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.