As a woman in my mid-30s aiming towards the peak of my career as an insurance agent, I am the one who tell my colleagues that no matter how safe people tell me our country is, your esteemed Catherine Chen would never sully her own reputation stepping into that old, degenerate part of the city, especially not at night. That's the government designated red light district. The buildings around look rickety, the stone pavement and pillars seem like they are still from the 1980s despite us folks already well in the mid-2020s. And that rank odour! I can't tell whether it is urine, vomit, garbage or whatever, it permeates the surroundings while the kopitiams (coffee-shops), seafood restaurants, and even most shophouses cease their operating times at this late hour. Few people are walking around, and even those shady looking figures sitting around peddling prescription meds for erectile dysfunction have left. So what can convince this educated woman to be walking along this area?
Love of money is the reason. I'd tell you to get lost (Except if you are my customer) if you have the cheek to tell me that money is the root of all evil. Enough with these cliches, as far as I am concerned, if I identify a potential business client that's worth the time investment, I would pick any time they choose despite how bad it is for me. I have recently just moved up from having to talk to individual retail clients fighting alongside muggles for scraps, to re-negotiating contracts for companies' group insurance for employees.
By the time I am done with this next deal, it's just past 11pm and I'm exhausted. It's time for a Grab Taxi service. Who would have thought exiting the company building would need me to cut across those licensed brothels? And just when I'm about to press the button to book the transport, this mysterious man slides out from the shadow and into the dark quiet alley, blocking my way. He towers over me with his huge frame, eyes boring down on me menacingly and causing me to shiver in fear.
Look, I am not stupid okay? I'd normally scream in such a circumstance, and anyone, including the pimps, prostitutes, and their degenerate, often middle-aged male clients in these parts would come out to investigate and chase off this annoyance. But said annoyance has his black backpack in front of him with his right hand shoved inside reaching out for something, and he quietly but firmly states "Scream and I kill you with gun".
That's convincing. From where I live, guns are illegal to carry for any citizen who isn't a police officer, so with my educated guess, this guy must be an extremely dangerous criminal, probably a foreigner who has no qualms about off-ing me if I don't follow what he says. I shiver at his imposing sight, and he motions for me to follow him. Seeing no other alternative, I comply. So instead of taking a Grab Taxi, I'm getting a "Grab Arm" service as this stranger drags me off inside one of the dilapidated shophouses - presumably a former brothel that fell out of business.
I am thrown into pitch black darkness, but soon light shines brightly as this man lights up an oil lamp and places it in the center of what appears to be a former bedroom. The outline of an old bed and shower facilities, all removed by now, are visible just enough. This man towers over me and his wide shoulders almost look like they are twice mine. He's so tall, in fact I struggle to make out his face in that darkness. He's dressed casually, wearing a somewhat crumpled white t-shirt, brown shorts, with his otherwise bare feet in a pair of slippers. But that's not important. I'm concerned about my own life damn it! With a small voice, I ask him what he wants to do with me.
"Remember, I got gun," and I nod back in response.
"I want make sure you got no dangerous thing with you. Strip."
"Wha-?"
"Strip, bitch!" This half-literate criminal swung out with his thick hand and slaps my face, causing me to step back as that pain reminds me of this precarious situation I am in. Why isn't this lout asking me for money? I don't understand. Regardless, when you are held in a hostage situation like this, always comply with their requests and never fight back.
So instead of fighting back against him, I fight back my tears as I shed my clothing. My head down, my straight neck length black hair flows on my face, partially obscuring me from seeing my own strip. I take off my dark business coat and let it fall. I did the same for my white shirt, gingerly unbuttoning it and pulling it off my arms. With shaking hands, I unbutton my skirt and it slides down my shapely thighs to join the rest on the dusty floor. I'm now in my bra and panties. The cool air is chilling, and maybe there's just that hint of my nipples poking out through my lacy red bra. I always secretly take pride in the size of my chest, which accentuates my beauty and charm to my clients, especially effective on men.
"Good," he breathes.
He doesn't want me to go further now, does he? Turns out I am wrong.
"Take off your bra and panties!"
Reminding myself that he can kill me, I fight back the feelings of my own embarrassment stripping before a stranger and unhook my bra. My natural huge tits are now exposed to him - wide areolas with my nipples erect and sticking out prominently. I reflexively cover myself.
"Go on." His voice echoes, now raspy with a hint of excitement.
I slowly slip out of my panties. I'm now completely naked except for my high heels, as I look down with my hands covering myself up as best as I can, mortification filling me with my own display.
"Big titty girl running around like this," he taunts me with that rude name in a local dialect, together with that accent it suggests he's likely one of these local men I despise so much around these parts. Or maybe he's from that less esteemed, neighbouring country across the causeway.
He asks, "Why are you here?"
"I am on my way home from work."
"What big titty girl do for work?"
"Insurance agent," and by now I am practically in tears and pleading for mercy as I repeat my earlier question, "Please, what do you want with me?"
He still doesn't answer, much to my confusion.
"Big titty girl, touch your nipples." I hesitantly did just that.
"... Yeah, go on rub them with your fingers like that. Circular style. Yes..."
I look away, not wanting to look in his direction, while this guy makes me toy with myself.
"Big titty got big titty," he chants repeatedly, reaching out with both his huge hands and grabbing my breasts, squeezing them and making me gasp and jump. Strangely, when I mean jump, I mean my cunt too. I did jump at his next command as well.
"Masturbate now."
"Why???" I cry out, only to receive a second slap across my face.
"You want to live?" He gruffly roars as I reel back from his sudden anger.
I nod. With a sigh of resignation, I step back and lay my back against the dirty wall. I open up my legs in front of him as my hands move down to my mound in between. I begin to slide a finger in between the lips of my pussy, softly stroking and stimulating it while with another hand I gently caress my clit. I start imagining myself in a scenario with an imaginary lover in those trashy smut novels I read online.
The stranger remains silent and watches me.
Meanwhile he collects all my clothing and packs it into his black backpack. Whatever he wants to do with them I don't want to question and I really don't want to risk him taking out that gun, seeing how powerful he is with his hands alone. So I continue to comply with his odd request of frigging myself. I didn't keep watch on the time, but in this anxiety-filled moment it probably takes me nearly 20 minutes before I can feel my climax coming on. My thighs begin to move involuntarily as I begin to go on the edge.
I cry, my eyes closed and my head resting back against the wall as I shudder from my self-induced pleasure, my fingers turning soaking wet. All in front of a stranger. I breathe hard and stare blankly. Shame fills me: This should only be an experience reserved for those foreign girls in the other shophouses, not for an urban working professional like I am! What is going on? The world seems to turn upside down on me right now, leaving me in a daze.
"Lick your fingers," That voice commands.
My tongue gingerly reaches out as I taste myself on my fingers - I never even done that before. It tastes odd, and by now it is clear his command after command only serves to humiliate me further. When will he stop tormenting me?
I shiver when he gets behind me - He is now leaning behind the wall as I lean on him. I cannot help it but any sparks of stimulation went straight to my nethers as his rough hands caressed my body, paying particular attention to my clit and pussy.
"You married?"
I shake my head.
"Got boyfriend?"
I shake my head as well. Career comes first, I always tell myself. Sure, I engage in a beauty regimen to put on a good physical appearance while always reminding myself to sport that smile that can hopefully charm potential clients, but it is always professional. Big wigs around me are usually already married or snatched up, and there's not a single local man in my social circle I find worthy of my attention - either plain average, low class, or crude. And yet here I am submitting to this man who has all these three qualities.
"Why no boyfriend? You think we no good is it?"
I am sensing that taunt in his tone, and I shake my head, hoping to please him so he can let me go.
