporting a proper tent under my chinos. Had to sit with my jacket on my lap for an hour. Fucking embarrassing.

Landed at Changi, the glass and steel a monument to efficiency, almost aggressively sterile against the blast of tropical air. It still managed to taste of distant rain and something wilder beneath the gleaming veneer. The humidity clung, a damp blanket that promised to unravel not just his shirt, but his very inhibitions. Dad's driver, some bloke who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, took my knackered rucksack and chucked it in the boot of a gleaming Mercedes.

'Mr Bennett senior is in Jakarta, sir. Mrs Bennett waits at home.'

Course he wasn't bloody there. Charles Bennett, international man of mystery, too important to pick up his own son. Tosser.

Dad's place was in one of those wanky skyscrapers with names like 'The Pinnacle' or 'Infinity Towers' or some other bollocks that wealthy expats lap up. The doorman bowed when I got out of the car, which still made me want to crawl into a hole. Everything in this immaculate place felt designed to make you feel both important and utterly insignificant.

Up in the lift, mirrors everywhere. Christ, I looked rough. Hair all over the shop, stubble just past sexy and into homeless territory, and massive sweat patches under my arms. The lift opened directly into the flat. Sorry, the 'penthouse residence,' as Dad insisted on calling it. And there she was, waiting like something out of a film.

The maid. Filipina, early thirties, in one of those old-school uniforms that was probably Dad's idea of tradition but just came off as creepy colonial bollocks. But God, if she didn't wear it well. White blouse, black skirt, and those sheer nude tights that made her legs look incredible.

'Welcome, sir. I'm Maria.' Her eyes did a quick up-and-down that lingered just a bit too long, a flicker of something knowing. 'Mrs Bennett is waiting.'

Christ, look at her. Probably mid-thirties but fit as hell. All prim and proper in that uniform, but I'd bet she was filthy behind closed doors. Wouldn't mind finding out what she was into. Probably more than her husband back in Manila knew about.

And then there was Ting. My stepmum. Dad's trophy.

'Jamie.' She crossed the room in heels that could kill a man. Her presence was like a perfectly orchestrated symphony -- elegant, commanding, and utterly captivating. 'Welcome to our home.'

Fuck me. The photos Dad had sent didn't do her justice. Forty-ish but could pass for thirty easy. A sharp, black bob haircut, a red dress that probably cost more than my student loan, and legs wrapped in sheer black stockings that seemed to hum with potential.

'Thanks for having me,' I managed, suddenly aware I was sweaty, smelly, and sporting an undeniable erection that thankfully my baggy jeans were mostly hiding. I tried to shuffle my rucksack a bit higher, covering my crotch, probably making it more obvious.

'You need a shower,' she said, looking me up and down, her gaze lingering on my crotch for a fraction too long. 'And proper clothes for dinner. Your father expects certain standards.'

I bit back about fifteen sarcastic responses. 'I didn't pack much formal stuff.'

Something flickered across her face, a hint of amusement. 'There are many rules in this city,' she said, her voice soft but firm. 'Some written, some not. You'll learn.' She gestured toward a hallway. 'Maria will show you to your room. Dinner at eight.'

As Maria led me down the corridor, I caught her stealing a glance back at Ting. Something passed between them that made my spider sense tingle. There was history there. Secrets. This place felt like a city of them.

But first, I really did need that shower.

I stood under it for ages, washing off twenty hours of travel grime. My cock, however, had other ideas. It kept throbbing, thinking about Ting's legs in those stockings and Maria's arse in that tight skirt. Ended up having a wank just to clear my head. Felt a bit wrong doing it in Dad's house while thinking about his wife, but fuck it. Needs must. I nearly dropped the soap on my foot, which would have been a proper anti-climax.

Dad always said I lacked impulse control. He'd lost his shit when I got caught smoking weed behind the bike sheds at Eton. 'Control yourself, James,' he'd said, all stern and disappointed. Said the same thing when I shagged Felicity Carter at his fiftieth birthday party. Well, technically that was in the garden, not actually at the party, but whatever. My London life felt very far away, a grey little cage compared to this humid, vibrant, incredibly horny existence.

I crashed on the bed for a quick nap. Woke up four hours later, a familiar, insistent throb between my legs and that weird jet lag feeling where your brain doesn't know what fucking time it is. Checked my phone. 7:30 PM. Shit. Dinner at eight.

Pulled on the one decent outfit I'd brought -- a blue button-down and some navy chinos. Headed out to face the evening.

The flat was bloody enormous. All minimalist furniture that looked expensive but uncomfortable. I followed the sound of voices to the balcony.

Ting had changed into something even more distracting, a black dress with a slit up one side that showed a flash of thigh every time she moved. She was on the phone, speaking rapid-fire Mandarin or Cantonese or something. When she saw me, she ended the call.

'Good, you're awake,' she said, her eyes travelling over me with undisguised appreciation. 'I was beginning to think we'd lost you to jet lag.'

We had dinner. Fancy wine I pretended to appreciate. Fancy food I didn't have to pretend to like. Throughout, I felt a current building between us. Ting's gaze kept lingering when she thought I wasn't looking. She'd lean forward slightly when she spoke, offering glimpses of cleavage that seemed both accidental and deliberate.

'Your English is very different from your father's,' she observed. 'More... informal?'

'You mean I sound like a normal person instead of someone with a silver spoon permanently lodged up his arse?' I suggested, the wine loosening my tongue.

Ting's laugh was genuine and unexpected, a sound that transformed her face. 'You speak too quickly sometimes. It's hard for me to follow.'

'Sorry,' I said, automatically slowing my speech.

She reached across the table, her hand resting lightly on my wrist. The touch was gentle but lingered a moment longer than necessary. 'English is my third language,' she explained. 'After Cantonese and Mandarin. Before French.' She refilled our wine glasses. 'Your father speaks like BBC World Service. Very proper. Very clear. You speak like... a university boy. Too quick, too eager.'

'That's what I am.'

'No,' Ting said, studying me with unexpected intensity. 'Not just a university boy. Something else too.' She leaned forward, the movement causing her dress to shift. 'Something more interesting.'

I tried to keep my eyes on her face rather than letting them drop to her cleavage, but failed miserably. When I looked up, Ting's slight smile told me she'd noticed and wasn't bothered.

Suddenly, the air conditioning failed, allowing the natural climate to assert itself. Heat enveloped us like a physical presence, pressing down, melting something deep inside me.

'The system does this sometimes,' Ting explained, seeming unbothered. She rose and moved to a control panel on the wall. As she reached upward, her dress rode higher, revealing not just the tops of her stockings but the suspender belt that held them in place.

Christ. My cock went from half-mast to full salute in about two seconds flat. I gripped my wine glass tighter, trying to think about anything but the fact that my stepmum apparently wore a full suspender belt and stockings to a casual dinner at home.

'It will reset eventually,' she said, turning back. In the sudden heat, a flush had risen to her cheeks, and bits of hair clung damply to her neck.

'Should we go inside?' I suggested, though I made no move to get up, uncertain I could do so without my burgeoning erection becoming embarrassingly obvious.

'Are you uncomfortable in the heat?' Ting asked, returning to her seat.

'Not uncomfortable,' I admitted. 'Just... very aware of it. Very aware.'

Something shifted in her expression. 'Awareness is good,' she said softly. 'This place is too perfect, too controlled. It makes people forget what's real. What's primal.'

'And what's real, Ting?' I asked, her name feeling strangely intimate on my tongue.

She set down her glass, dark eyes meeting mine directly. 'Heat,' she answered simply. 'Always heat. Everything else is pretence.'

'So hot,' Ting murmured, reaching up to touch her throat where a bead of perspiration traced the elegant line of her collarbone. Her fingers lingered there before sliding lower, hinting at something more. 'This dress is too much for real tropical weather.'

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the movement of her hand. 'Maybe you should change into something lighter,' I suggested, my voice rougher than before.

Ting's lips curved in a knowing smile. 'Maybe.' She rose again, moving to the balcony's edge. 'Come see the view properly.'

I hesitated, then stood, turning slightly to adjust myself before joining her. I stood close enough to feel the heat coming off her body, a different kind of heat than the one emanating from the city outside.

'Beautiful, yes?' Ting asked, her shoulder brushing against my arm.

'Yes,' I agreed, though I wasn't looking at the cityscape, but the tantalising glimpse of her skin.

She turned to face me, so close now that I could see the flecks of gold in her dark irises. 'Your father will call soon. To check you've arrived safely.' Her voice had dropped to nearly a whisper, conspiratorial. 'What do you want from being here, Jamie? Why did you really come?'

'I don't know,' I admitted. 'Something real, maybe. Something... more.'

'Real is dangerous,' Ting said, her gaze dropping to my mouth. 'Especially in a city where everything is so perfectly, flawlessly controlled. It makes the real even more potent.'

A phone rang from inside the apartment. Ting didn't move immediately, her body still close enough that I could feel her breath against my neck, a delicious torment.

'That's your father,' she said finally, stepping away. 'Always calling, never here.'

As she moved past me, her hand brushed against the front of my trousers, a touch too deliberate to be accidental, too brief to acknowledge. She paused, the barely noticeable widening of her eyes confirming she'd felt my arousal.

'Coming?' Ting paused at the doorway, the single word hanging between us like a challenge, like an invitation to a secret society.

'Right behind you,' I replied, unable to move straight away, needing a moment to calm down, to steady myself against the onslaught of desire.

From inside, I heard Ting's voice answering the phone. 'Yes, Charles. Jamie arrived safely. Very tired from the flight... No, I've made sure he's comfortable... Of course, proper dinner... Tomorrow? But you said Jakarta until weekend...'

I stayed on the balcony, the tropical heat pressing against me like a physical reminder of desires better left unexplored, yet now undeniably awakened. The city hummed below, a silent witness to the unravelling of my British inhibitions.

Later that night, I woke up. Jet lag was a proper bastard, still messing with my internal clock. Checked the time. 3:17 AM. Decided to look for water.

Padded quietly through the main living area, heading toward what I thought was the kitchen. A soft sound caught my attention. From around the corner came Maria, moving across the marble floor in bare feet, a silent, almost ethereal presence in the dim light.

I froze, not wanting to startle her. She hadn't seen me yet.

'Couldn't sleep?' Her voice surprised me. She'd known I was there all along, a quiet observer.

'Jet lag,' I explained, suddenly aware I was standing there in just boxers and a t-shirt with a tent that could house a small family. 'Just looking for water.'

Maria smiled. 'Kitchen is this way.' She led me through to a gleaming, minimalist space. 'Mrs Bennett also has trouble sleeping sometimes.'

There was something in the way she said it that made me glance at her. In the dim light, with her hair down instead of pulled back in its daytime bun, she looked younger, less formal, more approachable. The gold cross still hung at her throat, catching what little light there was, a tiny, glittering counterpoint to the unspoken desires.

'How long have you worked here?' I asked, accepting the glass of water she handed me.

'Seven years. Since before your father married Mrs Bennett.'

'You must know them well then.'

Maria's smile was enigmatic, hinting at depths Jamie hadn't even begun to fathom. 'Some things are better known than others.'

I found myself studying her more carefully. In her simple silk robe, she was surprisingly attractive, with a quiet confidence that hadn't been apparent earlier. The air between us seemed to thicken, charged with a subtle tension.

'Your father will be gone for at least two more days,' she said, leaning against the counter. 'The Jakarta meetings always run long.'

'You don't seem surprised that he's not here.'

Maria shrugged, a fluid, unhurried motion. 'Mr Bennett travels often. Mrs Bennett is used to it.'

'And you?'

'I am used to many things, Mr Jamie.' Her gaze held mine, steady and knowing.

The kitchen felt smaller suddenly, the space between us charged with something I couldn't quite name. An unspoken invitation, a secret understood.

'Mrs Bennett has asked me to make sure you're comfortable during your stay,' Maria continued, her voice lower now, almost a murmur. 'She's very particular about hospitality.'

'Is that right?' I found myself moving closer, drawn by an invisible thread.

'Very particular,' Maria confirmed, her eyes sparkling. 'She believes guests should experience authentic local hospitality.'

No mistaking what she meant. A rush of heat, nothing to do with the tropical climate, spread through me. My cock stiffened, a desperate plea against the thin fabric of my boxers.

'What kind of hospitality?' I asked, my voice rougher than before.

Maria stepped closer, close enough to smell her delicate perfume, a scent that promised intimacy. She touched my arm, her fingers light, electrifying. 'Whatever you need, Mr Jamie.'

My heart hammered--surprised and aroused at the same time. My erection strained against my boxers, clearly visible through the thin fabric.

'Mrs Bennett approves of this?' I asked, still not quite believing the audacity of it all.

Maria's laugh was soft and musical, a conspiratorial sound. 'Mrs Bennett arranged it. She's very... thorough in her planning.'

The implications of that statement were staggering. My father's wife had deliberately sent her maid to seduce me? This wasn't just kinky; it was a carefully choreographed seduction.

'Why?' The question came out before I could stop it, a genuine demand for understanding.

'Some things are better experienced than explained,' Maria replied, her hand sliding up my arm, her touch burning a trail. She untied her robe, letting it fall open to reveal she wore nothing underneath except for sheer nude tights, clinging like a second skin. 'Some things can only be communicated through experience. This place is very different from London, Mr Jamie. Different rules. Different... possibilities.'

When she kissed me, it was with surprising boldness, nothing hesitant or servile about it. Her mouth was warm and confident against mine, her body pressing closer as my arms wrapped around her instinctively, pulling her into me. The gold cross at her throat pressed between us, a small, hard reminder of a faith that seemed utterly at odds with what was happening, making it even more thrilling.

'Wait,' I managed, pulling back slightly. 'Is this some kind of test? Or trap?'

Maria's eyes held mine steadily, no trace of deceit. 'Not a test. An invitation.' When she turned to lead me toward my bedroom, I saw it: an elaborate tattoo covering much of her upper back. The image of Christ crucified, rendered with surprising artistry. The contrast of the sacred imagery against what we were about to do sent a forbidden thrill through me, a delicious surge of perverse delight.

'You're Catholic,' I said stupidly, as if the cross and tattoo hadn't made that obvious.

'Yes,' she replied simply. 'And married. With two children in Manila.' She turned back to face me, no shame or guilt in her expression, only a quiet certainty. 'Does that bother you?'

It should have. It really fucking should have. Dad always said I was morally flexible. Always sounded like an insult when he said it, but right now it felt like a superpower. Of all the things that should bother me -- my dad's maid, the wedding ring on her finger, the gold cross, the Jesus tattoo -- none of it was stopping my cock from being harder than a diamond drill bit.

'No,' I lied.

Her smile told me she knew better, but didn't care. 'Good. Now come to bed, Mr Jamie. Let me show you some real hospitality.'

In my room, Maria took control with a confidence that left no room for hesitation. Her body moved with mine in perfect synchrony, as if she somehow knew exactly what I wanted before I did.

'I want you to suck me off,' I said, surprising myself with my directness.

She smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. 'Is that what you were thinking about in the shower earlier?'

Christ. How did she know about that? 'Maybe,' I admitted, a flush creeping up my neck.

Without another word, she slid down my body, her silk robe falling open as she knelt before me. Her lips closed around me, warm and wet, and I had to grip the edge of the bed to stay upright. Her technique was nothing like the awkward fumbling I'd experienced with uni girls. This was a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, every subtle shift and nuance.

'Fuck,' I breathed, threading my fingers through her hair, desperate to hold her close. 'Where did you learn to suck cock like that?'

She pulled back just long enough to give me a mysterious smile before taking me deeper than before. When I warned her I was close, she didn't pull away, instead increasing her pace until I came with a groan that was thankfully muffled by her mouth.

After that, we moved to the bed. I entered her from behind, the sheer fabric of her tights torn just enough to allow access without removing them. The sight of her -- this Catholic woman with a husband and two kids back in the Philippines -- wearing her cross while I fucked her through torn tights, her crucifixion tattoo fully visible as she gripped the headboard, was the most erotic thing I'd ever experienced. My London inhibitions felt miles away.

The next morning, the humid air still thick with the scent of our shared transgression, I decided I needed a proper encore.

'You have time,' I said to Maria, more boldly than I felt, my desire already stirring. 'For a proper good morning.'

Maria paused, then slowly turned back to face me, her eyes thoughtful. 'That would be unwise.'

'So was last night,' I countered, the memory of her body fresh in my mind. 'Didn't stop you then.'

A small smile played at her lips, a flicker of amusement. 'Last night was arranged. This would be... improvisation.'

'I like improvisation.' My gaze dropped to the front of my shorts, where my interest was becoming undeniably obvious.

'I can see that,' she said softly, her eyes meeting mine, then dropping to the undeniable bulge.

In my bedroom, Maria was different -- bolder, more assertive. She pushed me against the wall, kissing me hard, her hands already working at my shorts, a delicious urgency to her movements.

'We must be quick,' she whispered against my mouth. 'Mrs Bennett is sometimes early.'

That only made it hotter, somehow, the delicious risk of getting caught. I spun us around, pressing her against the wall now, my hands sliding up under her uniform dress. She was wearing those same sheer nude tights again, already slightly torn from the night before, a silent testament to our earlier encounter.

'These need to come off,' I said, dropping to my knees. I hooked my fingers into the waistband and slowly pulled them down her legs. She stepped out of them, leaving her in just the uniform and whatever knickers she had on underneath.

A sudden impulse hit me. I stood, tights in hand, and guided her toward the full-length mirror on the closet door.

'What are you doing?' she asked, watching as I positioned her in front of it, a hint of curiosity in her voice.

'I want you to see what I see,' I told her, moving behind her. I gathered her wrists behind her back, wrapped the tights around them in a makeshift binding. Not too tight, but enough to hold her. 'Is this okay?'

Her eyes met mine in the mirror, pupils dilated with desire, a silent agreement passing between us. 'Yes, Mr Jamie.'

I reached around, unbuttoning the top of her uniform, exposing her breasts. Small, perfect, with dark nipples that hardened under my touch. Her gold cross hung between them, catching the light as her chest rose and fell with quickened breathing, an almost blasphemous juxtaposition.

'Look at yourself,' I instructed, turning her to face the mirror fully. I lifted her dress from behind, bunching it around her waist to reveal simple black cotton knickers. Practical, not fancy like Ting would probably wear. I slid them to the side rather than removing them completely.

Fuck me, the sight of her like this -- half in uniform, wrists bound with her own tights, watching herself in the mirror. I blame the bloody heat for what I was about to do next. Or maybe it's this mad city. Something about this place makes you do things you'd never imagine back home, unsticking all those sensible British rules.

Bet she's never been tied up before. Bet her husband doesn't fuck her like a kinky British guy. I couldn't help but wink at myself in the mirror at the thought. The irony wasn't lost on me.

Truth is, I've got no bloody idea what I'm doing. I've watched enough porn to know the moves, but this is proper filthy, tying up my dad's Catholic maid with her own tights while she's still in uniform. Should feel wrong, but Christ, it feels like the most right thing I'd done in months.

'Your husband,' I said, positioning myself behind her, guiding my cock to her entrance. 'Does he fuck you like this? Make you watch yourself?'

'No,' she whispered, eyes widening in the mirror as I pushed inside her. 'Never like this.'

I established a rhythm, watching our reflection -- her bound hands, her uniform dress bunched around her waist, her gold cross swinging with each thrust. As I shifted my stance slightly, I noticed something I hadn't seen before: a delicate silver ring around her second toe. Such an unexpected detail on the otherwise proper maid. Something about that small rebellion against her conservative image, that hint of a hidden side, sent a fresh surge of desire through me. Even her feet had secrets in this house. Wonder if Dad knew his staff wore toe rings and crucifixion tattoos? Probably thought she was just the quiet Catholic maid who did the dishes.

'Oh God,' she moaned, the words sounding like both pleasure and blasphemy given the cross at her throat, amplified by the mirror.

'That's it,' I encouraged, increasing my pace, pushing deeper. 'Watch yourself come.'

Her orgasm took her suddenly, her body clenching around me, her reflection showing the exact moment she lost control -- eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. The sight pushed me over the edge, and I emptied myself hard, gripping her hips tightly, watching our joined reflection through half-closed eyes.

Emily never came like that. Two years together and I'd never seen her completely lose control. I'd just met this woman yesterday, and here she was coming around my cock like her life depended on it. This crazy place: 1, London: 0. Maybe Dad was onto something with this whole expat life after all. Though I doubt this is what he had in mind for me.

After she left, leaving behind the faint, lingering scent of sex and something sweeter, I lay there staring at the ceiling. What the actual fuck was going on here? My stepmum sends her maid to shag me, then apparently wants to know all about it? And why did I get the feeling there was more to come?

I glanced at the bedside table where Maria had left her hairpin -- a small silver thing with tiny gems that caught the light. Without really thinking about it, I reached over and pocketed it. Bit weird to take a souvenir, maybe, but then this whole situation was weird as hell. A tiny, illicit trophy.

Somewhere in the flat, I heard a door close. Ting, probably. I wondered if Maria was reporting to her right now. Telling her how eager I'd been, how quickly I'd given in. The thought should have made me uncomfortable, but instead, I felt a familiar stirring, a fresh pulse of desire.

What kind of fucked-up family had Dad dragged me into? And more importantly, what else did this city have in store?

Chapter 2: 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 this place for you -- it turns even Cambridge graduates into absolute degenerates within about forty-eight hours. The heat here wasn't just melting the ice cubes in my gin; it was a humid blanket pressing down, frying my very thoughts, unsticking all the boring little rules I'd lived by until they peeled away like old wallpaper.

After that morning session with Maria, the whole tights-bondage-mirror-fuck still playing on repeat in my mind, I was knackered but buzzing. Properly 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.

The oppressive heat wasn't helping my composure. Thirty-plus degrees with humidity that made you feel like you were swimming through soup. It amplified every sensation, sharpened every desire, making a bloke permanently horny, I swear. Or maybe that's just me. It had 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. I kept 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. I kept imagining her silver pubes against my cock in that tiny airplane toilet. Bonkers, I know.

Honestly, I never used to be this sex-obsessed back in London. But something about this place, the humid air, the constant sheen of sweat, being in Dad's perfect bloody penthouse -- it was like my cock was possessed, a separate entity with its own agenda. Perhaps it was a subconscious rebellion, a deliberate attempt to defile the sterile perfection of Dad's meticulously constructed life. Wouldn't be the first time I'd 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. The professionalism was almost unnerving.

'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. A queen, perhaps, of a far more interesting kingdom.

I found the navy shirt hanging in the wardrobe; it 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. My cock twitched back to life. I couldn't help myself. I pressed them to my face, inhaling deeply. Expensive perfume and something more intimate, something distinctly hers. A shiver ran down my spine.

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. It felt a bit like marking my territory -- a Bennett family tradition, apparently, just with different, significantly more deviant, methods. I nearly sprayed myself in the face in my hurry, then had a mild panic attack trying to fold the sticky things back exactly right. Proper undignified, but utterly satisfying.

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.

I 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. My mouth was already watering at the thought.

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 tantalising 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, her eyes travelling over me with undisguised appreciation. 'I had Maria select it this morning.'

'Planning ahead, were you?' I managed, trying to sound nonchalant.

Her smile was slow and deliberate, a predator sizing up its prey. '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. Now, ironically, his absence was enabling a different kind of fortune.

'Indeed.' Her eyes met mine, holding a wicked promise, a silent understanding passing between us. 'I had planned to show you the nightlife anyway. This just means we won't be rushed.'

'What kind of nightlife?' My pulse quickened.

Ting's laugh was musical, a low, seductive sound. 'Not the sanitised version in travel brochures. Something more... authentic. This city doesn't just show you its shining surface, Jamie. It whispers its secrets to those who dare to listen.' She moved closer, carrying the same scent I'd detected on those stockings I'd borrowed earlier. My face heated up, remembering what I'd done. 'There's a place called Pleasure Palace. Very exclusive. Very private. It's where this city lets its hair down, far from the tourist gaze.'

'Sounds intriguing,' I managed, acutely aware of how close she was standing, the magnetic pull undeniable.

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

I had a few hours to kill, so I went back to my room and flicked through channels on the massive telly. News here was all about the post-COVID tourism boom and some new luxury development on Sentosa Island. Boring as hell. 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 an erection. Funny how life works out. Here I was at twenty-two, living out fantasies I'd had since I was at school, and the line between fantasy and reality was blurring by the minute.

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.

The 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. The city's scent was different now, a mix of exhaust fumes, something sweet from distant flowers, and the underlying dampness of the tropics. This place 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. The city seemed to vibrate with a hidden energy, a deceptive calm.

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, a genuine, unforced sound. 'Durian. The king of fruits. Some find it... challenging.'

'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.'

The car stopped at some fancy, unmarked building. No signs, just tinted doors and a bouncer who knew Ting, nodding in silent acknowledgement. This was the city's hidden pulse.

Inside was posh as hell -- rich tossers pretending they weren't just there for shagging. Orchard Towers for the wealthy, basically, but with a more sophisticated veneer. The air thrummed with subdued music and the clink of ice, a low murmur of conversation that hinted at secrets.

I 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 I noticed Charlotte from my flight, chatting up some young-looking banker type. My dream had materialised, right here.

'Know her?' Ting asked, a flicker of interest in her eyes.

'Flight attendant,' I said, a smirk playing on my lips. 'Been picturing her silver bush since take-off.'

'We could arrange something later,' Ting suggested, her voice smooth, utterly serious.

'Serious?'

'Very. This city provides. For those who know how to ask.'

Fat Mr Wong waddled over, his belly straining his expensive suit, a living embodiment of the city's underbelly opulence. He 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, all long legs and artfully bored expression.

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

'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, a knowing glint in her eye. '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. This city keeps its raw desires well hidden, Jamie. But they're here.'

After another drink, the whisky warming my insides, Ting stood up. 'Time to show you the private rooms. Where the real city resides.'

Natasha grabbed my hand, her fingers cool and slender, leading us down a dimly lit 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! Another little quirk of the place.

Fucking hell. The room was pure filth -- a massive bed with red silk sheets, mirrors everywhere including the ceiling, and enough sex toys on the wall to stock Ann Summers. A proper porn palace, luxurious and decadent.

'My favourite room,' Ting said, kicking her heels off, her eyes sweeping over the mirrored expanse. 'Thoughts?'

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

'Pleasure Palace has rules,' Ting said, her voice dropping to a tone I hadn't heard before -- commanding, almost stern. This was the city's hidden authority speaking through her. 'First, nothing leaves this room. Not stories, not photos, nothing.'

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

'Second,' she continued, her eyes fixed on mine, 'I'm in charge. This is my room, my rules. Think of me as your guide through this place's unspoken temptations.'

Natasha was already mixing drinks at a small bar in the corner, like this was all perfectly normal. She looked like she'd done this routine a hundred times before, a professional in a world of illicit indulgence. I 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, her touch electrifying. 'Everyone participates. No spectators. This city demands full immersion, Jamie.'

'Wouldn't dream of just watching,' I managed, as her hand brushed against my growing erection. She seemed extra energetic tonight, her pupils like dinner plates. Definitely not just whisky fuelling 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 properly dizzy. Talk about multitasking. Felt like I'd won some kind of competition I didn't know I'd entered.

I caught sight of us in them mirrors and nearly spat laughing. Like some posh wank material -- the kind you'd pay extra for on Pornhub, a private, exclusive show for an audience of one: me.

'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. This city knows how to push boundaries.'

'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. From this place, with love.'

I knocked it back, feeling the expensive whisky burn all the way down, a welcome heat joining the tropical air. 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. I nearly stumbled backwards, surprised by how aggressive it was.

'Relax,' Ting whispered in my ear, her hands sliding around to unbutton my shirt from behind. 'Enjoy. Let this place consume you.'

What followed was the most mental experience of my life. Ting shoved me onto the bed while Natasha got between my legs and did things with her mouth that'd probably get you arrested back home. The mirrors were like having my own porno playing from every angle -- I 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. It shows you everything.'

'Hard not to,' I groaned, as Natasha did this swirly thing with her tongue that nearly made me lose it. I bit my lip, trying not to look too eager, which felt stupid considering the situation. My mind was suddenly thinking about Ms Richardson's perfectly neat desk at Eton, and here I was, getting professional head in a high-end sex club. Weird.

Ting laughed, a low, throaty sound. 'Your father hates mirrors. Always keeps his eyes shut tight.'

There she went again, bringing up Dad at the most inappropriate moment. It should have been a mood killer, but somehow it just made everything more deliciously forbidden. This was a direct defiance of his world.

'What about rule three?' I cheekily said, my voice hoarse. 'No spectating, mother!'

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

I agreed. It 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. I kept thinking about what I'd done with her other pair. Wonder if she'd found my little present yet?

'Your mind's wandering,' Ting said, grinding harder against my face, her voice a low growl. 'Focus on the job, Jamie.'

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

At some point, Ting moved off me and went to one of the cabinets. She came back with leather cuffs and a wicked smile, the implements of our shared indulgence.

'Now for the real fun,' she said, dangling them in front of me. 'Wrists, please. This city loves a little restraint, you see.'

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

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, a private performance in this pleasure palace.

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, a delicious invitation.

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

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

Fucking hell. The silk plus her mouth. Hot and cold at the same time. A 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 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?'

I had to grin, didn't I? Even with Natasha doing her best work, expertly navigating the stocking. YOLO and all that bollocks. Not like anyone'd believe me if I told 'em anyway. I 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 hell for her age -- she 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, as she moved over Natasha's body. '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? This place has it all.'

When they finally untied me, I was desperate. Rock hard and aching, my body screaming for release. I practically jumped on Ting, pushing her back on the sheets. She looked shocked for a second, then well pleased, like I'd passed some kind of test, proven myself worthy.

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

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

'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. A 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, her eyes gleaming with new possibilities. 'This city likes to reveal your hidden desires.'

'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. This place encourages it.'

As I got stuck in, my tongue tracing the arch of Natasha's foot, I 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 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 wondered what the rate is for that here. Probably came with a surcharge, like ordering anchovies on a pizza. 'Yes sir, anal play is an additional 500 dollars, would you like to add that to your experience today?' This place was absolutely wild.

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, a deliciously filthy end to the night.

'Look at us,' Ting ordered, yanking my head towards the mirror, her eyes blazing. 'See what your father's missing? What he's too old and boring to handle. This is the real power here, Jamie. Not his boardrooms.'

I 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.'

It 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 you go. This city was stripping away all my previous notions of right and wrong.

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

'Thank fuck for that,' I replied, still trying to catch my breath. I couldn't help adding, 'Though I suppose I've just properly marked my old man's territory, haven't I?' A 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 club. 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? I 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. I stumbled down the hallway, counting doors. One, two... I 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 trader 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 nothing 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. I 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. This was the city's hidden tapestry, playing out right before my eyes.

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.

It might not have been Charlotte, of course. But it looked enough like her to definitely make it into the wank bank for later. Between this and the mirror room with Ting, I reckoned I'd got enough mental porn to last till I'm ninety. Funny how many blonde flight attendants end up in sex clubs here, innit? Must be something about the job. Or maybe it's just that this place is like Disneyland for pervs, a city designed to unleash every repressed desire.

When I met Ting at the entrance, I must've looked proper shell-shocked 'cause she raised an eyebrow. I probably had that 'just saw someone I fancy getting shagged' look that every bloke recognises.

'You alright?'

'Just took a wrong turn,' I said, trying not to smirk. 'Saw some shit. This place really does have surprises.'

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

'This city's full of surprises, innit!' I laughed, still a bit stunned, the neon lights a blur.

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

In the car back to Dad's place, Ting sat close, her hand on my thigh. 'Enjoy your first taste of nightlife here 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. This place is a proper temptress.'

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

A bit terrifying, a 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 the city's quiet, sprawling traffic.

I hadn't even thought about food till she mentioned it, but suddenly I was starving. 'Fucking 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 this place.' 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. This city truly offered every kind of pleasure.

'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. Another of this city's delights he misses.'

'His loss,' I mumbled through a mouthful. 'This is better than that fancy French bollocks he's always on about.' I 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. This place truly reveals what one lacks.'

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

Chapter 3: The Final Fling

Fucking this place, man. Back in London, my biggest thrill was usually finding a non-soggy Greggs sausage roll at the Tube station or convincing Emily to suffer through missionary for more than ten minutes. The heat here, though? It wasn't just melting the ice cubes in my gin; it was a humid blanket pressing down, frying my very thoughts, unsticking all the boring little rules I'd lived by until they peeled away like old wallpaper. Less than a week, and I'd already shagged Dad's maid -- using her bloody tights as restraints, no less. There'd been a threesome with my Chinese stepmum and some Russian hooker in a posh sex club. And other stuff... stuff that would make a porn star blush and Emily call me a 'pervy twat' with a permanent shudder. This city was truly working its magic, stripping me bare.

Now, two days left before flying home, Dad back tomorrow, and I was somehow supposed to act normal. Like, 'Morning Dad, how was Jakarta? No, I haven't been balls deep in your wife while you were gone, promise. Pass the bloody orange juice.' The thought twisted a perverse knot in my gut, hot and thrilling, a sharp stab of guilt quickly overridden by a surge of pure, unadulterated thrill.

The early morning light, usually a cruel exposer of last night's regrets, felt surprisingly gentle. I stretched, a delightful ache blooming in muscles I hadn't known existed until they'd been so vigorously employed in the Pleasure Palace shenanigans. My arse might have been a bit bruised, but my soul, or at least my libido, felt utterly sated. Then, the illusion of peaceful recovery shattered. Ting, looking annoyingly pristine as if she hadn't been a willing participant in the aforementioned shenanigans, announced over breakfast a new proposition, dripping with false innocence: 'cultural excursion,' she called it.

'Every visitor to this city should experience the local temples,' she said, all prim and proper, as if her face hadn't been a human saddle twelve hours earlier. 'It's important to respect traditions. To understand the city's deeper currents.'

Maria, serving coffee with her usual quiet efficiency, caught my eye. Her crucifix, almost blasphemously, still hung around her neck, resting near her pert breasts -- a bit rich, considering what she'd been doing with her mouth the night before. She stifled a smile, her shoulders shaking faintly. Nothing like a bit of religious hypocrisy to spice up the morning.

'Right,' I replied, shovelling Kaya toast into my gob. 'Proper cultural, me. Love a good temple.'

Ting's lips curved into that familiar, knowing smile. The one that promised more than it revealed, a mirror of the city itself. 'This one is special. Kwan Im Thong Hood Cho Temple -- old, very respected for Palmistry. They have fortune tellers who read your... hands. Your destiny.'

The way she said 'hands' made it sound distinctly filthy. Or maybe that was just my perverted brain at this point, recalibrated by the heat. I'd probably get an erection from a bus timetable if I stared at it long enough. Emily once called me a 'pervy twat' because of it -- said I thought with my cock instead of my brain. She was probably right, the bloody know-all!

'Can't argue with a bit of hand reading,' I agreed, wiggling my fingers at her. 'These babies have got quite a story to tell after the last few days. A few new lines, perhaps.'

'You have no idea,' Maria murmured, her breath a ghost against my ear as she leaned to top up my coffee, a secret just between us that Ting couldn't possibly catch. But I did. The thought of what secrets she held, what she'd seen and perhaps participated in, sent a fresh jolt through me, a delicious tremor.

As Maria leaned over, I couldn't help but notice her feet in those practical black flats. Nothing special to most blokes, but ever since Ms Richardson and her killer heels in Year 11 English, I'd had a thing for women's feet. Emily used to think it was weird. 'Feet are just... feet, Jamie,' she'd say whenever I tried to massage hers after a night out. Frigid cow never did let me try half the stuff I wanted to. My London life suddenly felt very, very small. A grey little cage compared to this humid, vibrant, incredibly horny existence that this place had gifted me.

Stepping out of the cool, incense-laced air of the temple, the sweltering heat hit us like a wet towel, wrapping around me, sticky and oppressive. It was a proper reminder that even a 'cultural excursion' here felt charged, the old woman's words still clinging to my brain like the humidity, making the short walk back to the car feel heavy with unspoken revelations. The city itself seemed to hum with suppressed energies.

The temple itself was stunning, all intricate carvings and vibrant colours, the air thick with the scent of burning joss sticks. A proper touristy spot, but Ting led us past the main areas to a private room where an ancient woman sat, eyeing us with an unnerving intensity as we approached. She barked something at Ting in rapid-fire Cantonese.

'My stepson,' Ting explained in English, gesturing to me. 'He needs guidance. This city's wisdom.' A subtle challenge in her tone, as if daring the old woman to reveal the true depths of my character.

The old woman's eyes narrowed as she looked me up and down, a knowing glint in their depths. 'San!' she announced suddenly, a rasp in her voice, pointing a gnarled finger at me.

'Sorry, love?' I asked, utterly confused, my British politeness kicking in despite the surreal setting.

'Three is your number,' she declared, reaching for my hands. Her fingers were like twigs, surprisingly strong as she turned my palms up and traced the lines. 'Good beginnings, especially in relationships. Three pleasures. Three secrets.'

I nearly choked. Three pleasures? Three secrets? 'Did she just...'

'Fortune tellers speak in metaphors,' Ting cut in smoothly, though I caught the amusement dancing in her eyes. 'She sees your path clearly. And this city's influence.'

'Very lucky man,' the old woman added, releasing my hands, her eyes twinkling. 'But beware of dreams. Not all can come true.' Her gaze dropped to my feet, lingering for a moment, then back up to my face. 'You have interesting desires. Feet. You like feet.'

A mortifying blush bloomed across my cheeks, hot and undeniable. My gut clenched. How the bloody hell did she know that? It was a secret I'd barely admitted to myself, let alone anyone else beyond Emily, who'd promptly dismissed it as 'weird'. A secret, revealed by a stranger in a temple, of all places. This place, it seemed, saw right through me.

'Many men do,' the old woman continued, seemingly unfazed, as if discussing the weather. 'Nothing to be ashamed. Feet connect us destiny. Very sensual. This city embraces all desires.'

Ting glanced at me with a spark of newfound interest, a new game clearly forming in her eyes. 'Is that right, Jamie? You never mentioned. This place is full of surprises, even about yourself.'

'Never came up,' I muttered, suddenly feeling like I was sixteen again, caught wanking to the ASOS shoe section on my phone.

The old woman said something else to Ting in Cantonese, a low, rapid exchange. My stepmum nodded, handed over some cash, and then we were back outside in the sweltering heat, the city's vibrant energy pressing in on us. The air felt heavy with unspoken promises, a humid cloak of anticipation.

'Well, that was cryptic,' I remarked as we walked back to the car. 'What was all that three business about? And I thought she was just supposed to be looking at my hands!'

'Perhaps it's time to find out,' Ting replied, her attention fixed on my admission about my 'preferences.' Her smile widened, predatory and inviting, a true siren of this place. 'You should have told me more about your... preferences. Maria has beautiful feet, don't you think? Very talented.'

Christ, was I that transparent? 'They're alright,' I said, trying to sound casual, though my brain was a whirlwind of potential new scenarios. The third 'secret' already felt like it was beginning to unravel, this city pulling the thread.

Ting's laugh was light, almost tinkling, devoid of malice. 'Oh Jamie. You don't say much, and when you do, you talk too fast. But there's more to you than meets the eye. And this city knows how to find it.'

Back at the penthouse, the heat kept pressing in, a proper physical reminder of all the tension building up. Ting scarpered off to take a Teams call, leaving me on my tod. I was lounging by the pool, trying to figure out what the hell that temple visit was all about, when she rocked up again, looking suspiciously pleased with herself, a cat who'd swallowed the cream.

'We're having a visitor tonight,' she announced, sliding into a chair beside me, her voice casual. 'An old friend. From this city's more... discreet circles.'

'Another friend like Natasha?' I asked, a bit too curious for my own good, probably, a flicker of excitement.

'Not quite,' Ting replied, all mysterious, her eyes gleaming. 'But he's bringing some... items I've requested. Special tools for special pleasures.'

'Fat Mr Wong?' I guessed, remembering the club owner, a surge of adrenaline. 'Bringing items? Here? To Dad's penthouse?' The thought of that enormous bloke in this swanky flat was absurd, but, Christ, it was also a bit thrilling, adding another layer to this place's hidden life.

Ting chuckled, low and knowing. 'You remembered. Yes, he provides... special items for valued clients. This city caters to all tastes.'

'Mr Premium Package himself, then,' I said with a smirk. 'Subtle name, that.'

'Very literal in translation,' Ting agreed with a smile. 'And very reliable. Like the city itself, once you know its true nature.'

And reliable he was. Fat Wong pitched up dead on seven, looking exactly as he had at the club -- still enormous, still in a suit that looked like it was trying to escape his bulk. He moved with a weird kind of grace for a man that size, giving Ting a slight bow when she greeted him.

'Mrs Bennett,' he rumbled, his English thick but clear. 'Everything you wanted. Plus... extra bits. For tonight. This city provides.'

He handed over a discreet black leather case. Ting took it with a nod, no money changing hands, a silent transaction of power and pleasure. Made me wonder what their arrangement was, didn't want to think too hard about it. There was some subtle power thing going on there, a delicate balance.

'Enjoying your time here, I see?' Fat Wong grinned, his eyes lingering on me for a second, a knowing glint.

'Very much,' I replied, feeling Ting's hand slide into mine. A silent warning, a claim. A small spark in the humid air.

'I put in that special thing you asked for,' Wong told Ting, with a knowing flick of his eyes. 'Platinum stuff. Top quality.'

'Perfect,' Ting replied, her grip on my hand tightening a fraction. 'Cheers for coming at such short notice.'

'For you, always,' he said with another little bow, then turned and lumbered out. 'Have a good night.'

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Ting with her mysterious case and me with a thousand questions buzzing in my head. My mind was doing mental gymnastics, trying to link the temple, the foot fetish bollocks, and these 'special items.' What twisted gear did Fat Wong flog for 'valued clients'? It made Emily's predictable moans about my 'weird' fetishes feel utterly pathetic, like a relic from a life that was shrinking faster than a cheap suit in the wash. 'What the fuck's in the box?!' I demanded, doing my best Brad Pitt from Se7en impression, though I reckoned whatever was inside would make even Kevin Spacey blush.

'Patience, Jamie,' Ting said, putting the case aside. 'First, dinner. Then... a delicious dessert. This city's finest.'

Dinner was another poncey fusion affair, Maria serving it up like clockwork, her movements graceful and precise. We ate in a charged silence, that black leather case just sitting there on the counter between us, humming with unspoken promises. It was tight-lipped and dangerous, like a fuse slowly burning, the anticipation an exquisite torment. This city, it seemed, was preparing its grand reveal.

'Your husband called,' Maria informed Ting as she cleared our plates. 'His flight's still booked for 10:30 tomorrow morning. From Jakarta.'

'Oh, how perfect,' Ting replied, sipping her tea, a faint smile playing on her lips. 'That gives us plenty of time. This city always provides opportunity.'

The look that passed between them made it bloody obvious Maria knew exactly what was on the cards for the evening. Hell, they'd probably been chatting about it while I was out by the pool, comparing notes on my bedroom preferences. The thought of them analysing my kinks should've made me crawl into a hole, but here, in the humid night, it just made my pulse quicken. And honestly? It was hot as fuck.

At precisely eight o'clock, the bedroom door opened and Maria stepped in. But this wasn't Maria the maid. She stood framed in the doorway, a vision transformed. The prim uniform replaced by a slither of black silk, just enough to hint at the delicious curves beneath. Her crucifix, almost blasphemously, still hung at her throat, its sacred symbol drawing my eye directly to the swell of her breasts, making the whole scene gleefully, impossibly filthy. A direct, undeniable challenge to every notion of convention, a reflection of this city's hidden depths.

'Mrs Bennett requests your presence in the master bedroom,' she said, her voice formal despite her appearance. 'She suggests you wear nothing but this.' She handed me Dad's Rolex, gleaming cold on my palm.

Putting on Dad's watch while preparing to shag his wife in his bed. If there was a competition for World's Shittest Son, I'd be taking gold, silver, and the bloody bronze. A sharp stab of guilt, quickly overridden by a surge of perverse thrill. The ultimate defilement, perfectly orchestrated by this city's wicked heart.

But did that stop me? Did it bollocks.

I stripped off, not bothering with modesty -- Maria had seen everything I had to offer multiple times by now. The watch felt heavy on my wrist, a cold, metallic reminder of whose life I was temporarily stepping into. Whose wife I was about to rail. Whose bed I was about to defile. The duplicity felt strangely empowering, a rogue thrill that buzzed beneath my skin. A tiny, nagging voice, probably Emily's, screeched 'pervy twat!' in my head. But it was easily drowned out by the thrumming excitement and the humid throb of the city outside.

'Ready?' Maria asked, her eyes dropping to my cock, which was already at half-mast just from anticipation.

'Born ready,' I replied, following her out of the room. The air in the hallway seemed to thicken with unspoken desires, pulling me towards the heart of the penthouse.

The master bedroom was a sight to behold. Ting had transformed it from Dad's austere sleeping quarters into something out of a high-end porn set. Candles everywhere, casting flickering shadows across the king-size bed. The sheets had been changed to deep red silk that looked obscenely expensive, a rich, passionate canvas.

And in the centre of it all was Ting, wearing nothing but a black silk robe that fell open to reveal glimpses of bare skin beneath. The black case from Fat Wong sat open on the bedside table, its contents hidden from my view, waiting like a Pandora's Box of pleasure, this city's dark gifts.

'Jamie,' she greeted me, turning, her smile a direct challenge, utterly self-possessed. A queen on her throne, reigning over her domain of desire. 'Right on time. The pleasure awaits.'

My dick stiffened instantly at the sight of her. Ting's body was incredible in the candlelight -- all sleek curves and smooth skin, her nipples dark against her pale breasts as she let the robe slip from her shoulders, revealing everything.

'Blimey, mother,' I breathed, utterly speechless. The word felt both right and deeply, horribly wrong, a perfect blend of taboo and desire.

'I'll take that as a compliment,' she laughed, a low, seductive sound, beckoning me closer. 'Come. Your fortune awaits. The one this city promised.'

I approached the bed, acutely aware of Maria following behind me, her presence a silent hum of anticipation, an accomplice in this delicious conspiracy. The air was thick with the smell of kinky fuckery, a heady mix of scented candles and raw desire.

'The fortune teller was more perceptive than I expected,' Ting mused, running a finger down my chest, tracing a path that ignited goosebumps. 'She mentioned certain... interests of yours. Hidden pleasures.'

As she spoke, Maria's robe dropped to the floor, revealing she was wearing nothing but sheer black hold-up stockings with seams that clung to her thighs. The contrast between the dark material and her skin was mesmerising, drawing my eye downward. That's when I noticed it -- the delicate silver ring around her second toe, catching the candlelight as she moved. The 'feet' secret. This city's little revelation.

'Something caught your attention?' Ting asked, following my gaze, a sly amusement in her voice, a predatory gleam.

'Maria's toe ring,' I admitted, a flush rising. 'And those stockings. They're... very nice.' Emily would've laughed her arse off seeing me now, practically drooling over a pair of feet. But here, with Ting's knowing eyes on me, it felt like revelation, not ridicule.

'Many secrets to discover,' Ting replied, reaching for the black case. 'Many desires to explore. This place is a city of endless possibilities.'

From the case, she produced a pair of fur-lined handcuffs that looked both luxurious and sturdy, followed by a sleek platinum cock ring. 'Fat Wong supplies only the best,' she explained, dangling the handcuffs from one finger while offering me the ring. 'Care to try these? They're very much in line with the indulgences here -- efficient and exquisite.'

What followed was possibly the most intense and kinky sexual experience of my life (so far). Ting directed proceedings, positioning us exactly how she wanted. Me on my back on Dad's obscenely comfortable bed, wrists secured to the headboard with the fur-lined cuffs. Maria straddling my face, her pussy mere inches from my mouth, those gorgeous hold-up stockings framing her thighs. Ting between my legs, riding my cock teasingly slowly, bringing me to the edge repeatedly before backing off, a master of delayed gratification.

'Taste her, Jamie,' Ting instructed, her voice a low command, and I eagerly complied, burying my tongue in Maria's wet cunt. She tasted different than Ting -- spicier somehow, with an earthy quality that was addictive. Above me, Maria moaned, her thighs trembling on either side of my head, the silver toe ring glinting as her feet curled in pleasure, a testament to her secret life. Maria, usually so reserved, was all raw, primal hunger, her Catholic guilt apparently packed away in a drawer somewhere, lost in the city's embrace. She cried out in a mix of English and what I guessed was Tagalog, her release echoing in the candlelit room. Did this life, this release, offer her something her 'quiet efficiency' as a maid never could? I wondered, but the thought evaporated as Ting's hand found my balls, squeezing gently.

The contrast between them was intoxicating. Ting all control and precision, every move calculated for maximum effect. Maria more abandoned, more vocal, her Catholic guilt apparently forgotten as she ground against my face, a raw, primal hunger. The combination had Maria coming hard, her thighs clamping around my head as she cried out in a mixture of English and what I assumed was Tagalog, her body a testament to this city's power.

'Beautiful,' Ting murmured, watching Maria's orgasm subside, a predator admiring her prey, her creation. 'Now, my turn. This place always serves its dessert.'

They switched positions, Ting straddling my face while Maria moved between my legs to lap up Ting's juices from my cock with her tongue, a sensual chain.

The taste of Ting's cunt was different -- sweeter, more delicate, but no less intoxicating. The dual sensation was mind-blowing -- Ting grinding against my tongue while Maria's warm, wet mouth worked my shaft. It was all I could do not to come immediately, especially when Ting reached back to pinch my nipples, adding another layer of sensation, a sweet torment.

'Not yet,' Ting commanded, sensing my impending orgasm, her voice firm. 'We have something special for you. The third pleasure. This city demands it.'

Another position change, another configuration of bodies, orchestrated with perfect precision. This time, there was a surprise, one directly linked to the fortune teller's revelation. Ting had noticed my reaction to Maria's feet earlier, and now she was exploiting it ruthlessly, a true master of her domain.

'Maria,' she instructed, her voice laced with delight, 'show Jamie how talented your feet are. Give him this city's true pleasure.'

Maria smiled, a slow, sensual curve of her lips, positioning herself at the foot of the bed. She took my cock between the arches of her feet, the silver toe ring catching my eye once again, as she began to stroke me with a skill that suggested this wasn't her first time giving a foot job.

'Jesus H. Christ,' I groaned, watching my cock slide between her stockinged feet. The sensation was incredible -- the slight roughness of the nylon against my sensitive skin, the warmth of her feet, the visual of her toes curling around my shaft. Emily would've refused point blank if I'd ever suggested this. Probably would've called me a sick puppy and stormed off to her mum's for the weekend. The thought of London, of Emily, felt impossibly distant, a fading dream, a grey little cage compared to this humid, vibrant, incredibly horny existence this place had thrust upon me.

'Enjoying yourself?' Ting asked, kneeling beside me to watch, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. 'You should have told me about this particular interest earlier. This city has no secrets, Jamie.'

'Didn't know how to bring it up,' I admitted, my voice strained as Maria increased her pace. 'Not exactly dinner conversation, is it? Back home, anyway.'

'In this household, everything is open for discussion,' Ting replied, her hand finding my balls, cupping them gently as Maria continued her ministrations. 'No shame. Only pleasure. This is what this place offers, Jamie. Release.' Her words were an invitation, a release from years of repression.

The combination of Maria's feet, Ting's hands, and the sheer forbidden nature of the whole scenario was pushing me rapidly toward the edge. 'Gonna spunk,' I warned, feeling the familiar tightening in my balls, a desperate urge.

'On her feet,' Ting instructed, her voice low and commanding. 'I want to watch you mark her. Make your offering to this city.'

That was all it took. With a strangled groan, I exploded, shooting my load all over Maria's stockinged feet in hot spurts. The sight was obscenely erotic -- my spunk glistening on the sheer black nylon, some of it pooling around her silver toe ring. A perfect, messy victory, a visual testament to my submission.

'Perfect,' Ting murmured, clearly satisfied with my reaction. 'Now, clean it up.'

For a moment, I thought I'd misheard. But the look in Ting's eyes was unmistakable. She wanted me to lick my own come off Maria's feet. Something I'd fantasised about in my darkest moments but never actually done. The ultimate submission, the ultimate indulgence, orchestrated by this city's own impulses.

But this wasn't London, and these weren't British birds with their prudish sensibilities. This was this place, where the heat melted inhibitions and nothing seemed too much. I leaned forward, my tongue tentatively making contact with Maria's stockinged foot. The taste was a mixture of nylon, sweat, and my own spunk. Not unpleasant, just... different. Maria moaned softly, clearly enjoying the sensation of my tongue on her very sensitive stockinged feet.

'Good work, Jamie son,' Ting praised, watching with obvious approval. 'See? No shame here. Only what this city allows.'

By the time I'd cleaned every drop from Maria's feet, I was already getting hard again. The perks of being twenty-two, I suppose. Ting noticed immediately.

'Impressive recovery time,' she commented, her hand wrapping around my semi-erect cock. 'I think we're going to need more of Fat Wong's supplies. This place always has more to give.'

From the black case, she produced what looked like a small bullet vibrator, sleek and expensive-looking. She handed it to Maria, who immediately positioned it against her clit as she straddled me, guiding my now-fully-hard cock inside her.

'Now,' Ting instructed, joining us on the bed, her hands roaming over both our bodies. 'Let's see if we can all come together this time. A symphony from this city.'

The next hour was a blur of positions and combinations, each more intense than the last. At one point, I found myself fucking Ting from behind while she used the vibrator on herself, Maria's feet propped up in front of her so she could suck on her toes. The sight was so depraved, so utterly filthy, that I nearly came on the spot. It was a symphony of sensation, a masterpiece of mutual indulgence, played out under this city's unseen eye.

And then, as I was still throbbing, Ting leaned down. Her eyes held a mischievous glint as she dipped a finger into the slick, still-warm pool of my cum on Maria's foot. She slowly brought the finger to her own lips, tasting it with a soft, appreciative hum. 'Such a good boy, Jamie,' she purred, her eyes never leaving mine, a silent challenge in her gaze. 'So full of... potential. And so delicious.' She licked her finger clean, her gaze almost possessive. It was brazen, beyond anything I'd imagined. Not just my cum, but her cum, on her finger, swallowed with a look that dared me to question it. The sheer audacity of it left me speechless, my body buzzing with a mixture of shock and renewed arousal.

We stumbled to the living room after needing a break. The heat was relentless, even with the air conditioning. Our skin glistened with sweat, a testament to the passion that pulsed through the penthouse.

The view stopped me in my tracks. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city spread out below, a metropolis of lights against the night sky, glittering like a vast, interconnected circuit board. The Marina Bay Sands hotel dominated the skyline, a symbol of Dad's world -- his achievements, his ambition.

'Your father paid extra for these windows,' Ting said, utterly bare, pressing her body flush against the floor-to-ceiling glass. The city lights spilled in behind her, casting her silhouette in sharp relief, almost ethereal against the urban glow. 'Big dick energy for client meetings, he says. A display of power, a challenge to the city itself.'

Her hands splayed against the cool surface, leaving sweaty palm prints, a posh, twisted echo of that iconic Titanic scene, but infinitely more real. The skyline glittered below like a sea of stars, but all I could focus on was Ting, arching into the glass, completely exposed, completely in control, a goddess presiding over her city.

Dad always droned on about his 'business genius.' Meanwhile, here I was, balls deep inside his wife, and he hadn't the faintest idea. Some detective he'd make. If there was a market for clueless billionaires, Dad would be Jeff fucking Bezos. The irony was exquisite, a silent triumph over his detached world.

Maria knelt behind Ting, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, fingers clutching Ting's hips with a fierce possessiveness. Her face hovered just above Ting's flawless, pale curves, a devotion in her gaze. The contrast was stunning. Dark hair against ivory skin, their forms outlined by the sprawling cityscape. Damn. Like a living erotic art installation. The National Gallery would charge a twenty-pound entry just for this view, a masterpiece of forbidden desire.

I was caught between the heat of their bodies and the cool glass pressing against Ting's chest. The world outside felt miles away, irrelevant, swallowed up by the sharp pleasure and the sharp city lights. This place was both our stage and our audience.

I was right on the edge myself, teetering between incredible pleasure and brain-melting release, when Ting let out this guttural moan and said, 'Oh... Charles...' Charles? As in my bloody FATHER Charles? My rhythm faltered, a jolt of ice-cold shock shooting through my pleasure-addled brain. Christ, not Dad, not now! The ultimate transgression. The utter, mind-bending wrongness of it, coupled with the raw, visceral pleasure, somehow amplified everything, transforming the forbidden into the divine. My hands gripped Ting's hips harder, a defiant surge of power building until I couldn't hold back any longer. I emptied my balls deep inside Ting. 'Fuck yessss, mother!' I let out a cry of triumph, a defiant shout against the city's glass, claiming my victory.

Maria didn't waste a second. She slid her tongue slowly along Ting's thigh, tracing the path of my spunk with deliberate, teasing licks. Ting's breath hitched, her body still trembling as Maria's warm mouth followed the slick trail.

The world was alive beneath our feet, a vibrant, sprawling metropolis, but up here, in this private high-rise, it was just the three of us, tangled, messy, and utterly alive. The true heart of this city, beating in the shadows.

As we collapsed in a tangle of limbs on the floor, the city lights reflecting off our glistening skin, I couldn't help but think about Dad, completely unaware of what had transpired. The thought gave me a perverse thrill, even as exhaustion began to overtake me.

'Worth coming here for?' Ting asked, curling against my side, her hand tracing patterns on my chest.

'Oh, yes,' I agreed, my eyes already growing heavy. 'Best cultural experience ever. This city doesn't just show you things; it makes you feel them.'

Maria laughed softly from my other side. 'And you haven't even seen the night markets yet. Or the true depths of what this place offers.'

'Next time,' I murmured, feeling sleep beginning to claim me, a contented sigh escaping my lips. 'Definitely coming back... for more 'cultural experiences'.'

We ended up all back in Dad's bed. I dozed off between Ting and Maria, my balls well and truly emptied. But the next thing I knew, my brain decided to kick off a new show. Jet lag was a proper bastard, still messing with my head, blending reality and fantasy into a kinky tapestry. I was slipping into another dream, but this one felt... different. More real, somehow, than the Charlotte ones. And the star of this particular show? None other than Ms Richardson. The fortune teller's warning echoed, a chilling whisper in my subconscious: Beware of dreams. Not all can come true.

This time, I was at Changi Airport, but in some fancy, hidden first-class lounge I hadn't seen yet. There was a private shower room, all gleaming chrome and marble, a sanctuary of sterile luxury. And Ms Richardson was in there, standing under the spray, steam coiling around her. She was wearing nothing but those sheer black tights from my schoolboy fantasies. Not the sensible ones, but the proper raunchy, almost translucent ones, shimmering in the steamy light.

'Jamie,' she whispered, her voice husky, her eyes fixed on mine through the steam, promising depths of forbidden knowledge. 'Come in. The water's perfect. This place awaits.'

My cock, of course, was already straining against my boxers, an eager participant. I stepped into the shower, the warm water hitting my skin. She turned, her body slick, those tights clinging to every curve, outlining every tempting detail. The contrast of the pure, innocent teacher and this forbidden scene was almost too much, a delicious paradox.

'I've always wondered about you, Jamie,' she murmured, her hand tracing a path down my chest, then lower, a touch that ignited fire. 'So much... potential. So much... curiosity.' She slipped down to her knees, her eyes never leaving mine, a silent invitation. The water hammered around us, a perfect, private roar, muffling any sounds of transgression.

'Ms Richardson...' I breathed, my voice thick, barely a whisper. It felt so wrong, but so bloody right. The memory of her in the classroom, those pencil skirts, the lectures on Shakespeare, all melted away as she took me in her mouth, consuming me.

She was incredible. Nothing like the fumbling uni girls, nothing like the raw power of Maria, or Ting's practiced control. This was something else. Gentle at first, then firm, expert, a master of her craft. She tasted like expensive soap and something intensely, deliciously forbidden. My head spun, pressing against the cool tiled wall. I could feel the gold crucifix Maria wore digging into my chest in the real bed, and here, in the dream, Ms Richardson's perfectly painted red toenails curled as her mouth worked me. It was all a dizzying, kinky swirl, a culmination of all my desires.

'You've grown, Jamie,' she purred, pulling back just enough to make me moan, her eyes sparkling with a wicked amusement that I'd never seen in the classroom. 'So much bigger than I imagined. This city has nurtured you.'

I grabbed her hair, not roughly, but with a desperate need, pushing her back down. This was it. The ultimate fantasy. To have her, the untouchable, the forbidden, utterly consuming me, leaving no part of me untouched.

'Oh, God,' I groaned, my body tensing, on the precipice. 'I'm close...'

She picked up the pace, her mouth working me with a frantic intensity, until I felt myself exploding, hot spurts of come shooting deep into her throat. Her body convulsed, her head still moving, drinking it all down, swallowing my release.

'Good boy, Jamie,' she whispered, pulling away, a faint, satisfied smile on her lips, her eyes heavy-lidded. 'A very good boy. This city always rewards good boys.'

The dream faded, the sensation lingering, and I was jolted awake, not by turbulence, but by a sharp, insistent jab from Ting's elbow.

'Jamie! Your father's flight landed early! He's ahead of schedule!'

I sat bolt upright, disoriented and sporting a massive hard-on from the dream. Damn. The Ms Richardson fantasy had felt so real. Even more real than the Charlotte ones. Next to me Maria was also stirring, looking just as startled.

'Jamie, did you hear me? Mr Bennett will be here in thirty minutes! His car just called from the expressway! The city's efficiency is a bloody nightmare sometimes!' Ting's voice, usually so calm, was edged with genuine urgency, a hint of panic.

'Shit! Everyone up! Now!' My London instincts for panic, surprisingly still intact, kicked in.

What followed was a mad scramble -- three naked bodies leaping from Dad's bed, gathering discarded clothes, wiping away evidence of our night together. Maria, ever the professional, was already stripping the sheets with practised speed while Ting sprayed some fancy room freshener to mask the unmistakable, glorious smell of sex.

'Cold shower,' Ting ordered, pushing me toward the bathroom, a firm hand on my back. 'Move! Before this place's order asserts itself!'

So much for our lazy morning after. Nothing kills the mood quite like your dad's imminent arrival, the looming spectre of the 'normal' life I was supposed to return to, a life that now felt impossibly dull.

---

The Return of the King... and the Teacher

Dad's return was as underwhelming as expected. Charles Bennett wasn't just a man; he was a force, a walking, talking annual report, always on time, always in charge, always perfectly groomed. He strode into the penthouse like he owned the bloody place -- which, to be fair, he did -- and immediately started rattling on about his Jakarta meetings, barely a 'hello' for his own son. 'The Indonesians are on board,' he announced, loosening his tie, already planning the next conquest, another financial victory. 'Should add another fifteen percent to our APAC revenues next quarter.' Typical Dad. Always the business, never the bollocks of normal conversation or human connection.

'How wonderful, darling,' Ting replied, playing the dutiful corporate wife to perfection. If Dad noticed the slight hoarseness in her voice -- a result of her rather active night -- he gave no indication. His radar was tuned to market trends, not subtle signs of a shagging marathon. The hidden heart of this city remained undisturbed for him.

'Jamie my boy!' He finally acknowledged my existence, a fleeting glance, his eyes already drifting back to his phone. 'How's your trip been? Finding it... productive?'

'Can't complain,' I replied, a smirk playing on my lips I hoped he wouldn't notice, trying not to think about what I'd been doing in his bed a few hours earlier, the taste of Ting still fresh on my tongue. 'Very educational, actually.'

'Good, good. Listen, I need someone to oversee our Asian operations. Interested? It's a big step up, real responsibility.'

That was Dad -- always straight to business, no small talk, no emotional preamble. Job offer? Just like that? He laid out the offer like a fait accompli, a business proposal with a take-it-or-leave-it stamp, another one of this city's carefully presented opportunities.

I glanced at Ting, who was watching with barely concealed amusement, a silent conspirator. Dad, meanwhile, was already scrolling through his phone, utterly oblivious. 'Better than whatever you're doing in London, I imagine,' he grunted, not even looking up. Classic Dad. Offering a whole career just like that, without a sniff of what had really been on his bed, or the transformation this city had wrought in his son.

'I'll think about it,' I managed, the words tasting like ash, like a choice already made, a life irrevocably altered.

'Don't think too long,' Dad grunted, barely looking up. 'Flight tomorrow at 9 am. Let me know before then.'

And that was that -- my entire career future sorted, or rather, dictated, in under a minute. Classic Dad -- efficient, powerful, and utterly detached. The thought of London, of Emily's predictable tutting, of my flat with its weeping shower and the mind-numbing drone of the Northern Line, felt less like a life and more like a bloody holding pen. Here, under Ting's predatory gaze, I was actually breathing, truly alive, even if it was the humid, sex-scented air of depravity.

The rest of the day was bloody boring -- Dad dragged me to his office, showed me around, introduced me to some Chinese blokes who nodded politely while thinking God-knows-what. Dinner at Saint Pierre, some poncey French place where the portions wouldn't fill a hamster. Throughout it all, Ting played the perfect wife, though her stockinged foot kept finding mine under the table, a silent promise, a secret bond, a reminder of the city's delicious undertones.

'Early flight tomorrow,' Dad reminded me as we finished our microscopic desserts, already checking his watch. 'Car at 7 am.'

'I'll make sure he's ready,' Ting promised, her eyes meeting mine, a spark of mischief in their depths, a silent dare. 'Punctuality is a virtue here, even for departing guests.'

Back at the penthouse, Dad retired early, still suffering from jet lag, his world of business reports all-consuming. I retreated to my room, assuming that was it -- no chance for a proper goodbye with Ting, not with Dad in the next room. My London self would have accepted this, quietly returned to its cage.

I was wrong.

Around midnight, my bedroom door cracked open. Ting slipped inside, wearing nothing but a silk robe, her finger pressed to her lips in a gesture for silence. She was a silent, beautiful wraith, a nocturnal manifestation of this city's allure.

'He's asleep,' she whispered, moving toward my bed, her voice a low murmur. 'But we need to be quiet. Very, very quiet. The building doesn't tolerate rude awakenings.'

'Bit risky, isn't it?' I whispered back, my cock already straining against my boxers, a familiar urgency. The thought of Dad just meters away, utterly oblivious, was a perverse accelerant. A tiny, decent part of me screamed for self-preservation. The bigger part just wanted her, needed her, craved this dangerous game, this final act of defiance.

'Follow me,' she instructed, taking my hand and leading me not towards the bed, but to the ensuite bathroom, a perfect, soundproof sanctuary.

Inside, she closed the door quietly behind us and turned on the shower. The spray immediately filled the small space, a thundering roar that muffled any sound. 'For the noise,' she explained, letting her robe fall open, revealing her glorious body beneath.

Underneath, she was gloriously naked, her body impossibly perfect in the dim light filtering from the bedroom. My cock sprung free from my boxers, practically throbbing a hello, an eager participant in this final escapade.

'One last time,' she murmured, her eyes gleaming with a challenge, a final test. 'A proper goodbye. A real send-off.'

Before I could respond, she reached into her robe pocket and pulled out a pair of sheer black stockings -- the ones Maria had been wearing, still faintly carrying her scent.

'Open,' she instructed, and when I did, she stuffed part of the silky material into my mouth. 'To keep you quiet. Can't have you waking Charles, can we? Discretion is key here.'

The faint, lingering scent of Maria's skin, mingled with the sharp tang of nylon, filled my mouth, muffling my protests, my every breath. Gagged, hot, and utterly helpless, all I could manage was a low grunt through my nose. Ting took my hand, a silent command, and guided me fully into the shower stall. The warm spray instantly sluiced over us, slicking our bodies, each droplet a conspirator in our secret. The small space forced us together, chest to breast, cock to cunt, a perfect, forbidden intimacy.

'Jamie,' she breathed against my ear, her voice barely audible over the shower's roar, a primal whisper. 'Now. Take me. For all this city has shown you.'

I didn't need to be told twice. I gripped her hips, pulling her tight against me, and plunged in. The hot water sluiced over us, mixing with our sweat, the tight, wet slide of her cunt around me almost too much, a sensory overload. The ceramic tiles pressed against my back as she pushed against me, her legs wrapping around my waist, her ankles crossing behind me, holding me captive. The gag silenced any gasps or moans, but my body shuddered with the effort, every muscle straining, every nerve alive.

She was incredible, grinding against me, her hips bucking with a silent ferocity. Her eyes, fixed on mine, burned with a triumphant fire, a reflection of the city's untamed spirit. Dad was just two rooms away, possibly dreaming of quarterly reports, while his wife was riding his stepson like a depraved goddess in his shower. The sheer audacity of it, the wrongness, made my head spin, amplifying the pleasure. I drove into her harder, faster, the water thundering around us, providing a perfect, wet, thumping rhythm.

My fingers threaded through her wet hair, pulling her head back slightly to watch her face. Her lips were parted around the gag, her eyes half-closed in pleasure, a silent scream building in her throat. The heat, the water, the forbidden contact -- it was an assault on every sense, washing away any remaining shred of my old self, leaving only this new, primal version.

I felt the familiar tightening deep in my balls, a primal urge building. My hips thrust upward, an unstoppable force. With a muffled, guttural groan that the gag gratefully swallowed, I emptied myself inside her, feeling her inner muscles clench, her body shuddering with her own silent climax. We stayed there for a moment, spent and slick, the water washing over us, washing away nothing, only sealing our secret deeper into the fabric of the penthouse, and of this whole bloody city.

When she finally pulled back, stepping out of the spray, she looked utterly sated, a victorious smile on her lips. She reached up, slowly, tantalisingly, and removed the stocking from my mouth.

'Something to remember me by,' she whispered, her voice a little hoarse, leaning in to kiss me softly. I could taste my own come on her lips, a strange, potent reminder of our shared filth, our shared secret.

'As if I could forget,' I replied, still trying to catch my breath, my voice raw. My mind was already racing, replaying every moment, every forbidden touch, every boundary shattered.

'Take the job,' she said, retying her robe, her eyes challenging mine, a direct demand. 'Come back here. Not just for your father's business, Jamie. Come back for this. For all this city has to offer.'

This wasn't about a job offer anymore. It was a dare. A promise. And a threat. Was she simply bored, looking for a new plaything? Or was this a subtle poke at Dad, whose life is all 'quarterly reports' and no 'nuanced moans'? Her eyes, challenging mine, held a complexity I was only just starting to unpick. A story far more interesting than any business deal. The job was the key to this -- to her, to Maria, to this wild, limitless existence that this place embodied. My London flat, Emily, the Northern Line -- they belonged to a different, much smaller, Jamie.

'The job is yours to accept or decline,' she reiterated, her smile enigmatic. 'But I think we both know what you'll choose.' Her words hung in the humid air, heavy with certainty, a prophecy delivered by the city itself.

And with that, she was gone, slipping out of the bathroom as silently as she'd entered, leaving me standing there, soaked, half-naked, and with the shower still running. My balls were empty, but my mind was reeling, already calculating how soon I could get back to this city that had transformed me.

---

Morning came too bloody quickly. The sun blazed through the blinds like some sadistic torch, right in my face. I stuffed the last of my kit into my suitcase, brain still fuzzy from the week's shagging marathon. Dad had already buggered off to the office -- always another meeting, another deal to swing -- leaving Ting to see me off with that dirty smile of hers.

'You'll think about the offer?' she asked, standing in the doorway looking like butter wouldn't melt, while Maria hovered behind with my laundered pants, both of them looking proper gutted to see the back of me and my newfound talents.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. What was there to say? That I'd come here expecting heat and boredom, and instead found out I'm the kind of bloke who'd roger his dad's wife six ways from Sunday, and might just give up everything to keep doing it? A bit awkward for small talk, that. The words felt too vast, too charged for polite conversation in the city's bright morning light.

The ride to Changi Airport was uneventful and quiet. I stared out the window, trying not to think about the past week, which meant, of course, thinking about it constantly. Balls deep in the maid, her quiet moans. The Russian hooker with the big tits and terrifying confidence, her silk stocking on my cock. And my stepmother's tight cunt... Jesus. I really needed to get on that plane before someone called the embassy! My heart hammered with a blend of regret and wild exhilaration, a chaotic symphony only this place could conduct.

As I walked towards my gate, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in my gut -- part jet lag, part come-down, part pure anticipation of what was next -- a familiar face appeared from the crowd. Standing by a Duty-Free shop, clutching a ridiculously oversized Toblerone, was none other than Ms Richardson. My old English teacher. This city, it seemed, wasn't done with its surprises.

My jaw nearly hit the shiny, airport floor. She was probably in her late forties now, maybe early fifties, but still fit. Gone were the severe pencil skirts and sensible blouses of our classroom days, replaced by light summer trousers and a flowy, open shirt. Her hair, still that dark, sensible bob, looked a bit softer, styled with a touch more ease. And then I noticed her feet. Summer sandals, showing off perfectly painted toenails, a deep, almost vampy red. My cock, which I'd assumed was officially on strike for the journey home, gave an immediate, vigorous twitch. Bloody hell. The dream. It felt impossibly real now.

She spotted me then, her eyes widening in recognition. 'Jamie Bennett? Good heavens, is that really you?'

'Ms Richardson? Blimey, yeah, it's me,' I stammered, feeling like a gawky sixteen-year-old again, trying desperately to hide my immediate and highly inappropriate erection behind my carry-on bag.

A portly, red-faced bloke in a golf shirt ambled up beside her. 'Ah, this is my husband, Nigel. Nigel, this is Jamie, one of my brightest, if occasionally... spirited... pupils from Eton.'

Nigel grunted a friendly hello, clearly more interested in the Toblerone than my potential.

'We're just on an overnight stop, heading to see our daughter in Perth,' Ms Richardson explained, her smile warm, utterly oblivious to the fact that her former student had, on numerous occasions, wanked himself silly thinking about her in those sheer black tights she used to wear. The ones that had featured so prominently in my pubescent fantasies, even occasionally popping up in a dream or two on this very trip, fuelled by the pervasive sensuality here. A wave of pure, filthy nostalgia washed over me. I could almost feel the rough wool of my Eton blazer against my burgeoning erection.

'Fancy that,' I mumbled, trying to sound vaguely intelligent, while my eyes kept darting to her feet, hypnotised by the sight of her toes peeking out from the sandals. They looked soft, delicate, not at all like the sensible feet I'd imagined encased in those teaching shoes. God, Jamie, control yourself. This place was still working on me.

We exchanged a few more minutes of forced pleasantries. She asked about Cambridge, I gave vague, non-committal answers, my mind a riot of inappropriate images -- Ms Richardson bent over a desk, her skirt hiked up, those legs, those bloody feet... It was all I could do to stop myself from asking if she still had those tights.

'Well, lovely to see you, Jamie,' she said finally, giving me a polite, almost maternal pat on the arm. 'Do keep well.' Then, just as she was turning to leave, she paused. 'Oh, before I forget,' she added, pulling out her phone. 'My daughter keeps telling me I need to be more "social media savvy." Are you on Instagram? We could connect there, keep in touch.'

My heart did a little jig that had nothing to do with polite social interaction. An Instagram profile for Ms Bloody Richardson? The wank bank just got a platinum upgrade. 'Er, yeah, sure,' I managed, pulling out my own phone, trying to make sure no suspicious notifications popped up. We fumbled through the exchange, tapping away, my thumb feeling strangely clumsy. 'Cool, linked,' I said, trying for casual. It wasn't.

'Brilliant!' she chirped, a little too enthusiastically for someone who just gained one new follower. 'Now, we really must dash. Nice seeing you, Jamie! Perhaps our paths will cross again in this fascinating part of the world.'

As they walked off towards their gate, I watched her go, a lingering gaze on those red-painted toenails. This place truly was a mad city. Not only had it indulged my newfound kinks, but it had somehow brought my oldest, most hidden ones to life right before my eyes. And now, I had digital access to them. The fortune teller's warning about dreams, and their potential to come true, resonated with an unsettling accuracy.

I knew what I needed to do. My flight wasn't for another hour. My old teacher, my stepmum, my dad's maid... the cocktail of forbidden desires was overwhelming, a potent brew brewed in this humid embrace. I needed a moment to process, to relieve the pressure that had been building since Ms Richardson's perfectly painted toes had appeared, now with the added thrill of knowing I could stalk her holiday snaps.

I headed straight for the male toilets. Found a quiet cubicle, locked the door, and dropped my trousers. This flight home was going to be a long one, and I needed to be properly emptied out before I faced London again. It was a ritual, a final, dirty confession to myself before the world of normal resumed, a last offering to the city that had unleashed me.

First class seemed impossibly sterile after the week I'd had. Charlotte was there, all prim and proper in her uniform, but her smile held a warmth that hadn't been there on the outbound flight, a knowing glint in her blue eyes. And she still had that knowing look, like she could guess exactly what depraved thoughts had been rattling around my brain about her since the flight over.

'Good trip?' she asked, leaning close enough that I caught a whiff of her perfume as she handed me a glass of champagne. Her skirt brushed against my arm, and for a mad second, I wondered if she was wearing knickers beneath it or if my bloody Charlotte fantasy had some truth to it.

'Educational,' I replied, a smirk playing on my lips, which made her laugh in that knowing way flight attendants have, like they've seen everything. Which, after a week with Ting, I bloody well doubted. This city had taught me things even they probably hadn't imagined.

The fourteen hours stretched ahead like a decompression chamber, time to process, to decide, to return to reality. London looked bleak, a grey, muted contrast to the vibrant, explosive colours of my awakening. The thought of Emily's predictable tutting, of my flat with its weeping shower and the mind-numbing drone of the Northern Line, felt less like a life and more like a bloody holding pen. Here, under Ting's predatory gaze, I was actually breathing, truly alive, even if it was the humid, sex-scented air of depravity.

As we began our descent into Heathrow, Charlotte passed me my coat and slipped something into the pocket, her fingers lingering just long enough to make my pulse skip, a final, delicious tease.

'What's this?' I asked, playing dumb though my cock already knew the score, anticipating the next forbidden chapter.

'For when you're next in the city,' she murmured, her blue eyes holding a promise, a mirror of Ting's own dare, a reflection of this place's endless allure. 'I'm there twice a month.'

I closed my hand around the slip of paper in my pocket -- her number. The job offer, still unspoken, still a choice. The life here. The taste of Ting and Maria, still lingering on my tongue, the memory of forbidden pleasure still burning in my every cell. London looked bleak. The choice, now, didn't seem like a choice at all. It was a foregone conclusion, carved into my very bones by the heat and Ting's knowing smile. I was already gone. I'd been gone since the first night. The city had claimed me.