So here's the thing about shagging your dad's maid twice in less than 24 hours: it's just the bloody warm-up act. Mental, I know. But that's Singapore for you - turns even Cambridge graduates into absolute degenerates within about forty-eight hours. The heat does something to your brain, I swear.
---
Chapter 2: The Pleasure Palace
After that morning session with Maria, the whole tights-bondage thing in front of the mirror still playing on repeat in my mind, I was knackered but buzzing. Proper spent. Needed another shower, obviously. Can't be walking around smelling of sex in your dad's penthouse, can you? Well, maybe you can, but probably shouldn't.
This fucking Singapore heat isn't helping. 30-plus degrees with humidity that makes you feel like you're swimming through soup. Makes a bloke permanently horny, I swear. Or maybe that's just me. Been like this since I got off the plane, actually. That fit BA stewardess Charlotte with her regulation hold-ups and no knickers had me hard half the flight. Keep catching glimpses of her wedding ring as she poured drinks, like something straight out of a dodgy porn film. Must've been at least fifteen years older than me - proper MILF territory. Kept imagining her silver pubes against my cock in that tiny airplane toilet. Something weirdly hot about the age gap, like the perfect combo of her experience and my stamina. Bonkers, I know.
Honestly, I never used to be this sex-obsessed back in London. But something about this place, the heat, the sweat, being in Dad's perfect bloody penthouse - it's like my cock's possessed. Maybe it's my subconscious wanting to fuck up Dad's perfect life. Wouldn't be the first time I've done something just to spite the bastard.
As I stepped out of the shower, the intercom buzzed. Maria's voice came through, all prim and proper again like she hadn't been tied up with her own tights just hours before.
'Mr. Jamie, Madam requests your presence in the living room in thirty minutes. She suggests the navy shirt in your wardrobe.'
Madam "requests." Madam "suggests." The way everyone in this house talked about Ting, you'd think she was the Queen of bloody England instead of just my dad's trophy wife.
Found the navy shirt hanging in the wardrobe, definitely wasn't mine. Brand new Tom Ford, still had the tags on. When did that get there? Next to it was a pair of tailored black trousers. Christ, these people and their money. Dad always was a flash git, showing off with designer bollocks!
Something silky caught my eye at the back of the wardrobe. I reached in and pulled out a pair of sheer black stockings, still warm like they'd just been worn. Had to be Ting's. Fuck me, the thought of her legs wrapped in these made my cock twitch back to life. Couldn't help myself. Pressed them to my face, inhaling deeply. Expensive perfume and something more intimate. Christ.
Before I knew what I was doing, I was wanking into them, imagining Ting walking around in them later, my spunk rubbing against her thighs all day without her knowing. Came harder than I should have, considering I'd already shagged Maria twice in the last day. Felt a bit like marking my territory - a Bennett family tradition, apparently, just with different methods.
I know, I know. Proper dirty bastard, aren't I? Wanking into my stepmum's stockings like some pervy teenager. But there's something weirdly territorial about it, like marking my scent all over Dad's wife. Every time she crosses those perfect legs of hers, she'll be sitting in my mess without even knowing it. Childish? Definitely. Satisfying? Abso-fucking-lutely. Class act, me.
Carefully folded them back exactly as I'd found them, making sure the wet part was on the inside. Let's see if she notices.
When I walked into the living room, Ting was already waiting, sipping something amber from a crystal tumbler. She wore a black dress that hugged every curve, the slit up one side revealing a tantalizing glimpse of thigh each time she shifted position. Her legs were wrapped in sheer black stockings that caught the light in a way that made my mouth go dry. Fresh ones, obviously, not my... handiwork. Felt like a right pervert now, but too late to put them back.
'The shirt suits you,' she said, eyes travelling over me with undisguised appreciation. 'I had Maria select it this morning.'
'Planning ahead, were you?'
Her smile was slow and deliberate. 'Always.' She set down her glass and stood. 'Your father called again. His meetings in Jakarta will continue through tomorrow. The storm has gotten worse and they've closed the airport completely.'
'That's... unfortunate,' I said, not meaning it at all. Dad could stay in Jakarta forever as far as I was concerned. Tosser never had time for me growing up, always off making his millions.
'Indeed.' Her eyes met mine, holding a wicked promise. 'I had planned to show you Singapore's nightlife anyway. This just means we won't be rushed.'
'What kind of nightlife?'
Ting's laugh was musical. 'Not the sanitized version in travel brochures. Something more... authentic.' She moved closer, same scent I'd detected on those stockings I'd borrowed earlier. Felt my face heat up remembering what I'd done with them. 'There's a place called Pleasure Palace. Very exclusive. Very private.'
'Sounds intriguing,' I managed, acutely aware of how close she was standing.
'It can be many things,' she replied. 'Depending on what one seeks.' Her hand brushed against mine, the touch brief but electric. 'We leave at ten. Wear your father's Rolex.' She nodded toward a small box on the side table. 'It opens certain doors.'
Had a few hours to kill, so I went back to my room and flicked through channels on the massive telly. Singapore news was all about the post-COVID tourism boom and some new luxury development on Sentosa Island. Boring as fuck. Ended up having another wank, this time thinking about Ms. Richardson, my English teacher back at school. She used to wear these pencil skirts with sheer black tights, and teenage me had spent most lessons trying to hide a hard-on. Funny how life works out. Here I was at twenty-two, living out fantasies I'd had since I was at school.
At nine-thirty, I got ready. The Tom Ford shirt fit perfectly, which was a bit creepy. How did they know my size? The Rolex felt heavy on my wrist, a proper flash watch that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home. Dad had five of these, the greedy bastard.
Singapore's night air hit me like a warm, wet flannel when we stepped outside. Even after dark, it was still pushing thirty degrees with humidity that made you sweat just standing still. Post-COVID Singapore was as pristine as ever, all gleaming skyscrapers and spotless streets. The only sign anything had ever happened was the occasional mask on older locals and temperature check stations gathering dust in some building lobbies.
Suddenly got hit with this unholy stench - like someone had left a corpse in a bin for a week. Nearly gagged.
'What the fuck is that?' I asked, covering my nose.
Ting laughed. 'Durian. The king of fruits.'
'Smells like the king of shit, more like.'
'It's an acquired taste,' she said. 'Very popular here. Your father hates it too.'
'First sensible thing I've heard about him.'
---
Car stopped at some fancy building. No signs, just tinted doors and a bouncer who knew Ting.
Inside was posh as fuck - rich tossers pretending they weren't just there for shagging. Orchard Towers for the wealthy, basically.
Spotted a ladyboy by the bar - gorgeous but with that telltale Adam's apple. Reminded me of Bangkok where girls shot ping pong balls from their fannies. Bloody mental, that was.
Then noticed Charlotte from my flight, chatting up some young looking banker type.
'Know her?' Ting asked.
'Flight attendant,' I said. 'Been picturing her silver bush since takeoff.'
