domdady39

[domdady39]

Echoes of Betrayal

Echoes of Betrayal

The karaoke lounge in Geylang was a fever dream, its dim, flickering red lanterns casting a sickly glow across the cramped private room. The air was thick with the stale stench of cigarette smoke, cheap air freshener, and the sour tang of spilled beer, soaking into the frayed velvet couch beneath me. The walls, papered with tacky gold foil, vibrated with the muffled thump of bass from neighboring rooms, a chaotic mix of off-key Canto-pop and drunken laughter seeping through. A cracked TV screen flickered with a looping karaoke video, its garish colors—pink, green, blue—clashing with the lanterns’ glow. The aircon hummed, a weak rattle that did little to cut the humidity, leaving my skin sticky, my breath shallow. It was 2:13 AM, the clock on my phone glowing as it buzzed with my boyfriend Ryan’s call, unanswered, a lifeline I couldn’t reach.

I’m Lily, 20, a part-time bakery assistant at a Katong café, my days spent kneading dough and dodging customers’ complaints about burnt croissants. At 155 cm and 46 kg, my frame is slight, almost doll-like, my A-cup breasts barely a swell beneath my lavender cotton crop top, its cropped hem exposing my flat midriff. My matching lilac lace bra, delicate with tiny bow accents, and high-cut panties cling to my skin, a secret rebellion for a girl who’s never gone beyond holding hands. My jet-black hair, styled in a sleek bob with blunt bangs, frames my heart-shaped face, my almond-shaped brown eyes wide with fear, my pale skin flushed with a heat I don’t understand. My lips, coated in peach gloss, tremble, the sweet taste cloying as I bite them, trying to anchor myself. I’m the girl who giggles at Ryan’s shy kisses, who dreams of a simple life, my innocence a fragile shield in Singapore’s gritty underbelly. Tonight, that shield is shattering.

I shouldn’t be here. A coworker’s birthday dragged me to this seedy lounge, a place I’d never choose, its reputation whispered in hushed tones. Ryan was supposed to pick me up, but his car broke down, leaving me stranded. The others left, their laughter fading, and I stayed, waiting for a Grab, my phone dying. Then he appeared—a stranger, Kai, a 30-year-old club promoter, his 178 cm, 75 kg frame lean and predatory, his black tank top tight over muscled arms, his ripped jeans low on his hips. His chestnut hair, tousled and damp with sweat, falls over his sharp green eyes, glinting with a hunger that makes my stomach twist. His cologne, a sharp mix of leather and citrus, cuts through the room’s stench, overwhelming, like him.

“You look lost, little girl,” Kai says, his voice a low growl, locking the door with a click that echoes like a gunshot. My heart lurches, my hands clutching my tote, the canvas rough against my sweaty palms. “Ryan’s not coming, is he?” He smirks, picking up my buzzing phone, Ryan’s name flashing. Before I can protest, he answers, his voice mocking. “Hey, mate, Lily’s busy. Listen close.” He sets the phone on the couch, speaker on, Ryan’s panicked voice crackling through.

“Lily? What’s happening?” Ryan’s voice is desperate, but Kai’s hand grips my wrist, pulling me against him, his body hard, unyielding. I try to push away, my small hands useless against his chest, the leather scent choking me. “Please, stop,” I whisper, my voice trembling, but his lips crash against mine, rough, invasive, tasting of whiskey and smoke. My peach gloss smears, the taste bitter, mingling with his, my bangs sticking to my forehead, damp with sweat.

“Shut up,” Kai growls, his hand sliding under my crop top, ripping it off, exposing my lilac lace bra, my A-cup breasts quivering, nipples hardening against the delicate bows. Ryan’s voice pleads through the phone, “Lily, talk to me!” but Kai laughs, dark and cruel, his fingers unhooking my bra, tossing it aside. My breasts, small and pale, are exposed, the aircon’s weak breeze chilling my skin, raising goosebumps. He yanks my skirt down, my lilac panties clinging to my hips, damp with my unwilling arousal, my pussy already slick, a shameful betrayal of my innocence.

Kai pushes me onto the couch, the velvet sticky, reeking of beer and smoke, its springs creaking under my slight weight. My phone buzzes, Ryan’s sobs audible, a knife in my heart. Kai unbuttons his jeans, his cock springing free—thick, veined, a monstrous 9 inches, its head broad and glistening with pre-cum, the shaft pulsing with heavy veins, a beast that makes my eyes widen, my breath catch. “Suck it,” he orders, his hand tangling in my bob, pulling me toward him. I shake my head, tears streaming, but his grip tightens, forcing my lips to his cock. The taste is sharp, salty, the pre-cum coating my tongue, the veins rough against my lips as I take him in, my mouth stretching painfully, my inexperience making me clumsy. I gag, my throat constricting, saliva dripping down my chin, the wet slurping loud, drowning Ryan’s cries, the karaoke video’s colors flashing across my trembling form. My bangs fall into my eyes, the peach gloss smearing, the room’s stench—beer, smoke, leather—choking me.

“Good girl,” Kai groans, his hips thrusting, fucking my mouth, the veins scraping my tongue, the head hitting my throat, making me choke. Ryan’s voice cracks, “Lily, no!” but Kai’s laugh is merciless, his hand forcing me deeper, my tears mixing with saliva, my A-cup breasts bouncing, nipples scraping the velvet. I try to control my moans, my lips sealed around his cock, but a whimper leaks out, high and desperate, echoing in the room, blending with the muffled Canto-pop, the aircon’s rattle.

Kai pulls out, his cock slick with my saliva, glistening under the red lanterns. “On your knees,” he commands, flipping me over, my hands braced on the couch, my ass up, my lilac panties yanked down, exposing my pussy—pink, tight, untouched, its lips swollen, glistening with my juices, the inner folds delicate, pulsing with need I don’t want. Ryan’s sobs grow louder, “Stop it, please!” but Kai ignores him, his cock pressing against my pussy’s entrance, the broad head nudging my slick lips, parting them with a pressure that makes me gasp. I bite my lip, trying to stifle a moan, but a soft cry escapes, sharp and raw, as he pushes in, slow and relentless, his thick shaft stretching my virgin pussy, the veins dragging against my tight walls, a burning pain laced with pleasure. My pussy clenches, resisting, but my juices flood, easing his entry, the wet squelch obscene, drowning the aircon’s hum, the karaoke’s drone. His cock fills me, inch by agonizing inch, the head hitting deep, pressing my cervix, making me scream, a moan I can’t control, leaking despite my shame.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Kai groans, his hands gripping my hips, bruising, his thrusts deepening, each one slamming his cock into my pussy, the veins scraping, the friction intense, my walls pulsing around him. My juices drip, soaking my thighs, the couch, the velvet sticky beneath me. The room’s sounds—Ryan’s sobs, the squelching, my stifled moans—mix with the stench of beer, smoke, and my musk, the leather cologne overpowering. The lanterns cast my shadow, twisted and trembling, my bob swaying, bangs sticking to my sweat-dampened face, my A-cup breasts bouncing, nipples raw against the couch.

Kai pulls out, his cock glistening with my juices, and before I can catch my breath, he presses it against my ass, the tight, untouched hole clenching in fear. “No, please,” I whimper, but he pushes, the head breaching my ass, a searing pain that makes me scream, a moan leaking despite my efforts, echoing over Ryan’s cries. His cock stretches my ass, the veins rough, dragging against the tight ring, my body trembling, the pain overwhelming, laced with a dark pleasure I hate myself for feeling. He thrusts, slow at first, then faster, the squelching softer but no less obscene, my ass clenching, my pussy still dripping, the sensations blurring into a chaotic haze.

“You’re mine,” Kai growls, his hand reaching for the phone, holding it close, forcing Ryan to hear every thrust, every moan I can’t suppress. My orgasm builds, a tidal wave I fight, my pussy and ass clenching, my body betraying me. I scream, a raw, desperate cry, my juices gushing, my ass pulsing around his cock, his seed hot and thick, filling my ass, dripping out, mingling with my pussy’s juices. Kai pulls out, his cock slick, leaving me sore, gaping, trembling, my innocence shattered. The room spins, the lanterns’ glow blurring, the stench of sex and beer suffocating, Ryan’s sobs a distant echo as Kai laughs, tossing the phone aside.

I collapse onto the couch, my body raw, my lilac panties tangled around my ankles, my bob disheveled, bangs plastered to my face. The karaoke video loops, its colors mocking, the aircon’s rattle a cruel reminder. Ryan’s voice is gone, the call ended, but his betrayal echoes in my heart, my body marked by Kai’s claim, lost in the seedy pulse of Geylang’s night.

[domdady39]

Neon Fever

Neon Fever

The air in the Chinatown loft was thick, electric, charged with the pulse of a city that never slept. The room, a converted warehouse space above a shophouse, thrummed with the faint bass of a techno club downstairs, the vibrations seeping through the worn wooden floorboards. Neon signs outside cast a kaleidoscope of pink and violet through the open window, painting the peeling walls in feverish hues. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, its dim glow flickering, buzzing softly, casting jagged shadows over a cluttered desk strewn with vinyl records, half-burned incense sticks, and a cracked mirror reflecting my trembling form. The air smelled of jasmine incense, stale cigarette smoke, and the sharp tang of my own nervous sweat, a cocktail that clung to my skin like a second layer. It was 2:17 AM, the digital clock on the desk blinking erratically, as if it, too, was caught in the night’s surreal grip.

I’m Chloe, 22, a part-time florist at a Bugis market stall, my days spent arranging roses and lilies under the watchful eye of my auntie. At 158 cm and 50 kg, my frame is slight, my C-cup breasts a soft swell beneath my pale pink chiffon blouse, its sheer fabric clinging to my narrow waist, the buttons straining slightly over my chest. My matching blush-pink lace bra, adorned with tiny rosebuds, and high-cut panties hug my skin, a secret indulgence beneath my innocent exterior. My ash-brown hair, styled in twin pigtails tied with satin ribbons, bounces with every nervous twitch, framing my heart-shaped face, my wide hazel eyes betraying my inexperience. My skin, creamy and unblemished, flushes easily, a telltale sign of my nerves, my lips perpetually glossy from cherry-flavored balm. I’m the girl who blushes at crude market banter, who’s never been kissed, let alone touched, my innocence a shield in a world that feels too loud, too fast.

Tonight, I’m not sure how I ended up here. A friend’s gig at the club downstairs led to a whispered invitation to an “exclusive” after-party, and curiosity—stupid, reckless curiosity—pulled me up the creaking stairs. The others left, their laughter fading, leaving me alone in this strange loft with a locked door and a package left on the desk, its contents a mystery until I tore it open. Inside was the toy—a monstrous dildo, black and veined, its size obscene, a foot long and thick as my wrist, its surface glistening under the neon glow, promising something I couldn’t comprehend. A note, scrawled in sharpie, read: “Play, or they watch.” My heart lurches, my eyes darting to the cracked mirror, where I swear I see a flicker of movement, a shadow that isn’t mine. The room feels alive, watching, the techno bass a heartbeat, the incense curling like a taunt.

My hands tremble as I clutch the dildo, its weight heavy, cold, the silicone smooth yet unyielding, its veins raised and pulsing under my fingers, as if alive. The note’s threat echoes in my mind—they watch—and my stomach twists, fear mingling with a shameful heat I don’t understand. My pussy, hidden beneath my pink lace panties, throbs, wet without reason, a betrayal of my innocence. I sink onto the worn leather couch, its surface sticky with age, creaking under my slight weight. The air is heavy, the jasmine scent cloying, mixing with the faint musk of my arousal, a smell I barely recognize. The neon lights flicker, casting my shadow in fractured pinks, the bulb’s buzz a relentless drone, the techno bass vibrating through my bones.

I lift my blouse, the chiffon sliding over my head, exposing my lace bra, my C-cup breasts heaving with shallow breaths, my nipples hardening against the delicate rosebuds. My skirt follows, pooling on the floor, revealing my panties, damp and clinging to my slick folds, the lace outlining my pussy’s shape, swollen and glistening. I’m exposed, vulnerable, my pigtails swaying as I shift, the ribbons brushing my shoulders, tickling my skin. My fingers, trembling, slide my panties down, the fabric catching on my thighs, leaving me bare, my pussy glistening under the neon, its lips plump, pink, and slick with my juices, a tight slit that’s never been touched, never known anything but my own shy fingers.

I grip the dildo, its monstrous size daunting, its black surface absorbing the light, the veins thick and ridged, promising pain and something darker. My breath hitches, my lips parting, the cherry balm sticky as I bring the toy to my mouth. I hesitate, my innocence screaming to stop, but the note’s threat looms, the mirror’s shadow watching. I lick the tip, the silicone tasteless yet cold, the faint chemical tang mixing with my cherry gloss. My lips stretch, struggling to encircle its girth, the veins rough against my tongue, scraping my teeth. I suck, tentative at first, my mouth watering, saliva dripping down the shaft, pooling at the base. The wet slurping fills the room, obscene, mingling with the techno’s pulse, the bulb’s buzz, the distant hum of Chinatown’s nightlife. My throat tightens, gagging as I push deeper, the dildo’s size overwhelming, my eyes watering, tears smudging my mascara, staining my cheeks. I’m clumsy, inexperienced, my pigtails bobbing, the ribbons catching in my sweat-dampened hair, the jasmine scent choking me.

I pull the dildo from my mouth, gasping, my saliva glistening on its surface, strings of spit connecting my lips to the toy. My pussy throbs, wetter now, a slick pool on the couch, the leather sticking to my thighs. I spread my legs, my feet braced on the couch’s edge, my pussy exposed, its lips parted, glistening like a ripe fruit, the pink inner folds slick and pulsing, begging despite my fear. The room watches—the mirror, the neon, the shadows—its air thick with incense, smoke, and my musky arousal, a scent that makes my head spin. The techno bass pounds, a rhythm that matches my racing pulse, the bulb’s flicker casting my trembling form in strobing light.

I press the dildo’s tip to my pussy, my breath catching, my body tensing. Its size is monstrous, the head broad and unyielding, its veins like ridges of stone. I push, slow, deliberate, the tip nudging my slick lips, parting them with a pressure that makes me whimper. My pussy resists, tight and untouched, the stretch a burning ache as the head breaches me, inch by agonizing inch. The veins drag against my inner walls, rough and relentless, each ridge catching, sending jolts of pain and pleasure through me. My juices flow, easing the intrusion, but the dildo’s girth stretches me beyond reason, my pussy clenching, trying to accommodate its monstrous size. The wet squelch of my pussy yielding fills the room, a lewd sound that drowns the techno, my moans high and desperate, my pigtails swaying as my hips buck involuntarily.

I push deeper, my hands trembling, the dildo’s veins scraping my sensitive walls, the pressure overwhelming, my clit throbbing, swollen and exposed. The couch creaks, the leather slick with my sweat and juices, the air heavy with the musky scent of my arousal, the jasmine incense fading under it. The neon paints my skin in pinks and violets, my C-cup breasts bouncing as I rock, my nipples hard, scraping the lace bra still clinging to my chest. My pussy stretches, molding to the dildo’s shape, its head hitting a spot deep inside that makes me scream, a raw, primal sound that echoes off the walls. The mirror reflects my contorted face, my hazel eyes wide, tears streaming, my lips parted, cherry gloss smeared.

I fuck myself harder, the dildo’s ridges dragging, my pussy clenching, a tight, wet vise around its girth. Each thrust is a battle, my walls pulsing, my juices flooding, dripping down my thighs, pooling on the couch. The sound is relentless—wet, rhythmic squelching, my moans rising in pitch, the techno’s bass a heartbeat, the bulb’s buzz a taunt. The room smells of sex, smoke, and fear, my sweat mingling with the incense, my cherry gloss a faint aftertaste as I bite my lip, tasting blood. The shadows in the mirror shift, watching, judging, my innocence shattered with each thrust, my body betraying me, craving the monstrous intrusion.

My orgasm builds, a tidal wave I can’t stop, my pussy convulsing, gripping the dildo like a lifeline. I scream, my voice raw, my body shuddering, my juices gushing, soaking the couch, the dildo, my thighs. The neon blurs, the room spinning, the techno’s pulse fading as my climax rips through me, leaving me trembling, empty, the dildo still lodged deep, my pussy sore, stretched, pulsing with aftershocks. The air is heavy, the incense burned out, the cigarette smoke stale, my musk overpowering. The mirror holds my reflection, a girl I don’t recognize, pigtails askew, bra crooked, body marked by the toy’s brutal claim.

I pull the dildo out, my pussy gaping, slick and raw, the toy glistening with my juices, its veins shining under the neon. I collapse onto the couch, my breath ragged, my heart pounding, the room a haze of shadows and light. The note’s threat lingers, the shadows watching, but I’m too spent to care, my innocence lost in the neon fever of this endless night.

[domdady39]

Pulse of the Crowd

Pulse of the Crowd

The air in VivoCity’s central atrium was a chaotic swirl of noise and heat, a sensory assault that pressed against my skin like a living thing. It was 3:14 PM, the mall teeming with Saturday shoppers—families pushing strollers, teens giggling over bubble tea, and office workers weaving through the crowd, their chatter a relentless hum. The fluorescent lights blazed overhead, bouncing off the polished marble floor, casting a sterile glow that mingled with the neon pinks and blues of shop signs. The air smelled of sweet pretzels from Auntie Anne’s, the sharp tang of perfume from Sephora, and the faint musk of sweat from the packed crowd. Pop music blared from hidden speakers, a pulsing beat that thrummed through my bones, barely drowning out the clatter of footsteps and the occasional shriek of a child. My heart pounded, a wild rhythm out of sync with the mall’s chaos, my palms sweaty as I gripped the strap of my canvas tote bag, its contents a shameful secret.

I’m Tessa, 21, a part-time library assistant at the National Library, my days spent shelving books and dodging aunties’ questions about overdue fines. At 162 cm and 48 kg, my frame is delicate, almost fragile, my B-cup breasts a gentle curve beneath my mint-green sundress, its thin straps and flared skirt teasing my thighs with every step. My coral lace bra, adorned with tiny pearl beads, and matching high-cut panties cling to my skin, a daring choice for someone who blushes at romance novels. My strawberry-blonde hair, styled in loose, shoulder-length waves, catches the light, shimmering like spun sugar, framing my oval face with its freckled cheeks and wide, sea-green eyes that betray my inexperience. My skin, pale and prone to flushing, is warm now, a rosy heat creeping up my neck. I’m the girl who stammers when complimented, who’s never been touched beyond a handshake, my innocence a cocoon I’ve clung to in Singapore’s frenetic pulse. But today, that cocoon is unraveling.

I don’t know how I got here—not really. A dare from a coworker, a whispered challenge to “live a little,” led me to a discreet online purchase: a remote control vibrator, its sleek black silicone body nestled inside me, its bulbous head pressing against my inner walls, its subtle vibrations a secret only I knew. But now, standing in the crowded atrium, the vibrator hums to life, a low, relentless buzz controlled by an anonymous signal—someone, somewhere, holding the app’s reins. My breath catches, my thighs clenching, my coral panties damp with my unwilling arousal, my pussy already slick, a traitor to my innocence.

The vibrator’s head is thick, a monstrous presence inside me, its silicone surface smooth yet unyielding, its ridges designed to tease, to torment. It pulses against my pussy’s tight walls, my lips swollen and glistening beneath my panties, the coral lace clinging to my slick folds, outlining their plump, pink shape. My pussy is untouched, a virgin slit, its inner folds delicate, sensitive, now stretched around the toy’s girth, each vibration sending a jolt through my core. I try to control my moans, biting my lip, the cherry gloss sticky, tasting faintly of sugar and shame. But a soft whimper leaks out, barely audible over the mall’s din, my sea-green eyes darting, searching for the unseen controller, the crowd oblivious to my secret.

I stumble toward a bench near the atrium’s fountain, its water splashing, a misty spray kissing my flushed skin. The bench’s cold metal bites through my dress, grounding me, but the vibrator intensifies, its buzz louder, a deep thrum that makes my pussy clench, my juices flooding, soaking my panties. The air is thick with pretzel sweetness, perfume, and my musky arousal, a scent I can’t escape, mingling with the faint coconut of my shampoo. The pop music pulses, a catchy beat that syncs with the vibrator’s rhythm, amplifying my torment. Shoppers pass, their bags rustling, their voices a blur—Mandarin, English, Singlish—none noticing my trembling hands, my waves swaying as I shift, trying to ease the pressure.

I grip the bench, my nails scraping the metal, the sound sharp, drowned by the fountain’s splash. My dress rides up slightly, exposing more of my thighs, pale and quivering, the coral lace peeking out, a shameful secret. I unbutton my dress’s top button, desperate for air, my bra’s pearl beads catching the light, my B-cup breasts heaving, nipples hard against the lace, scraping with every breath. The vibrator shifts inside me, its monstrous head pressing deeper, its ridges dragging against my pussy’s sensitive walls, a burning pleasure that makes my head spin. My pussy, tight and untouched, clenches around the toy, its plump, pink lips swollen, glistening with my juices, the coral lace drenched, sticking to my skin. The vibrations pulse faster, a relentless rhythm that grinds against my clit, swollen and throbbing, sending electric jolts through my core. The wet, rhythmic pulsing of my pussy is inaudible, masked by the mall’s chaos, but I feel it, a flood that drips down my thighs, pooling on the bench, the metal slick beneath me.

I fumble in my tote, pulling out my phone, the screen glowing, the app’s interface a taunting mystery—someone else controls it, a stranger in the crowd, their eyes on me, I’m sure. My hands tremble, my fingers brushing the tote’s contents—a lip balm, a tissue, a forgotten receipt—the canvas rough against my skin. The vibrator’s buzz intensifies, its ridges scraping my inner walls, the bulbous head hitting a spot deep inside that makes me gasp, my lips pressed tight to stifle a moan. But a whimper leaks out, high and desperate, blending with the crowd’s hum, drawing a glance from a passing auntie, her shopping bag crinkling. I freeze, my sea-green eyes wide, tears pricking, mascara smudging, my cherry gloss smeared as I bite harder, tasting sugar and a faint metallic tang of blood.

The vibrator pulses relentlessly, its monstrous girth stretching my pussy, the ridges dragging, a burning friction that makes my clit throb, my juices flooding, soaking my panties, dripping down my thighs. The sensation is overwhelming, each vibration a jolt that hits my G-spot, my walls clenching, pulsing, a tight, wet vise around the toy. The mall’s noise—chatter, footsteps, music—blurs, the air thick with pretzel sweetness, perfume, and my musk, the coconut shampoo fading under my sweat. The neon signs flicker, casting my trembling form in pinks and blues, my B-cup breasts heaving, the coral bra crooked, one strap slipping, my waves sticking to my neck, the satin ribbons catching in my sweat-dampened hair.

My orgasm builds, a tidal wave I can’t stop, my pussy convulsing, gripping the vibrator like a lifeline. I try to control my moans, my lips sealed, but a soft cry escapes, barely audible over the fountain’s splash, the pop music’s beat. My body shudders, my juices gushing, soaking my panties, the bench, the floor, the coral lace clinging to my swollen, glistening pussy. The vibrator hums, relentless, drawing another whimper, my sea-green eyes glassy, tears streaming, my innocence lost in the crowd’s pulse. I slump against the bench, the toy still inside, my pussy sore, pulsing, its lips gaping, slick with my release. The mall’s noise returns—chatter, music, footsteps—the air heavy with pretzel sweetness, perfume, and my musk. The neon glows, the fountain splashes, and somewhere, someone watches, their control over the vibrator a chain I can’t break. My waves fall loose, the ribbons undone, my dress stained, my body marked by the toy’s claim. I’m Tessa, but not the girl I was, caught in the neon fever of VivoCity’s heart.

[domdady39]

Tides of Guilt

Tides of Guilt

The private yacht rocked gently in Sentosa Cove’s marina, its polished deck gleaming under the moonlight filtering through a canopy of stars. The air was heavy with the briny tang of seawater, mingling with the faint scent of teak polish and jasmine from a diffuser on the cabin’s glass table. The cabin itself was a cocoon of luxury—cream leather upholstery, a sleek bar counter, and a wide window framing the dark, rippling waves outside. A soft jazz track hummed from hidden speakers, its sultry notes clashing with the distant hum of nightlife from Sentosa’s shore. My phone, resting on the bar, buzzed relentlessly, Ethan’s name flashing, each vibration a piercing reminder of my mistake. It was 2:28 AM, the digital clock on the wall glowing, marking the moment my world began to fracture.

I’m Mia, 20, a part-time retail assistant at a luxury boutique in Marina Bay Sands, my days spent folding silk scarves and smiling through customers’ demands. At 159 cm and 49 kg, my frame is delicate, my C-cup breasts a gentle curve beneath my sky-blue silk blouse, its thin straps slipping off my shoulders, revealing the edges of my emerald-green lace bra, adorned with delicate leaf patterns. My matching high-cut panties cling to my hips, a bold choice for a girl who’s never gone beyond chaste kisses with her boyfriend. My chestnut hair, styled in a loose chignon with soft curls framing my face, catches the moonlight, shimmering like polished wood. My oval face, dusted with faint freckles, flushes easily, my wide, doe-like amber eyes reflecting fear and confusion, my lips coated in strawberry gloss, sweet and sticky. I’m the girl who stammers when Ethan compliments me, who dreams of a simple engagement, my inexperience a fragile veil in Singapore’s glittering chaos. Tonight, that veil is tearing apart.

I shouldn’t be here. A customer’s invitation to a “private yacht tour” after work seemed harmless, a chance to see Sentosa Cove’s elite world. Ethan was supposed to join me, but his shift ran late, leaving me alone with my curiosity. The other guests left, their laughter fading into the night, and I stayed, waiting for a Grab, my phone battery low. Then he appeared—Jasper, a 34-year-old yacht broker, his 182 cm, 82 kg frame lean and commanding, his white linen shirt open at the collar, revealing a chiseled chest, his navy trousers fitted over muscled thighs. His dark brown hair, tousled by the sea breeze, falls over his sharp gray eyes, glinting with a predatory hunger. His scent, a crisp mix of cedarwood and sea salt, cuts through the jasmine, overwhelming, like him.

“You’re out of your depth, Mia,” Jasper says, his voice a smooth baritone, locking the cabin door with a soft click that echoes like a warning. My heart pounds, my hands clutching the bar counter, the glass cool under my trembling fingers. “I… I just wanted to see the yacht,” I stammer, my voice barely audible, my amber eyes darting to my phone, Ethan’s call buzzing again. “My boyfriend’s waiting.”

Jasper smirks, picking up my phone, his fingers brushing the screen. “Let’s give Ethan a show.” He answers, his tone mocking. “Hey, Ethan, Mia’s busy. Listen close, mate.” He sets the phone on the counter, speaker on, Ethan’s voice crackling through, frantic.

“Mia? What’s happening? Who’s that guy?” Ethan’s voice is high, panicked, twisting my heart like a knife.

“Ethan, I’m fine, I—” I start, but Jasper’s hand grips my wrist, pulling me against him, his body hard, unyielding. “Please, let me go,” I whisper, my voice trembling, but his lips crash against mine, rough, invasive, tasting of gin and salt. My strawberry gloss smears, the taste bitter, mingling with his, my chignon loosening, curls sticking to my sweat-dampened neck.

“Shut up and enjoy it,” Jasper growls, his hand sliding under my blouse, ripping it off, exposing my emerald-green lace bra, my C-cup breasts quivering, nipples hardening against the leaf patterns. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. Ethan’s voice pleads, “Mia, talk to me! What’s he doing to you?” but Jasper laughs, low and cruel. “Hear that, Ethan? Your girl’s mine tonight.”

“No, please, stop!” I cry, my hands pushing against his chest, useless against his strength, the cedarwood scent choking me. Jasper yanks my skirt down, my emerald-green panties clinging to my hips, damp with my unwilling arousal, my pussy slick, a shameful betrayal of my innocence. He pushes me onto the leather couch, its surface cool and slick, creaking under my slight weight. Ethan’s sobs grow louder, “Mia, no! Get out of there!” but Jasper ignores him, his fingers unhooking my bra, tossing it aside, my breasts exposed, the sea breeze chilling my skin, raising goosebumps.

Jasper unbuttons his trousers, his cock springing free—thick, veined, a monstrous 8.5 inches, its head broad and glistening with pre-cum, the shaft pulsing with ropy, bulging veins, a beast that makes my eyes widen, my breath catch. “Suck it, Mia,” he orders, his hand tangling in my chignon, pulling curls loose, forcing my lips to his cock. “No, I can’t,” I whimper, tears streaming, but he growls, “Do it, or Ethan hears worse.” Ethan’s voice cracks, “Mia, don’t do it! Fight him!” but Jasper’s grip tightens, my lips parting, the taste of his pre-cum sharp, salty, coating my tongue as I take him in, my mouth stretching painfully around his girth, the veins rough, scraping my tongue, my teeth. I gag, my throat constricting, saliva dripping down my chin, the wet slurping loud, drowning Ethan’s cries, the jazz’s sultry notes, the waves’ gentle lap. My curls bounce, the strawberry gloss smearing, the cabin’s stench—jasmine, sea salt, musk—overwhelming. I try to control my moans, my lips sealed around his cock, but a whimper leaks out, high and desperate, echoing over Ethan’s sobs.

“Fuck, your mouth’s perfect,” Jasper groans, his hips thrusting, fucking my mouth, the head hitting my throat, making me choke. “Hear that, Ethan? She’s sucking me like a pro.” Ethan’s voice is hoarse, “You bastard, leave her alone!” but I’m helpless, my tears mixing with saliva, my C-cup breasts trembling, nipples scraping the leather. I try to stifle another moan, but it slips, a soft cry that makes Jasper smirk. “She loves it, Ethan.”

Jasper pulls out, his cock slick with my saliva, glistening under the moonlight. “On your back,” he commands, flipping me onto the couch, my legs spread, my panties yanked off, exposing my pussy—pink, tight, untouched, its lips swollen, glistening with my juices, the inner folds delicate, pulsing with need I despise. Ethan’s sobs grow frantic, “Mia, no! Don’t let him!” but Jasper presses his cock against my pussy’s entrance, the broad head nudging my slick lips, parting them with a pressure that makes me gasp. “Please, don’t,” I plead, biting my lip to stifle a moan, but a soft cry escapes, raw and sharp, as he pushes in, slow and relentless, his thick shaft stretching my virgin pussy, the ropy veins dragging against my tight walls, a burning pain laced with pleasure. My pussy clenches, resisting, but my juices flood, easing his entry, the wet squelch obscene, drowning the jazz, the waves’ hum. His cock fills me, inch by agonizing inch, the head hitting my cervix, making me scream, a moan I can’t control, leaking despite my shame.

“Goddamn, you’re so fucking tight,” Jasper groans, his hands gripping my hips, bruising, his thrusts deepening, each one slamming his cock into my pussy, the veins scraping, the friction intense, my walls pulsing around him. “Ethan, hear her scream? She’s mine.” My juices drip, soaking my thighs, the couch, the leather slick beneath me. The cabin’s sounds—Ethan’s sobs, the squelching, my stifled moans—mix with the scent of jasmine, sea salt, and my musk, the cedarwood cologne overpowering. The moonlight casts my shadow, twisted and trembling, my chignon unraveling, curls plastered to my face, my C-cup breasts bouncing, nipples raw against the air.

“Mia, fight him, please!” Ethan begs, his voice breaking, but Jasper grabs the phone, holding it close. “Listen to her come, mate.” He pulls out, his cock glistening with my juices, and flips me onto my stomach, my ass up, the tight, untouched hole clenching in fear. “No, not there,” I sob, my voice cracking, but he presses his cock against my ass, the head breaching, a searing pain that makes me scream, a moan leaking despite my efforts, echoing over Ethan’s cries. “Fuck, your ass is tighter,” Jasper growls, his cock stretching my anal ring, the veins rough, dragging against the tight walls, the pain overwhelming, laced with a dark pleasure I hate. He thrusts, slow at first, then faster, the squelching softer but obscene, my ass clenching, my pussy still dripping, the sensations blurring into a chaotic haze.

“You’re mine, Mia,” Jasper says, his voice thick, thrusting harder, the phone held close, forcing Ethan to hear every thrust, every moan I can’t suppress. “Tell him how it feels, little girl.” I shake my head, tears streaming, but a moan escapes, raw and desperate, as my body betrays me. “Ethan, I’m sorry,” I sob, but my voice breaks into a scream, my pussy and ass clenching, my orgasm crashing through me, my juices gushing, my ass pulsing around his cock, his seed hot and thick, filling my ass, dripping out, mingling with my pussy’s juices. Jasper groans, “Hear that, Ethan? She came for me.” Ethan’s voice is a broken whisper, “Mia… why?” as Jasper tosses the phone aside, the call ending in silence.

I collapse onto the couch, my body raw, my emerald-green panties tangled around my ankles, my chignon undone, curls plastered to my face. The cabin sways, the moonlight blurring, the stench of sex and jasmine suffocating. The jazz hums, the waves lap, but Ethan’s sobs echo in my mind, my body marked by Jasper’s claim, my innocence lost in the tides of guilt.

[domdady39]

Caught in the Storm

Caught in the Storm

The rain lashed against the frosted glass windows of the Sentosa villa, a relentless drumbeat that drowned out the distant crash of waves. The air inside was heavy with the scent of coconut wax candles flickering on a teak sideboard, their warm glow casting trembling shadows across the minimalist living room. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, stirring the humid air, carrying the faint tang of sea salt from the open balcony door. The plush cream rug under my bare feet felt like a trap, soft yet suffocating, as I stood frozen, my heart hammering against my ribcage. The digital clock on the wall read 11:47 PM, its red glow a stark reminder of how late I’d stayed, how foolish I’d been to think I could handle this.

I’m Elise, 23, a junior barista at a hipster café in Tanjong Pagar. At 160 cm and 52 kg, I’m petite, my frame delicate, my B-cup breasts barely filling the sapphire-blue satin bra beneath my white cotton sundress. The dress, sleeveless with a flared skirt, clings to my narrow waist, its hem teasing my thighs. My honey-blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun, loose strands tickling my neck, damp from the humidity. My skin, pale from long shifts indoors, flushes easily, betraying my nerves. I’m not bold like my colleagues, always blushing at crude jokes, my innocence a shield I’ve clung to, even in a city as brash as Singapore. Tonight, that shield feels paper-thin.

I was only here to deliver a catering order—trays of artisanal sandwiches and cold brew for a private party. The host, Damien, had insisted I stay for a drink, his charm disarming, his wealth evident in the villa’s sleek decor: black leather furniture, a marble bar, a flatscreen playing muted lo-fi beats. Damien, 32, is a venture capitalist, his 180 cm, 78 kg frame lean and commanding, his navy polo shirt stretched over broad shoulders, his khaki shorts revealing muscled legs. His jet-black hair is swept back, his hazel eyes sharp, predatory, glinting with something that makes my stomach twist. His cologne, a mix of cedarwood and bergamot, lingers in the air, overpowering, like him.

The other guests had left an hour ago, their laughter fading into the storm. I should’ve gone with them, but Damien’s smooth voice, his offer of a rare dessert wine, kept me rooted. “Just one glass, Elise,” he’d said, his smile too perfect, his hand brushing mine as he poured. Now, the glass sits untouched on the bar, the wine’s ruby hue catching the candlelight. My phone, dead in my purse, offers no escape. The villa feels like a cage, the storm outside a mirror to the chaos inside me.

“You’re nervous,” Damien says, his voice a low purr, cutting through the rain’s rhythm. He steps closer, his shadow swallowing the candlelight, his eyes locked on mine. I clutch the hem of my dress, my fingers trembling, the cotton damp with sweat. “No need to be shy. You’re not at work now.”

“I… I should go,” I stammer, my voice barely a whisper, my throat tight. My innocence, usually a quiet strength, feels like a liability under his gaze. I turn toward the door, but his hand catches my wrist, firm, unyielding, his skin hot against mine.

“Not yet,” he says, his tone shifting, darker, commanding. “The night’s just starting.” His grip tightens, pulling me closer, and I stumble, my wedge sandals scuffing the rug. The air thickens, the coconut scent cloying, mixing with his cologne, making my head spin. The lo-fi beats pulse like a heartbeat, the bass vibrating through my chest.

“Damien, please,” I whisper, my eyes darting to the door, the rain a blurred curtain beyond. But he’s already moving, his body blocking my path, his hand sliding to my lower back, pressing me against the marble bar. The cold stone bites through my dress, a shock against my heated skin. My heart races, fear and a traitorous flicker of heat coiling in my core, my body betraying me.

“You’re so fucking innocent,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear, his lips brushing my lobe. “It’s driving me crazy.” His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my dress higher, exposing the sapphire-blue satin panties, their delicate lace damp with my unwilling arousal. I’m wet, horrifyingly so, my body responding despite my mind’s scream to run.

I try to push him away, my palms against his chest, but he’s immovable, his muscles taut under the polo. “Stop,” I plead, my voice breaking, but he only chuckles, a dark, possessive sound that sends a shiver down my spine. His hand cups my face, forcing my eyes to meet his, his thumb brushing my lips, rough and insistent.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, his voice a blade. My lips tremble, but fear roots me, and I obey, my innocence crumbling under his dominance. He pushes me to my knees, the rug soft yet abrasive against my skin. His hands unbutton his shorts, freeing his cock—thick, veined, pulsing, the tip glistening with pre-cum. The sight makes my breath catch, fear and fascination warring within me. The room’s sounds—the rain’s roar, the fan’s hum, the lo-fi’s thrum—amplify, a cacophony matching my racing pulse.

“Suck it,” he commands, his hand tangling in my bun, loosening strands that stick to my sweat-dampened neck. I hesitate, tears pricking my eyes, but his grip tightens, guiding my lips to his cock. The taste is sharp, salty, the pre-cum coating my tongue as I take him in, my mouth stretching painfully around his girth. My lips wrap around him, the heat of his shaft searing, the veins pulsing against my tongue. I gag, my throat constricting, but he pushes deeper, his groans low and guttural, vibrating through me. The wet, rhythmic slurping of my mouth fills the room, obscene, mingling with the rain’s relentless patter. My hands grip his thighs, nails digging into his skin, seeking balance, control, anything.

“Good girl,” he growls, his hips rocking, fucking my mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts. My saliva drips, warm and slick, down my chin, the taste of him overwhelming, musky and raw. The candlelight flickers, casting his shadow over me, monstrous, consuming. My body trembles, my panties soaked, my clit throbbing despite my fear, a shameful heat building. The room smells of coconut, cedarwood, and my own arousal, a heady mix that chokes me.

He pulls out, his cock slick with my saliva, and yanks me to my feet, my knees aching from the rug. “On the bar,” he orders, lifting me effortlessly, my dress hiked up, panties exposed. The marble is ice-cold against my thighs, a stark contrast to the heat of his hands as he rips my dress down, tearing the straps, exposing my sapphire bra. My B-cup breasts, small but firm, heave as he unhooks the bra, tossing it aside, my nipples hardening in the cool air. He doesn’t touch them, his focus lower, his fingers hooking into my panties, sliding them off, leaving me bare, vulnerable, my pussy glistening, wet against my will.

“Spread your legs,” he commands, his voice a low growl. I shake my head, tears streaming, but his hands force my thighs apart, the marble biting into my skin. My pussy is exposed, slick and swollen, the air cool against my heat. He steps between my legs, his cock brushing my inner thigh, leaving a trail of pre-cum, hot and sticky. I whimper, my hands gripping the bar’s edge, my nails scraping the marble, the sound sharp in the quiet.

He doesn’t ask, doesn’t wait. His cock presses against my entrance, thick and unyielding, the tip nudging my slick folds. I gasp, my body tensing, but he pushes in, slow and relentless, his shaft stretching me, a burning pressure that makes me cry out. My pussy clenches around him, tight and resisting, but he keeps going, inch by agonizing inch, the friction intense, his veins pulsing against my walls. The sensation is overwhelming, pain and pleasure twisting together, my juices easing his entry, betraying my fear. The wet squelch of his cock filling me echoes, obscene, mingling with my ragged moans and his heavy breaths. The bar creaks under my weight, the candles flickering wildly, their wax dripping onto the teak, a faint sizzle in the air.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips, bruising, his thrusts deepening, each one driving him to my core. My pussy stretches, molding to his shape, the pressure building, my clit throbbing as his pelvis grinds against it. My moans are involuntary, high and desperate, my body arching despite myself, the heat coiling tighter. The room is alive—the rain’s roar, the fan’s hum, the lo-fi’s pulsing bass, the scent of coconut, cedarwood, and sex, thick and suffocating. My tears mix with sweat, salty on my lips, my bun unraveling, hair clinging to my face.

He leans forward, his chest pressing against mine, his breath hot against my neck, his teeth grazing my skin, sharp and possessive. His thrusts grow faster, harder, his cock slamming into me, the sound of skin slapping skin loud, rhythmic, drowning out the storm. My pussy clenches, a traitor to my fear, my orgasm building against my will, a tidal wave I can’t stop. I scream, my body shuddering, my juices flooding around him, soaking the bar, the sensation raw, electric, shameful. He doesn’t stop, his cock pulsing, his groans primal as he chases his release, his seed hot and thick, filling me, spilling out, dripping down my thighs.

He pulls out, his cock glistening with our combined fluids, leaving me empty, sore, trembling. The room spins, the candles’ glow blurring, the rain a distant roar. My body is heavy, my mind fractured, guilt and pleasure warring within me. Damien steps back, his eyes cold, satisfied, his cologne lingering like a brand. “You’ll come back,” he says, not a question, his voice a chain.

I slide off the bar, my legs shaking, my dress torn, my body marked by him. The villa feels smaller, the air heavier, the storm outside a mirror to the one inside me. I don’t know if I’ll return, but the heat in my core, the ache in my pussy, whispers a truth I can’t face.

[domdady39]

Velvet Shadows

Velvet Shadows

The penthouse suite at Marina Bay Sands shimmered under the glow of a crystal chandelier, its light casting fractured prisms across the polished mahogany floor. The air was heavy with the scent of tuberose from a bouquet on the glass dining table, mingling with the faint musk of expensive leather from the sleek sectional sofa. Outside, the Singapore skyline pulsed, the city’s neon veins alive at 2:30 AM, but inside, the world was a cocoon of decadence. The faint hum of jazz from a hidden sound system wove through the room, its sultry notes barely audible over the soft clink of wine glasses and the rustle of fabric.

Lina adjusted her burgundy velvet dress, its off-shoulder cut hugging her slender frame, the hem riding high on her thighs to reveal long, toned legs. Her raven hair, styled in a sleek high ponytail, swayed as she moved, catching the light like liquid obsidian. Beneath the dress, a violet lace bra with delicate floral embroidery and matching thong clung to her skin, a secret thrill for the 26-year-old event planner who spent her days orchestrating corporate banquets with meticulous precision. Tonight, she was here to let go, invited to an exclusive after-party by her client, Ethan, a tech mogul with a reputation for excess.

Beside her, Mei stood nervously, her petite frame swathed in a cream silk jumpsuit that clung to her curves, its deep V-neck revealing a glimpse of her perky breasts. Her auburn hair was styled in soft curls, framing her delicate face, her doe-like eyes wide with a mix of excitement and trepidation. A sheer white bra and high-cut panties, both adorned with subtle pearl accents, lay beneath her outfit, a nod to her role as a shy junior accountant who rarely stepped out of her Orchard Road office. Mei had tagged along at Lina’s insistence, curious about Ethan’s world of wealth and whispers.

Ethan lounged on the sofa, his tailored black dress shirt unbuttoned to reveal a chiseled chest dusted with dark hair. His charcoal trousers were perfectly fitted, accentuating his lean, powerful build. His hair, a tousled mix of black and silver, gave him an air of authority at 35, his sharp blue PIE jawline and piercing blue eyes fixed on the women with a predatory glint. A glass of red wine rested in his hand, his fingers tracing its rim with deliberate slowness, exuding a quiet dominance that filled the room.

“You ladies enjoying the view?” Ethan’s voice was smooth, a velvet blade cutting through the air. He stood, his movements fluid, predatory, as he approached them, the faint scent of his oud cologne—woody and intoxicating—following him. “Or are you here for something… more?”

Lina’s lips parted, her confident facade cracking under his gaze. “The view’s nice,” she said, her voice husky, “but I’m betting you’ve got something better in mind.” Her ponytail swished as she tilted her head, a challenge in her eyes, though her body leaned toward him, submissive.

Mei fidgeted, her fingers twisting the strap of her small clutch. “I… I’m just here with Lina,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing. But her eyes lingered on Ethan, betraying her curiosity, her submission evident in her lowered gaze.

Ethan smirked, setting his glass down with a deliberate clink. “Don’t play shy, Mei. I saw you watching me all night.” He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, his hand brushing Lina’s arm, then Mei’s, his touch sparking heat through their skin. “Let’s make this night unforgettable.”

The room seemed to shrink, the air thickening with anticipation. The jazz swelled, a saxophone’s wail echoing the rising tension. Ethan’s fingers lingered on Lina’s velvet-clad hip, guiding her toward a plush velvet chaise longue, its deep indigo hue absorbing the chandelier’s glow. Mei followed, her steps hesitant, her silk jumpsuit rustling softly, the sound swallowed by the room’s charged silence.

“Sit,” Ethan commanded, his tone low but unyielding. Lina obeyed, sinking onto the chaise, her dress riding up to expose the violet lace of her thong. Mei hesitated, but Ethan’s hand on her lower back urged her down beside Lina, their thighs brushing, sending a shiver through both. He stood before them, his eyes raking over their bodies, a king surveying his domain.

“Take off your tops,” he said, his voice a velvet command. Lina’s fingers trembled as she slipped the velvet dress over her head, revealing her violet lace bra, her full breasts straining against the delicate fabric, her nipples already peaking. Mei fumbled with her jumpsuit’s zipper, her hands shaking until Lina helped, peeling the silk away to reveal her sheer white bra, her small, firm breasts visible through the pearl-adorned fabric. The air was cool against their skin, raising goosebumps, the scent of their floral perfumes mingling with Ethan’s cologne.

Ethan’s eyes darkened, his breath hitching. “Fuck, you’re both perfect,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. He knelt before them, his hands sliding up Lina’s thighs, his thumbs brushing the edges of her thong, teasing her slick folds without touching them directly. She moaned, her head falling back, her ponytail pooling on the chaise. Mei whimpered as Ethan’s other hand grazed her inner thigh, her body trembling, yielding to his touch.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered, his voice a growl. Lina complied instantly, her thighs parting, her thong barely covering her glistening core, already wet with anticipation. Mei hesitated, her eyes wide, but Ethan’s firm grip on her knee guided her legs apart, exposing her pearl-adorned panties, damp with her arousal. The room was alive with their heavy breathing, the faint clink of ice in Ethan’s abandoned wine glass, the distant hum of the city below.

Ethan’s fingers hooked into Lina’s thong, sliding it down her legs, the lace catching on her skin, leaving her bare. Her scent, sweet and musky, filled the air, mingling with the tuberose. He did the same to Mei, her panties slipping off to reveal her shaved, slick pussy, her soft gasp echoing in the quiet. He stood, unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a taut, hair-dusted abdomen, his trousers following to expose his thick, throbbing cock, its tip glistening with pre-cum, pulsing with need.

“Lina, on your knees,” he commanded. She slid off the chaise, her knees sinking into the plush rug, her lips parting instinctively. Ethan stepped closer, his cock brushing her cheek, the heat of it searing her skin. “Suck me,” he said, his voice thick with control. Lina’s tongue darted out, tasting the salty tang of his pre-cum, her lips wrapping around his tip, soft and warm. She took him deeper, her mouth stretching around his girth, her tongue swirling along the underside of his shaft, the veins pulsing against her lips. Her ponytail bobbed with each movement, the sound of her wet, rhythmic sucking filling the room, punctuated by Ethan’s low groans, raw and primal.

Mei watched, her breath shallow, her hands clutching the chaise, her body trembling with a mix of fear and desire. Ethan’s eyes locked on her, his hand reaching to pull her closer. “Join her,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. Mei slid to her knees beside Lina, her curls brushing Lina’s shoulder, their bare skin electric against each other. Ethan guided his cock from Lina’s mouth to Mei’s, her lips trembling as she took him in, her inexperience evident in her tentative licks. Lina’s hand rested on Mei’s back, encouraging her, their shared submission binding them. Mei’s mouth worked clumsily at first, then with growing confidence, her tongue tracing his length, the taste of him sharp and heady, her soft whimpers mingling with Lina’s moans.

Ethan’s hands tangled in their hair, his fingers tightening, guiding their rhythm. The room was a symphony of sounds—the wet slurps of their mouths, the creak of the chaise as they shifted, the faint jazz notes curling through the air. The scent of their arousal, musky and sweet, blended with Ethan’s cologne, creating a heady haze. Lina’s hand slid to Mei’s thigh, squeezing gently, a silent reassurance as they pleasured him together, their lips occasionally brushing against each other, sparking heat.

“Enough,” Ethan growled, pulling back, his cock slick and glistening. “Lina, lie back. Mei, on top of her.” His voice was a whip, commanding obedience. Lina reclined on the chaise, her legs spread wide, her pussy glistening, the velvet beneath her warm and soft. Mei climbed over her, their bodies aligning, Mei’s breasts pressing against Lina’s, their nipples grazing through their bras, sending shivers through them. Ethan positioned himself between Lina’s thighs, his hands gripping her hips, his cock brushing her entrance, slick with her juices.

He pushed into Lina slowly, his thick cock stretching her, the sensation a delicious burn as her walls clenched around him. She gasped, her nails digging into the chaise, the sound of her moan sharp and desperate. Each inch of him filled her, his shaft pulsing, pressing against her sensitive spots, the friction intense. Her pussy enveloped him, wet and tight, the sound of their connection a soft, rhythmic squelch, amplified by her ragged breaths. Ethan’s hips rocked, his thrusts deep and deliberate, each one driving her hips into the velvet, her breasts bouncing, her violet bra straining.

Mei’s body trembled above Lina, her hands braced on either side, her curls falling over Lina’s face, their breaths mingling, warm and sweet. Ethan’s hand slid to Mei’s hips, lifting her slightly, his fingers teasing her slick folds. “You’re next,” he promised, his voice rough. He guided his cock out of Lina, slick with her juices, and pressed it against Mei’s entrance. She whimpered, her body tensing, but Lina’s hands on her waist urged her to relax. Ethan pushed in, his cock stretching Mei’s tighter, smaller pussy, the sensation overwhelming. She cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure, her walls gripping him as he thrust slowly, letting her adjust, the sound of her wetness louder, more desperate.

Ethan alternated between them, his cock sliding from Lina’s pussy to Mei’s, each thrust a calculated act of dominance. With Lina, his movements were forceful, his hips slamming against hers, her moans rising in pitch, her body arching to meet him. With Mei, he was slower, teasing, drawing out her whimpers, her curls bouncing with each thrust. The room was alive with their sounds—Lina’s throaty moans, Mei’s high-pitched gasps, Ethan’s guttural grunts, the wet slaps of skin against skin. The chandelier’s light danced on their sweat-slicked bodies, casting shadows that twisted with their movements.

Ethan’s hands roamed, one pinching Lina’s nipple through her bra, the other gripping Mei’s ass, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. The air was thick with their scents—Lina’s musky arousal, Mei’s floral perfume, Ethan’s oud cologne, the faint tang of sweat. The city’s distant hum seeped through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a reminder of the world beyond their velvet cocoon.

“Fuck, you’re both so tight,” Ethan groaned, his control fraying. He thrust harder into Lina, his cock pulsing, her pussy clenching around him as her orgasm built. Her cries grew frantic, her body shuddering, her juices flooding around him, the chaise creaking under their weight. He pulled out, his cock glistening, and drove into Mei, her pussy gripping him like a vice, her whimpers turning to screams as her climax neared. Lina’s hands roamed Mei’s body, squeezing her breasts, amplifying her pleasure, their shared submission fueling Ethan’s dominance.

Lina came first, her body convulsing, her scream echoing, her juices soaking the chaise. Ethan’s thrusts quickened in Mei, his cock hitting her deepest spots, her curls sticking to her sweat-dampened face. She climaxed with a cry, her body collapsing onto Lina’s, their breasts pressed together, their breaths ragged. Ethan followed, his release hot and pulsing, filling Mei’s pussy, his groan raw and primal. He pulled out, his seed dripping from her, mingling with Lina’s juices on the chaise, the sight obscene yet mesmerizing.

They lay tangled, panting, the air heavy with the scent of sex and tuberose. Ethan’s hands softened, stroking their hair, a flicker of tenderness in his touch. “You’re both mine,” he murmured, his voice low, possessive. Lina and Mei exchanged a glance, their bodies sated, their submission complete, the jazz fading into the night’s pulse.

[domdady39]

Tangled in the Heat

Tangled in the Heat

The air in the Little India shophouse was thick with the scent of jasmine incense and the distant hum of Serangoon Road’s late-night bustle. It was 1:20 AM, and the narrow staircase leading to the private tattoo studio creaked under Priya’s wedge sandals. Her navy-blue saree, sheer and embroidered with silver thread, clung to her curves, the fabric slipping slightly to reveal the smooth curve of her waist. Her long, chestnut hair was braided loosely, strands escaping to frame her heart-shaped face, giving her a soft, almost vulnerable look. Beneath the saree, a black satin bra with delicate straps and matching low-rise panties hugged her body, a quiet defiance against her role as a dutiful graphic designer by day, always meeting deadlines for her demanding boss.

Priya had come for a late-night tattoo session, her first, booked impulsively after a fight with her overbearing mother about her “unladylike” late nights. The artist, Vikram, had a reputation for intricate work and a demeanor that made clients feel both safe and on edge. When she pushed open the studio door, the dim glow of fairy lights illuminated his broad frame, leaning over a sketch table. His black tank top stretched over muscled arms, inked with swirling mandalas, and his faded jeans hung low on his hips. His hair, cropped short with a fade, glistened with a sheen of sweat from the humid night. He looked up, his dark eyes piercing, a slow smile curling his lips as he took in Priya’s nervous energy.

“You’re late,” Vikram said, his voice a deep rumble, laced with a hint of amusement. He set down his pencil, standing to his full height, towering over her petite frame. “Thought you’d chickened out.”

Priya’s cheeks flushed, but she lifted her chin, clutching her small purse. “I’m here, aren’t I? Just… got held up.” Her voice was soft, betraying her nerves, but her eyes held his, a spark of defiance flickering beneath her submissive exterior.

Vikram stepped closer, his gaze raking over her saree, lingering on the exposed skin of her midriff. “Where do you want it?” he asked, his tone low, commanding. “The tattoo.”

“Um, my lower back,” Priya said, her fingers twisting the edge of her saree. “Something small, like a lotus.” She shifted, the fabric rustling, and Vikram’s eyes darkened, catching the way her hips swayed.

“Lower back, huh? Tramp stamp territory.” He smirked, gesturing to a cushioned table draped in black leather. “Lie down. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Priya hesitated, her heart pounding, but his authoritative tone pulled her forward. She climbed onto the table, lying face-down, her saree slipping to pool around her hips. Vikram adjusted the fabric, his fingers brushing her skin, sending a jolt through her. “Relax,” he said, his voice firm yet soothing. “This’ll take a while.”

He prepped the stencil, his hands steady as he pressed it against her lower back, just above the waistband of her panties. The cool touch of his fingers made her breath hitch, and she bit her lip, trying to focus on the hum of the tattoo gun rather than the heat pooling between her thighs. Vikram leaned over her, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured, “Tell me if it hurts too much.”

The needle buzzed, a sharp sting biting into her skin, but Priya barely registered the pain. Vikram’s presence was overwhelming—his scent, a mix of leather and musk, his firm touch as he steadied her hips. “You’re tense,” he said, his hand lingering on her waist. “Breathe, Priya. Let go.”

She exhaled shakily, her body softening under his command. The pain of the tattoo blended with a strange pleasure, each prick of the needle sending a shiver through her. Vikram’s fingers grazed the edge of her panties, and she froze, her breath catching. “Stay still,” he ordered, his voice dropping an octave, laced with something darker, hungrier.

“You’re doing good,” he said after a few minutes, his tone softening but still authoritative. He set the tattoo gun down, wiping her skin with a cloth, his touch deliberate, lingering. “Want to see it so far?”

Priya nodded, her voice caught in her throat. She sat up, the saree slipping further, exposing the black satin bra. Vikram’s eyes flicked to her chest, and she felt a rush of heat, her nipples hardening under the thin fabric. He handed her a mirror, standing close as she twisted to see the half-finished lotus, its petals curling sensually across her lower back. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“You’re beautiful,” Vikram said, his hand resting on her shoulder, his thumb brushing the strap of her bra. “But you’re shaking. Nervous… or something else?”

Priya’s breath hitched, her submissive nature warring with the desire his touch ignited. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted, her eyes dropping to his lips, then back up. His dominance was palpable, a magnetic pull that made her want to surrender.

“Lie back down,” he commanded, guiding her onto her back this time, the table cool against her skin. The saree fell away completely, leaving her in just her bra and panties. Vikram’s eyes roamed her body, unapologetic, and she felt exposed, vulnerable, yet achingly aroused. “You want more than a tattoo tonight, don’t you?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

Priya’s heart raced, but she nodded, unable to lie under his piercing gaze. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Vikram leaned over her, his lips brushing her ear. “Say it. Tell me what you want.” His hand slid up her thigh, stopping just short of her panties, the heat of his touch searing her skin.

“I… I want you,” she stammered, her cheeks burning. “Please.”

He chuckled, a dark, possessive sound. “Good girl.” His fingers hooked into her panties, sliding them down her legs, exposing her slick, glistening core—already wet from the intensity of his presence. He didn’t touch her there, not yet, instead trailing his lips down her neck, nipping at her collarbone, making her gasp. Her bra came off next, his hands deftly unclasping it, freeing her full breasts, their dark nipples taut under his gaze.

Vikram’s mouth claimed one nipple, sucking hard, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. Priya moaned, her hands gripping the table’s edges, her body arching into him. He moved Subtitle: moved to the other breast, his teeth grazing her skin, drawing a whimper from her. “You like that,” he murmured, not a question, his voice thick with control.

“Yes,” she gasped, her hips lifting involuntarily, seeking more. Vikram’s hand slid between her thighs, his fingers brushing her wet folds, teasing but not entering. She whimpered, her body trembling under his touch, completely at his mercy.

“Patience,” he growled, his fingers circling her clit, slow and deliberate, building her need to a fever pitch. Priya’s moans grew louder, her head thrashing against the table, her braid unraveling. Vikram stood, shedding his tank top and jeans, revealing a sculpted body covered in ink, his cock thick and hard, jutting proudly. Priya’s eyes widened, her breath catching at his size, her body aching with anticipation.

He climbed onto the table, positioning himself between her legs, his hands gripping her thighs with bruising force. “Look at me,” he ordered, and she obeyed, her eyes locked on his as he guided himself to her entrance. He pushed in slowly, bare, his thick length stretching her, filling her completely. Priya cried out, the sensation overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and slight pain as her body adjusted to him.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Vikram groaned, his control slipping as he began to move, each thrust deep and relentless. Priya’s legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer, her nails digging into his shoulders. The table rocked under their rhythm, the air filled with her moans and his low grunts, the sound of skin slapping against skin. His dominance was absolute, his hands pinning her wrists above her head, his hips driving into her with a force that made her see stars.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled, his pace quickening, his cock hitting a spot inside her that made her scream. Priya’s body trembled, her orgasm building like a storm, her walls clenching around him. “Come for me,” he commanded, his thumb pressing against her clit, rubbing in tight circles.

Priya shattered, her orgasm ripping through her, her cries echoing in the small studio. Her body convulsed, her juices coating him, and Vikram followed, his release hot and pulsing inside her, his groan raw and primal. He collapsed onto her, their sweat-slicked bodies pressed together, the aftershocks of pleasure rippling through them.

Vikram kissed her softly, a surprising tenderness in his touch, his lips lingering on hers. “You okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, though still commanding.

Priya nodded, her body sore yet sated, her mind reeling. “More than okay,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the ink on his chest.

“Good.” He smirked, pulling out slowly, leaving her feeling empty yet fulfilled. “Next time, we finish that tattoo… and maybe more.”

Priya smiled, her submissive heart racing at the thought of more nights under his control, tangled in the heat of Little India’s pulse.

[domdady39]

Midnight at Bugis Junction

Midnight at Bugis Junction

I stood by the escalators in Bugis Junction, my heart fluttering from the long day. I’m Aisha, 160 cm, 50 kg, my 34B bust snug in a lacy pink bra under a fitted blouse, my short denim skirt grazing my thighs, lacy pink panties hugging my hips. My long braid swung gently, still neat despite the humid night. At 19, I was untouched, my life all about helping my parents and prepping for uni. Boys flirted at the boutique, but I’d never gone beyond shy smiles, my body a mystery even to me. Tonight, I was waiting for my Grab ride, the mall eerily quiet, my skin tingling with a strange anticipation.

A guy approached, his steps confident, his presence cutting through the silence. He was in his early 30s, Chinese, sharp in a tailored shirt, his lean frame moving with purpose. His name, I’d learn, was Aaron, his eyes dark and piercing, locking onto me like I was the only thing in the mall. I shifted, my skirt riding up slightly, and his gaze lingered on my legs, my chest. I blushed, but something in me stirred, a heat I didn’t understand.

“Hey what’s your name?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, a faint local lilt. He leaned against the escalator railing, close enough for me to smell his cologne, musky and sharp.

“Aisha,” I said softly, my voice shaky, my eyes flicking away. I wanted to seem cool, but my innocence made me fidget, my fingers twisting my braid. “Why do you care?”

He grinned, stepping closer, his hand brushing my arm, sending a jolt through me. “Aisha, huh? Pretty name for a pretty girl. You work at that boutique right? Saw you folding clothes, looking all cute.” His fingers lingered, tracing my elbow, making my skin prickle.

“Maybe,” I said, trying to sound tough, but my voice wavered, my cheeks burning. I’d never been touched like this, and my body was waking up, a warmth pooling between my thighs. “What do you want lah?”

“Just wanna know you better,” he said, his hand sliding to my waist, his thumb grazing the exposed skin above my skirt. “You look like you’re curious, Aisha. Bet you’ve thought about what it’s like.” His fingers teased higher, brushing the edge of my blouse, making my breath hitch.

“Stop it,” I whispered, but my voice lacked conviction, my body leaning into his touch. His other hand cupped my face, his thumb stroking my cheek, his eyes boring into mine. “You’re so shy,” he murmured, his fingers slipping under my blouse, tracing the curve of my lacy bra. “But I bet you’re dying to feel something real.”

I gasped, my nipples hardening under his touch, my panties dampening despite my nerves. “I’ve never…” I trailed off, my innocence betraying me, but his grin widened, his hand sliding down to my thigh, teasing under my skirt’s hem. “Never what, Aisha?” he teased, his fingers brushing my inner thigh, inching toward my panties. “Never been touched like this? Bet you’re already wet.”

“No,” I lied, squirming, but my thighs parted slightly, my body craving more. His fingers found my lacy panties, stroking the fabric, feeling my dampness. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he said, his voice husky, his fingers pressing harder, rubbing my clit through the lace. I moaned, my head falling back, my body trembling with new sensations.

“Gotta make you drip more,” he said, spitting on his fingers and slipping them under my panties, rubbing my clit with slow, deliberate circles. I gasped, my hips bucking, my pussy pulsing as he teased me, his touch gentle but relentless. “Like that lah,” he murmured, sliding a finger into my tight, virgin cunt, stretching me slowly. I whimpered, the sensation strange but thrilling, my wetness coating his fingers as he added another, fucking me gently, coaxing more slickness.

“Please,” I moaned, not sure if I meant stop or keep going. My body was on fire, my innocence melting under his touch. He tugged my blouse up, exposing my lacy bra, and pulled it down, my 34B tits spilling out, nipples stiff in the cool mall air. He pinched one softly, rolling it between his fingers, making me cry out, my pussy clenching around his fingers. “You’re ready, Aisha,” he said, his voice thick with lust.

He knelt, pulling my skirt down, the denim sliding over my thighs, exposing my lacy panties. He pushed them aside, his mouth finding my pussy, his tongue lapping at my clit, slow and teasing. I screamed, my hands gripping the escalator railing, my body shaking as he sucked, his fingers still inside me, curling against my walls. “Taste so fucking sweet,” he murmured, his tongue relentless, my juices dripping down his chin. I came hard, my first orgasm ripping through me, my pussy pulsing, my legs trembling.

“Open your mouth,” he said, standing and unbuttoning his pants, his thick, bare cock springing free, veined and slick with precum. I hesitated, my innocence flaring, but my body was hungry, my lips parting. “Good girl lah,” he said, guiding his cock to my mouth, pushing past my lips. I gagged, the taste musky and overwhelming, but I sucked, my tongue swirling, my inexperience making me clumsy but eager. He groaned, his hands in my braid, guiding my head, fucking my mouth slowly, his cock hitting my throat. “Take it all,” he said, thrusting deeper, my spit dripping down my chin.

He pulled out, his cock glistening, and lifted me onto the escalator railing, my legs spread wide. “Gonna fuck you now,” he said, rubbing his cock against my soaked pussy, teasing my entrance. I whimpered, my body aching for it despite my fear. He pushed in, slow but firm, his cock stretching my virgin pussy, the pain sharp but fading into pleasure. I moaned, my hands clutching his shoulders, my pussy clenching around him as he thrust deeper, filling me completely.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, his hands gripping my hips, pounding me harder, his cock scraping every nerve. My juices mixed with his precum, dripping down my thighs, my body shaking with each thrust. He pulled out, his cock slick, and turned me around, bending me over the railing. “Time for your ass,” he said, spitting on his cock and pressing it against my tight hole. I gasped, the pain intense as he pushed in, slow but relentless, stretching my virgin ass. I screamed, my body trembling, but the pleasure-pain was electric, my pussy pulsing as he fucked my ass, his hands squeezing my tits.

He pulled out again, turning me to face him, lifting me back onto the railing. “Gonna finish in your pussy,” he said, thrusting into my cunt again, his cock thicker now, filling me to the brim. I moaned, my body overwhelmed, my pussy clenching as he pounded me, his hands bruising my hips. “Cum for me again,” he growled, his fingers rubbing my clit, sending me over the edge. I screamed, my pussy pulsing, my second orgasm crashing through me, my juices gushing around his cock.

“Fuck, take it,” he roared, his cock swelling as he came, his hot cum flooding my pussy, spilling out, coating my thighs. He kept thrusting, pushing his seed deep, his breath ragged. He pulled out, leaving me trembling, my body dripping with cum, my lacy panties and skirt pulled up, soaked with our juices, my lacy bra twisted under my blouse.

I panted, my body buzzing with the wild fuck, a smile spreading across my face. “That was… insane,” I said, my voice hoarse, my pussy and ass throbbing, my innocence gone but my body alive. Aaron grinned, pulling out his wallet and slipping me a stack of $50 notes. “For the service, like at the lounge,” he said, winking. “You were fucking worth it.”

I tucked the cash into my skirt, my legs shaky as I stood, adjusting my torn blouse and skirt. My braid was messy, my body slick with cum, but I felt sated, the thrill of my first time burning through me. I walked slowly toward the open plaza of Bugis Junction, the night air cool against my skin, a few late-night cleaners glancing my way. I leaned against a bench, my thighs sticky, my mouth still tasting him, my ass sore but satisfied. I grinned, pocketing the tip, my body humming with the memory of the wild, rough fuck as I blended into the mall’s quiet glow.

[domdady39]

Night at the Orchard Taxi Stand

Night at the Orchard Taxi Stand

The night air on Orchard Road was thick with heat, the neon lights of clubs and bars casting a glow over the bustling street. It was past 1 AM on July 22, 2025, and I stood at a taxi stand a block from the KTV lounge where I waitressed, my body buzzing from a shift of serving drinks and dodging handsy patrons. I’m Sophia, 165 cm, 53 kg, my 34C bust straining against a lacy white bra under a strappy crop top, my flared mini skirt barely covering my ass, lacy white panties hugging my hips. My hair fell in loose waves, framing my face, still damp from the humid night. At 24, I was no prude—I’d fucked my way through countless guys at Zouk and Sentosa beach parties, craving the high of rough, wild sex that left me sore and sated. I didn’t care who they were, as long as they pounded me hard. Tonight, my thighs were slick with sweat, my body primed for a thrill.

Three guys emerged from the shadows, their laughter low and hungry. They were in their early 30s, Chinese, dressed sharp—Liam in a crisp button-down, Noah in a fitted polo, Caleb with a cocky grin and a sleek watch glinting. Their eyes devoured me, lingering on my cleavage, my bare legs. I leaned against the taxi stand pole, letting my skirt ride up, tossing them a teasing smirk. I loved playing hard to get, knowing I’d let them have me if they pushed right—my pussy was already tingling at the thought.

“Hey gorgeous what’s your name ah?” Liam asked, stepping close, his voice smooth but edged, his cologne sharp and musky.

“Guess lah,” I teased, running a hand through my loose waves, my voice dripping with challenge. I wanted them to chase, to make this fuck wild and raw. “You gotta work for it.”

“Don’t play coy sia,” Noah said, circling me, his hand brushing my arm, sending sparks through my skin. “You’re that hot waitress from the KTV lounge right? Saw you bending over, serving our drinks last night. Got a name or what?”

I grinned, arching my back to push my tits out. “Sophia. And you were staring at my ass lah? Like the view?” My heart raced, my pussy aching, but I’d make them earn it.

“Fuck yeah Sophia,” Caleb said, stepping in, his hand grazing my hip, fingers teasing under my skirt’s hem. “You look like you’re begging for a good fuck. Bet you’re wet already.”

“Maybe lah,” I purred, pushing his hand away, but my eyes screamed keep going. “You gotta do better than that to turn me on.” My clit throbbed, but I wanted them to work me up, make me drip.

“Challenge accepted,” Liam grinned, grabbing my wrist and pulling me into the shadowed corner behind the taxi stand, the others closing in. His fingers slid up my thigh, teasing my skin, while Noah’s hand cupped my ass, squeezing through my skirt. “Feel that? We’re gonna make you scream,” Liam whispered, his lips brushing my ear, his fingers tracing my inner thigh, inching toward my panties. Noah’s hand slipped under my crop top, grazing my stomach, then higher, teasing the edge of my lacy bra. “Such a fucking tease Sophia,” he murmured, his fingers brushing my nipple through the lace, making me gasp.

“Gotta try harder lah,” I taunted, squirming, but my nipples hardened, my pussy pulsing. Caleb’s hand roamed my other thigh, his fingers brushing my skirt’s hem, teasing closer to my panties. “Look at these curves,” he said, his voice low, his hand squeezing my ass. “You’re built for fucking, aren’t you?”

“Prove it lah,” I challenged, my voice playful but my body begging. Liam laughed, spitting on his fingers and shoving them under my skirt, pulling my lacy panties aside to grind my clit with brutal force. I moaned, my hips bucking, my pussy slick but craving more. “Get dripping lah, you know you want this,” he growled, plunging two fingers into my tight cunt, stretching me raw. I gasped, wetness flooding as he fucked me with his fingers, Noah’s hands squeezing my tits, pinching my nipples through my bra. “Fuck, you’re soaked now,” Liam grunted, feeling my slickness.

“Give it to me lah,” I panted, my voice defiant but my body yielding. Liam tugged his pants down, his thick, bare cock springing free, veined and dripping precum. “Gonna fuck you raw sia,” he said, yanking my flared skirt down, the fabric scraping my thighs, exposing my lacy panties. He ripped them aside, rubbing his cock against my soaked folds, coating himself in my juices. I squirmed, playing coy, but my cunt was desperate, throbbing for him.

Liam slammed into me, raw and savage, his cock tearing through my pussy, filling me with searing heat. I screamed, the pleasure-pain electric, my back pressed against the concrete wall. “Fuck, you’re tight for a slut,” he grunted, his hands bruising my hips as he pounded me, his cock scraping every nerve, my juices mixing with his precum. Noah grabbed my hair, yanking my head down. “Suck me lah,” he snarled, shoving his cock into my mouth, thick and musky, ramming my throat. I gagged, my lips stretching, but I sucked hard, loving the roughness, my tongue swirling around his shaft, tasting his salt.

“Take it deep sia,” he groaned, fucking my mouth as Liam ravaged my pussy. Caleb knelt behind me, spitting on his fingers and probing my ass. “This hole’s next lah,” he said, forcing a finger into my tight asshole, making me scream around the cock in my mouth. The pain was raw, but I craved it, my body shaking as he added another finger, stretching me wide.

Liam came first, his cock swelling as he roared, “Take my load slut!” His hot cum flooded my pussy, gushing out, coating my thighs as he slammed into me, pushing his seed deep. He pulled out, and Caleb took his place, thrusting into my cum-drenched cunt. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he grunted, his cock thicker, splitting me open, the pleasure overwhelming.

Noah kept fucking my mouth, his thrusts brutal, my throat raw. “Swallow it lah,” he growled, his cock pulsing as he came, hot cum flooding my mouth, thick and bitter. I swallowed, choking, some spilling down my chin as he pulled out, smearing his cock on my face. Caleb pounded my pussy, his fingers still in my ass, and I moaned, my body convulsing with a wild orgasm, my cunt clenching around him. “Fucking whore,” he roared, cumming inside me, his seed mixing with Liam’s, dripping out.

They weren’t done. “All at once lah,” Liam said, lying on the ground, pulling me onto his cock, impaling my pussy again, his cum and mine slicking his shaft. Noah knelt in front of me, shoving his cock back into my mouth, still wet with cum. Caleb spit on his cock, pressing it against my ass. “Take it all sia,” he growled, forcing his cock into my tight hole, the pain searing as he tore through me. I screamed, muffled by the cock in my mouth, my body overwhelmed as they fucked every hole, their cocks pounding in sync, my pussy, ass, and mouth stretched to their limits.

My body burned, the pleasure-pain driving me wild, another orgasm ripping through me, my cunt and ass clenching, my screams choked by the cock in my throat. “Fill her up sia!” Liam roared, cumming in my pussy, his hot seed flooding me, spilling out. Caleb followed, his cum burning in my ass, gushing as he groaned. Noah grabbed my hair, thrusting deep. “Swallow every drop lah,” he snarled, his cum flooding my mouth, thick and acrid, choking me as I swallowed, the rest dripping down my chin and onto my tits.

They pulled out, leaving me trembling on the ground, my body drenched in cum from every hole. My lacy panties and flared skirt were pulled up, soaked with their seed and my juices, my lacy bra twisted under my torn crop top. I panted, my body buzzing with the wild, rough fuck I craved, a grin spreading across my face. “Fuck, that was good,” I said, my voice hoarse, my pussy and ass throbbing with satisfaction.

“Not bad sia,” Liam said, pulling out his wallet and tossing a stack of $50 notes at me, the bills fluttering to the ground. “For the service, like at the lounge.” Noah and Caleb followed, each dropping a few notes, their grins smug. “You’re worth every cent lah,” Caleb said, zipping up. “See you at the KTV.”

They walked off, laughing, leaving me to gather the cash, my body still humming. I crawled a few steps to the open plaza of Orchard Towers, the public square lit by streetlights, a few late-night partygoers staring as I leaned against a planter, my thighs slick with cum, my mouth bitter, my ass sore. My torn crop top barely covered my lacy bra, my skirt stained and bunched. I smirked, pocketing the tips, my body sated and alive, the public exposure just another thrill in the night.

[domdady39]

Late Night at the Geylang Laundromat

Late Night at the Geylang Laundromat

The fluorescent lights buzzed in the 24-hour laundromat, casting a harsh glow over the humming machines. The air was heavy with detergent and the faint spice of Geylang’s late-night food stalls drifting through the open door. It was past 2 AM, and I was alone, slumped on a plastic chair, waiting for my laundry. I’m Chloe, 162 cm, 52 kg, my 34B bust straining against my pink bra under a cropped tank top, my denim shorts hugging my hips. At 21, I wasn’t some pure goody-two-shoes—I’d hooked up at parties, made out with guys in the back of the bar where I worked as a part-time barista in Geylang. But I’d never gone all the way, still holding out for something real. Tonight, I was just here because my friend’s washing machine was busted, and I needed clean clothes for my shift.

The laundromat was quiet, just the rhythmic thump of dryers. I was scrolling on my phone, my ponytail loose from the humid night, when the glass door swung open, the bell jangling. A guy strode in, tall and wiry, late 20s, shaved head, a dragon tattoo snaking down his neck. His tank top showed lean muscles, and his eyes locked onto me, hungry and intense. My stomach tightened, but I played it cool, ignoring him.

“Hey you washing clothes so late sia?” he said, tossing a bag of laundry onto a machine. His voice was rough, local, and his stare made my skin prickle.

“Got no choice lah,” I shot back, keeping my eyes on my phone. I was used to flirty drunks at the bar, but this guy’s vibe was heavier, dangerous. “Just waiting for my stuff to finish.”

He smirked, leaning against a machine, his gaze sliding over my legs, my chest. “I know you leh. You’re that sexy barista from the bar down the road. Always teasing with that smile when you serve drinks.”

My heart skipped. He’d seen me at work? I stood, grabbing my bag, but he was faster, blocking the aisle between the machines. “Where you going ah? Night’s still young.”

“Let me pass lah,” I said, my voice sharp, but my hands shook. I wasn’t naive—I’d dealt with creepy customers—but this guy was trouble. He grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising, and yanked me close. I yelped, my phone clattering to the floor.

“Don’t act shy sia,” he growled, his whiskey-and-cigarette breath hot on my face. He shoved me against a washing machine, the cold metal biting into my lower back. “You’re teasing me with that tight body. You want this right?”

“No, get off!” I shouted, shoving his chest, but he was solid, pinning me with his weight. His hand grabbed my throat, firm, forcing my eyes to his. “Please, I don’t want this,” I said, my voice cracking. I’d messed around before, but this was different—raw, terrifying, and my body was sparking with a heat I despised.

“Liar lah,” he sneered, yanking at my shorts. He tugged them down hard, the denim scraping my thighs, exposing my pink panties. His eyes gleamed, ravenous. “Fuck, look at that. You’re just begging for it.”

“Stop it!” I screamed, kicking at him, but he forced my thighs apart, his knee wedging between my legs. My panties rubbed against my skin, dry and tight. “Not wet huh?” he taunted, spitting on his fingers and shoving them into my panties, rubbing my clit with brutal force. “Gonna make you drip Chloe.”

I whimpered, my body jerking as he worked me, his fingers rough, spitting again to slick me up. “Get wet lah, don’t waste my time,” he growled, shoving two fingers inside my tight pussy, stretching me painfully. It burned, but my body betrayed me, a slick warmth building. “There you go, good girl. Your cunt’s ready now.”

“No, stop,” I sobbed, tears streaming, but he laughed, his grip tightening on my throat. He ripped my tank top up, exposing my pink bra, and yanked it down, my 34B breasts spilling out, nipples hardening in the cold air. He groaned, pinching one so hard I cried out. “Fuck, you’re hot,” he muttered, his mouth crashing onto mine, his tongue forcing its way in, tasting of liquor and ash. I gagged, pushing at him, but he was too strong, crushing me against the machine.

“Stop fighting sia,” he said, his voice dark. He tugged his shorts down, his thick, bare cock springing free, veined and slick with precum. I froze, my breath catching. “Don’t look so scared lah,” he sneered, rubbing his cock against my wet panties, pushing them aside. “Your pussy’s begging for this.”

“No!” I screamed, but he slapped my face, the sting silencing me. My cheek burned, and he grabbed my hips, lifting me onto the machine’s edge, my legs spread wide. “You’re gonna love this,” he said, spitting on his cock and rubbing it against my slick folds, coating himself in my forced arousal.

Before I could beg again, he thrust into me, raw and vicious, his cock tearing through my tight pussy in one brutal stroke. I screamed, the pain searing, my body stretched as he filled me, hot and pulsing. “Fuck, so tight,” he grunted, his hands bruising my hips as he pounded into me, the machine rattling. My head knocked against the control panel, my vision blurring, but he didn’t stop, his hips relentless, his cock scraping every raw nerve.

“Scream all you want, nobody’s here lah,” he taunted, biting my neck, leaving marks. His hand slid to my clit, rubbing it roughly, forcing my body to respond. “Feel that? You’re soaking my cock sia.” I hated it, but I was wet, my pussy clenching around him, a shameful pleasure building. “You’re a slut for this Chloe,” he growled, his fingers digging into my ass, spreading me wider, his cock driving deeper.

“Please, stop,” I sobbed, but my voice broke, a moan slipping out as my body shook. His thrusts were merciless, hitting spots that made me tremble, and an orgasm ripped through me, raw and unwanted. I screamed, my pussy pulsing around his cock, milking him as I came, tears streaming. “No,” I whimpered, but he laughed, his pace turning savage.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he roared, his cock swelling. “Gonna fill you up babe.” With a guttural groan, he slammed into me, his hot cum flooding my raw pussy, spilling down my thighs. He kept thrusting, pushing his seed deeper, his breath ragged. “Fucking perfect,” he muttered, pulling out, leaving me slumped on the machine, my body aching.

But he wasn’t done. “Get up sia,” he growled, grabbing my arm and dragging me through a back door, up a narrow staircase to his flat above the laundromat. The place was a dump—beer cans, cigarette butts, a stained mattress in the corner. He shoved me onto it, my back hitting the rough fabric. “On your knees lah. You’re gonna suck me off.”

“No, please,” I begged, but he grabbed my hair, yanking my head toward his cock, still slick with my juices and his cum. “Open your mouth sia,” he snarled, slapping my cheek lightly, the sting sharp. I whimpered, my lips parting, and he shoved his cock in, thick and heavy, hitting the back of my throat. I gagged, tears streaming, but he held my head, thrusting hard, his pubic hair scratching my face. “Suck it good Chloe,” he grunted, his hips pumping, his cock swelling in my mouth.

I choked, my tongue pressed against his shaft, the taste of him—salt, musk, and my own shame—overwhelming. His hands tightened in my hair, forcing me to take him deeper. “Fuck, you’re good at this,” he groaned, his thrusts erratic. I tried to pull back, but he held me firm, his cock pulsing. “Take it all lah,” he roared, and his cum flooded my mouth, hot and thick, spilling over my lips as I choked, swallowing some, the rest dripping down my chin.

He pulled out, wiping his cock on my cheek, his smirk cruel. “Get the fuck out sia,” he said, standing over me. “Don’t need you here anymore.” I crawled to the door, my torn tank top barely covering my bra, my panties and shorts pulled up but stained with his cum and my juices. My thighs were sticky, blood and semen mixing, the pain and shame burning through me. I grabbed my phone and bag, stumbling down the stairs, my body trembling. I crawled out of the laundromat, collapsing on the pavement outside, the Geylang night swallowing me as I sobbed, my laundry forgotten, my mind shattered.

[domdady39]

Late Delivery in Yishun

Late Delivery in Yishun

The night was suffocating, the Singapore humidity making my GrabFood uniform—a green polo and black shorts—stick to my skin like glue. I was 160 cm tall, 50 kg, with a 34C bust that pushed against my bra, my curves filling out the tight polo in ways that always got looks. At 20, I wasn’t some wide-eyed virgin; I’d messed around at poly parties, kissed a few guys, even got to second base once. But I was still saving myself for something real, not this delivery gig to pay rent. It was past 1 AM, and I was pedaling through Yishun, my bike wobbling under the weight of my delivery bag, desperate to drop off this last laksa order and crash.

I parked at the void deck of Block 672, checking the app: unit #12-04, some guy named Darren. The lift stank of cigarette smoke and leftover food, and I fanned myself with the receipt, my ponytail damp with sweat. The flat’s door was slightly open, light spilling out. I knocked, irritated. “Hello, GrabFood delivery.”

No answer. I knocked harder. “Hey, your laksa’s here. Don’t waste my time.” Still nothing. Annoyed, I pushed the door open, stepping into the chilly flat, the air-con blasting. The place reeked of beer and fried snacks, my sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor. “Anyone home?”

“Right here, babe,” a rough voice called from the living room. I froze, clutching the delivery bag. A guy lounged on a beat-up sofa, shirtless, his muscled chest slick with sweat. He was maybe 30, Chinese, with a buzz cut and tattoos snaking up his arms. His eyes raked over me, lingering on my breasts, my hips. “You’re late. Food’s cold already, yeah?”

“Sorry, traffic was bad,” I muttered, my face hot. I’d dealt with sleazy customers before, but this guy’s stare was predatory, making my skin crawl. “Here’s your order.” I held out the bag, but he didn’t move, just smirked.

“Put it on the table,” he said, pointing to a messy coffee table. I stepped closer, setting the bag down, my nerves tingling. I turned to leave, but he was up fast, blocking the door. My heart pounded, but I kept my cool. “I’m leaving now.”

“Not so fast, Mei Ling,” he said, grabbing my wrist. His grip was like a clamp, and I gasped, dropping my phone. It clattered to the floor as he yanked me closer, his beer-soaked breath burning my face. “You waltz in here, looking all hot in that uniform, and think you can just walk out?”

“Let go!” I snapped, twisting my arm, but he was too strong, his fingers bruising my skin. I wasn’t clueless—I knew guys like him, all ego and entitlement—but this was different, dangerous. “I’ll scream, you know.”

“Scream? At this hour? Nobody’s coming,” he laughed, slamming me against the wall. My back hit the plaster, and I winced, the cold seeping through my polo. His body pinned me, heavy and hard, his thigh pressing between my legs. “You’re too fucking sexy, you know that? Bet you’ve been teasing me all night.”

“Get off me!” I shouted, shoving his chest, but he was like a brick wall. His hand grabbed my chin, forcing my eyes to his. “Don’t act all high and mighty,” he growled, his other hand yanking at my shorts. He tugged them down roughly, the fabric scraping my thighs, exposing my black panties. His eyes darkened, his breath hitching as he saw them. “Fuck, you’re hiding a nice little package under there.”

“I said no!” I hissed, kicking at him, but he grabbed my thighs, forcing them apart. His knee shoved harder between my legs, my panties rubbing against my skin. I wasn’t wet, not yet, and I hated the way my body sparked under his touch. “Stop it, please.”

“Stop? You’re practically asking for it,” he sneered, his hand sliding under my polo, ripping it open. Buttons flew, and he shoved my bra up, my 34C breasts spilling out, nipples stiffening in the cold air. He groaned, pinching one hard, making me cry out. “Gonna make you wet, babe. You’ll be begging for my cock.”

He spit on his fingers, yanking my panties down to my knees, the fabric stretching tight. His rough fingers found my dry pussy, rubbing my clit with brutal pressure. I gasped, my body jerking, the sensation sharp and raw. “Come on, get wet for me,” he growled, shoving two fingers inside me, stretching my tight folds. It hurt, but he kept rubbing, spitting again, smearing it over my clit, working me until a slick warmth betrayed me. “There you go, good girl. Knew you’d want it.”

“No, please, stop,” I begged, tears streaming down my face, but he just laughed, his hand fisting my hair, yanking my head back. His lips crashed onto mine, his tongue forcing its way in, tasting of beer and ash. I gagged, pushing at him, but he was relentless, his body crushing me against the wall. “Fuck, you taste so sweet,” he muttered, pulling back to leer at me. His hand squeezed my breast, twisting my nipple until I whimpered, the pain mixing with a sick heat I couldn’t control.

“Stop fighting,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. He tugged his shorts down, his thick, bare cock springing free, veined and dripping with precum. I froze, my breath catching in fear. “Don’t look so scared,” he taunted, rubbing his cock against my now-wet folds, coating himself in my forced arousal. “Your cunt’s ready for me, yeah?”

“No!” I screamed, but he slapped my face, the sting silencing me. My cheek burned, and he grabbed my thighs, lifting me off the ground, pinning me harder against the wall. My panties dangled from one ankle, my legs spread wide as he pressed his cock against my entrance. “Please, don’t,” I sobbed, but he ignored me, thrusting into me, raw and savage, his cock tearing through my tight pussy in one brutal stroke.

I screamed, the pain searing, my body stretched to its limit as he filled me, hot and pulsing. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunted, his hands bruising my thighs as he pounded into me, each thrust slamming my back against the wall. My head knocked against the plaster, my vision blurring, but he didn’t stop, his hips relentless, his cock scraping every raw nerve. “Scream all you want, nobody’s here.”

I sobbed, my nails clawing his shoulders, but it only made him thrust harder, his groans loud in my ear. “You feel so fucking good,” he growled, biting my neck, leaving marks. His hand slid to my clit, rubbing it roughly, forcing my body to respond. I hated it, but I was wet now, my pussy clenching around him, a shameful pleasure building. “See? You’re a slut for this cock.”

“No,” I whimpered, but my voice broke, my hips twitching as the pleasure-pain overwhelmed me. His fingers dug into my ass, spreading me wider, his cock driving deeper, hitting spots that made me shake. “Please, stop,” I begged, but a moan slipped out, my body betraying me as an orgasm ripped through me, raw and unwanted. I screamed, my pussy pulsing around his cock, milking him as I came, tears streaming down my face.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he roared, his thrusts turning feral, his cock swelling inside me. “Gonna fill you up, babe.” With a guttural groan, he slammed into me one last time, his hot cum flooding my raw pussy, spilling out and dripping down my thighs. He kept thrusting, pushing his seed deeper, his breath ragged against my neck. “Fucking perfect,” he muttered, finally pulling out, leaving me slumped against the wall, my legs trembling.

He stepped back, pulling up his shorts, his smirk cold and cruel. “Not bad for a quick fuck,” he said, grabbing his laksa from the table. “Now get the fuck out, lah. Don’t need you hanging around.” He grabbed my arm, dragging me to the door, my torn polo flapping open, my panties tangled at my ankle. He shoved me into the hallway, tossing my delivery bag and phone after me. “Go, before I decide to fuck you again.”

The door slammed shut, and I collapsed against the corridor wall, my body aching, sticky with his cum and my own juices. Blood and semen stained my thighs, my bra still pushed up, my shorts barely on. I pulled my clothes together, my hands shaking, the shame and pain burning through me. I stumbled to the lift, my bike waiting downstairs, and rode off into the night, the Yishun streets blurring through my tears. By the time I reached my flat, the sky was turning grey, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to forget.

[domdady39]

Closing Time at the Café

Closing Time at the Café

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as I wiped down the last table in the café, the smell of espresso and kaya toast lingering in the air. It was past 11 PM, and the shutters were half-down, signaling the end of another grueling shift at this hole-in-the-wall joint in Jalan Besar, Singapore. The streets outside were quiet, save for the occasional hum of a passing Grab bike. I was alone, or so I thought, until I heard the back door slam open.

“Oi, Mei Ling, you done yet?” Ryan’s voice was rough, edged with that cocky arrogance that made my skin crawl. He was the assistant manager, a broad-shouldered Aussie expat with a perpetual stubble and eyes that stripped me bare every time he looked my way. He’d been on my case since I started working here three months ago, always lingering too close, his comments too crude for the staff room.

“Almost,” I snapped, tossing the rag into the sink. My uniform—a tight black polo and denim skirt—was sticky with sweat, clinging to my curves. I’d caught Ryan staring at my ass earlier, and it pissed me off, but there was something else too—a heat I didn’t want to admit. I hadn’t been laid in months, not since my ex ghosted me, and the late-night shifts left me too wired to sleep.

He sauntered in, locking the back door behind him, his boots heavy on the tiled floor. “You’re too slow, lah,” he said, his Aussie accent mixing with Singlish in a way that grated on me. He leaned against the counter, his biceps flexing under his rolled-up sleeves, watching me like I was prey. “Need me to speed you up?”

“Fuck off, Ryan,” I said, turning to stack the chairs. But he was faster, closing the distance in two strides, his hand clamping around my wrist. Hard. I yelped, trying to yank free, but his grip was iron.

“Don’t be a bitch, Mei Ling,” he growled, his face inches from mine. His breath smelled of beer—he’d probably been sneaking pints in the storeroom again. “I see how you strut around in that skirt, teasing me all night. You want this.”

“No, I don’t,” I hissed, shoving at his chest. He didn’t budge, his body a wall of muscle pinning me against the counter. My heart pounded, fear and fury mixing with a traitorous throb between my legs. I hated him, but my body was a fucking liar, reacting to the heat of his hand, the press of his thigh against mine.

“Bullshit,” he said, his free hand grabbing my chin, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were dark, hungry. “You’re wet already, aren’t you?” Before I could answer, he kissed me, rough and bruising, his tongue shoving into my mouth. I bit his lip, tasting blood, but he just laughed, low and dark. “Fucking wild one, eh?”

“Get off me!” I snarled, clawing at his arm, but he spun me around, bending me over the counter. The edge dug into my hips, and I gasped as he yanked my skirt up, exposing my panties. His fingers hooked into them, ripping them down my thighs in one brutal tug. The cool air hit my bare skin, and I shivered, my nails scraping the countertop.

“Stop pretending you don’t want it,” he said, his voice thick with lust. I heard his belt buckle clink, the rustle of his jeans hitting the floor. Panic surged, but so did a sick, desperate need I couldn’t explain. “Ryan, don’t—” I started, but my words choked off as his hand slid between my legs, finding my slick folds. He groaned, his fingers probing roughly, spreading my wetness.

“Fucking knew it,” he said, his cock pressing against my ass, hot and thick. No condom, no hesitation. “You’re dripping for me.” I tried to twist away, but he grabbed my hair, pulling my head back, his other hand pinning my hip. “Stay still, Mei Ling, or I’ll make it hurt.”

I whimpered, my body trembling as he pushed inside me, raw and relentless. His cock stretched me, the burn of his bare skin against mine sending shocks of pain and pleasure through me. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, thrusting deep, his hips slamming against my ass. The counter rattled, coffee mugs clinking as he pounded into me, each stroke harder than the last.

“Ryan, stop,” I gasped, but my voice was weak, drowned by the wet slap of his body against mine. My cunt clenched around him, betraying me, and I moaned, hating myself for it. His hand slid to my clit, rubbing fast and rough, and I cried out, my body buckling under the onslaught. “That’s it, you little slut,” he growled, his fingers bruising my hip. “Scream for me.”

I did, my moans echoing in the empty café, raw and desperate. The shame burned, but so did the pleasure, building like a storm. His cock hit every sensitive spot, his thrusts merciless, and I felt myself unraveling, my orgasm crashing over me like a tidal wave. I screamed, my nails digging into the counter, my legs shaking as I came, hard and helpless.

He didn’t stop, his pace brutal, his grunts filling the air. “Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up,” he snarled, and before I could protest, he slammed into me one last time, his cock pulsing as he came inside me, hot and thick. I felt it spill, dripping down my thighs, and I shuddered, my body still twitching from my own release.

He pulled out, leaving me slumped over the counter, my breath ragged. I heard him zip up, his chuckle low and cruel. “Told you you wanted it,” he said, tossing my torn panties onto the floor. “Clean up and lock up, Mei Ling. Don’t be late tomorrow.”

He walked out, the back door slamming behind him. I slid to the floor, my body sore and slick, my mind a mess of rage and satisfaction. The café was silent again, but the air felt heavier now, charged with what I’d done—what he’d made me do. I pulled my skirt down, my hands shaking, and swore I’d quit tomorrow. But deep down, I knew I’d be back, chasing that twisted, fucked-up thrill again.

[domdady39]

After Hours at the Art Studio

After Hours at the Art Studio

The air in the art studio was thick with the scent of turpentine and charcoal, the dim glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered tables. I was sprawled on a stool, my sketchpad abandoned, staring at the half-finished canvas of a nude figure I’d been struggling with all week. The university’s art block in Bangkok was dead quiet at this hour—past midnight, with only the hum of cicadas outside. I should’ve gone home hours ago, but the deadline for the gallery submission was tomorrow, and I was stuck. That’s when I heard the door creak open.

“Still here, Naree?” Kiet’s voice cut through the silence, low and teasing, like he knew something I didn’t. He was my TA, a grad student with sharp cheekbones, inked forearms, and eyes that lingered too long. He leaned against the doorframe, his black t-shirt clinging to his lean frame, a smirk playing on his lips. I’d caught him watching me during class, his gaze tracing my curves when he thought I wasn’t looking.

“Trying to finish this disaster,” I muttered, gesturing at the canvas. My tank top was smudged with charcoal, my shorts riding up from hours of shifting on the stool. I was a mess, and the stress was making me snappy. “What are you doing here so late?”

“Checking on stragglers,” he said, stepping inside and letting the door click shut. The sound felt final, like a trap snapping closed. He moved closer, his boots soft on the concrete floor, and leaned over my canvas, his body brushing against my shoulder. “This isn’t bad. But it’s missing… passion.”

I rolled my eyes, but my skin prickled where he’d touched me. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one getting graded.”

He chuckled, his breath warm against my neck. “Maybe you need inspiration.” His hand grazed my arm, lingering on the curve of my elbow. I froze, my pulse hammering. Kiet had a reputation—rumors of late-night “tutoring” sessions with other students, girls who blushed when his name came up. I’d always brushed it off. I wasn’t that kind of girl. I had a boyfriend last year, a safe, boring guy who never pushed me. But Kiet? He was danger in human form.

“Stop it,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant. I slid off the stool, putting the table between us. “I need to focus.”

“You’re too tense, Naree,” he said, circling the table like a predator. His eyes flicked over me, taking in my bare thighs, the way my tank top hugged my breasts. “You’ve been wound up all semester. Let me help you relax.”

My throat tightened, a mix of fear and something hotter coiling in my gut. “I said stop.” But my voice wavered, and he heard it. His smirk grew, and he closed the distance, backing me against the wall. The cold concrete bit into my back, and I gasped, trapped between it and his body.

“You don’t mean that,” he murmured, his hand sliding to my waist, fingers digging into my hip. “I’ve seen how you look at me in class. You’re curious, aren’t you?”

“No,” I lied, my hands pushing at his chest. But he was stronger, his body pressing closer, pinning me. His thigh slipped between my legs, and I bit my lip to stifle a moan. My body was betraying me, heat pooling low in my belly despite the alarm bells in my head.

“Shh,” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear. “You need this. I can feel it.” His hand slid under my tank top, rough fingers grazing my stomach, then higher, cupping my breast. My nipple hardened under his touch, and I hated how good it felt. I shoved harder, but he caught my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand.

“Kiet, don’t,” I gasped, but my voice was weak, drowned by the throb of desire I couldn’t ignore. It had been months since anyone touched me like this, and my body was screaming for it, even if my mind was screaming no.

He kissed me then, hard and demanding, his tongue forcing its way past my lips. I squirmed, but the pressure of his thigh against my core sent a jolt through me, and I moaned into his mouth. He pulled back, smirking. “See? You want this.”

“No, I—” My protest died as he yanked my tank top up, exposing my breasts. His mouth was on me before I could react, sucking my nipple hard, his teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp. My knees buckled, but he held me up, his free hand slipping into my shorts, finding me wet despite myself.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he growled, his fingers sliding over my clit, slow and deliberate. I whimpered, my body arching into his touch even as I tried to twist away. “Stop fighting it, Naree. Let go.”

He released my wrists, and I could’ve pushed him away, could’ve run. But I didn’t. His fingers pushed inside me, curling just right, and I cried out, my hands gripping his shoulders for balance. The shame burned, but so did the pleasure, raw and overwhelming. He pulled my shorts down, letting them pool at my ankles, and spun me around, bending me over the table. My palms slapped against the wood, knocking over a jar of brushes.

I heard the crinkle of foil, the sound of his zipper. Then he was behind me, his hands gripping my hips, and I felt the blunt pressure of his cock at my entrance. “Tell me you want it,” he said, his voice rough.

I didn’t answer, my breath hitching, but I didn’t say no either. He pushed inside, slow at first, stretching me until I gasped. The table creaked under my weight, and he didn’t pause, thrusting deep and hard, each stroke sending shockwaves through me. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his hands bruising my hips.

I moaned, loud and shameless, the sound echoing in the empty studio. The risk of someone hearing, of getting caught, only made it hotter. My body was his, responding to every thrust, every rough grip. He reached around, his fingers finding my clit again, rubbing fast and relentless. “Come for me,” he demanded, and I did, my orgasm ripping through me, my cries muffled as I bit my arm.

He wasn’t far behind, his thrusts growing erratic. With a guttural groan, he slammed into me one last time, his fingers digging into my flesh as he came. He pulled out, and I collapsed against the table, my legs shaking, my body slick with sweat and shame.

He stepped back, zipping up his jeans, that smirk back on his face. “See? You needed that. Your art’s gonna be fucking incredible now.”

I pulled my clothes back on, my hands trembling, my mind a mess of guilt and satisfaction. “Get out,” I whispered, but there was no force behind it.

He chuckled, grabbing his jacket. “See you in class, Naree.”

As the door clicked shut, I sank onto the stool, staring at my canvas. The nude figure seemed to stare back, its lines bolder, more alive. Maybe Kiet was right. Maybe this was the passion I’d been missing. But as I picked up my pencil, my body still humming, I knew I’d never look at this studio—or myself—the same way again.

[domdady39]

Midnight on Sentosa Beach

Midnight on Sentosa Beach

The night air on Sentosa Beach was warm and salty, the waves lapping softly against the shore. It was past 2 AM, and the beach was deserted, the neon lights of the nearby resorts dimmed to a faint glow. I shouldn’t have been here, not alone, not at this hour. But the fight with my parents—another screaming match about my grades, my future—had driven me out of our HDB flat in Jurong. I’d taken the last MRT to HarbourFront, then wandered onto Siloso Beach, my flip-flops sinking into the cool sand. I was 19, still in poly, and I just needed to breathe, to escape. My white sundress clung to my skin, damp from the humid night, and my ponytail swung as I walked, my heart heavy but my mind craving peace.

I didn’t hear him approach. One moment, I was staring at the dark water, the stars blurred by my tears. The next, a rough hand clamped over my mouth, yanking me back against a hard chest. I screamed, but the sound was muffled, swallowed by the crashing waves. My heart slammed against my ribs, panic flooding me as I clawed at the hand, my nails digging into calloused skin.

“Shut up, little girl,” a low voice growled in my ear, thick with a local accent, maybe Malay or Chinese, I couldn’t tell. His breath was hot, reeking of cheap beer and cigarettes. I thrashed, my flip-flops flying off, but he was stronger, his arm like a steel band around my waist, dragging me toward a cluster of palm trees where the shadows were thicker. “Saw you walking alone, looking all sweet and lost. You’re mine tonight.”

“No, please!” I whimpered against his hand, my voice small, trembling. I’d never done this—never even kissed a boy properly. My friends teased me for being the “good girl,” always studying, always home by curfew. Now, I was helpless, my body shaking as he shoved me face-down into the sand. The grains scraped my cheeks, gritty against my lips, and I tasted salt—tears or seawater, I didn’t know.

He pinned me with his weight, his knees forcing my thighs apart. I felt my dress rip as he yanked it up, the fabric tearing with a sickening sound. “No panties, huh?” he sneered, his fingers probing between my legs, rough and invasive. I gasped, my body tensing as he found my bare folds, untouched and sensitive. I’d only ever worn panties to bed, never under a dress like this, a stupid choice I now regretted. His fingers pushed inside me, dry and brutal, and I cried out, the pain sharp, my innocence no match for his aggression.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he muttered, his voice thick with lust. I heard his zipper, the rustle of his shorts, and then the blunt, hot press of his cock against my entrance. I screamed again, muffled by the sand, my hands scrabbling uselessly at the ground. “Please, don’t, I’ve never—” I sobbed, but he didn’t care. His hand fisted in my hair, pulling my head back, my neck straining as he forced himself inside me, raw and merciless.

The pain was blinding, his thick cock tearing through my virgin flesh, stretching me beyond what I thought possible. I felt something rip inside, a wet warmth that wasn’t just my tears. He groaned, low and animalistic, his hips slamming against my ass, each thrust driving me deeper into the sand. “So fucking pure,” he growled, his free hand clawing at my hip, leaving bruises I could feel forming. “Gonna ruin you, lah.”

I whimpered, my body betraying me as a sick heat built alongside the pain. His cock filled me, hot and pulsing, scraping every sensitive nerve. I hated it, hated him, but my hips twitched involuntarily, my cunt clenching around him as he pounded harder. The sand chafed my knees, my palms, my face, but his rhythm was relentless, his grunts mixing with the waves. His fingers dug into my scalp, yanking my hair harder, forcing my back to arch as he drove deeper, his balls slapping against my skin.

“Cry all you want, nobody’s here,” he taunted, his hand sliding under me to grab my breast through the torn dress. My nipples, traitorously hard, ached as he pinched them, twisting until I screamed. The pain blurred with a twisted pleasure, my body shuddering as he fucked me raw, his cock slick with my blood and juices. “Fuck, you’re wet now,” he laughed, his thrusts growing faster, more brutal. “Little virgin slut likes it rough.”

“No,” I sobbed, but my voice broke, my body trembling as a wave of unwanted pleasure crashed over me. My orgasm was sudden, violent, ripping through me like a betrayal. I screamed, my cunt pulsing around his cock, milking him as he groaned louder, his thrusts erratic. “Fuck, take it,” he snarled, and I felt him explode inside me, hot spurts flooding my insides, spilling out to drip down my thighs. His cum burned, mixing with my blood, a sticky mess pooling in the sand.

He stayed inside me, panting, his weight crushing me until he finally pulled out with a wet squelch. I collapsed, my face pressed into the sand, my body shaking, sore, and violated. He stood, zipping up his shorts, his shadow looming over me. “Not so innocent now, are you?” he said, his voice cold. I heard his footsteps fade, the crunch of sand growing distant, leaving me alone in the dark.

I lay there, curled up, my dress torn, my thighs sticky with his cum and my blood. The waves kept crashing, indifferent, as I sobbed, my body aching, my mind numb. I didn’t move, couldn’t move, the shame and pain anchoring me to the spot. The sky lightened slowly, the stars fading as dawn crept in, painting the beach in soft pinks and oranges. I was still there, alone, when the first joggers appeared in the morning, their shocked gasps barely registering as I stared blankly at the sea, my innocence gone, stolen in the dead of night.

[domdady39]

Pulse of the Night

Pulse of the Night

The humid Singapore night clung to Aisha’s skin as she leaned against the railing of the rooftop bar in Clarke Quay. The city skyline glittered below, a mosaic of lights reflecting off the river, but her focus was on the pulse of the music vibrating through her strappy red stilettos. Her emerald-green dress, a form-fitting silk number with a plunging neckline, shimmered under the bar’s neon glow, accentuating her lithe frame and the cascade of her jet-black hair, styled in loose waves that grazed her bare shoulders. Underneath, a crimson lace bra and matching high-cut panties hugged her curves, a secret rebellion against her day job as a reserved junior lawyer at a Shenton Way firm.

She sipped her gin and tonic, the ice clinking softly, and scanned the crowd. Her friends had ditched her for a club in Orchard, but Aisha preferred the open air, the way the breeze teased her skin. She wasn’t here to dance or flirt—she just needed to unwind after a brutal week of drafting contracts. But then she saw him.

Jian, a stranger with a lean build and sharp cheekbones, stood at the bar, his white linen shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of toned chest. His dark hair was slicked back, a single strand falling rogue over his forehead. He held a whisky neat, his fingers tracing the glass with deliberate slowness. Their eyes locked, and Aisha felt a jolt, like the bassline of the EDM track thumping through the air. He smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes, and she felt her pulse quicken, her body betraying her calm facade.

“Mind if I join you?” Jian’s voice was low, smooth, with a faint trace of a local accent—maybe he was a banker or a tech bro, she couldn’t tell. He didn’t wait for her answer, sliding onto the stool beside her, close enough that she caught the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and spice, intoxicating.

“Bold move,” Aisha said, arching an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m looking for company?”

“Your eyes,” he replied, his gaze dropping briefly to her lips, then back up. “They’ve been screaming for attention since I walked in.”

Aisha laughed, a throaty sound that surprised even her. “Cocky, aren’t you? What’s your deal, then? Here to pick up girls or just passing through?”

“Neither,” Jian said, leaning closer. His knee brushed hers under the table, sending a shiver up her spine. “I’m here because I saw you, and I couldn’t look away. That dress is… dangerous.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she held his gaze, refusing to back down. “Dangerous? Maybe you’re just weak.” She crossed her legs, letting the hem of her dress ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of thigh. His eyes followed, and she saw his jaw tighten, a flicker of hunger in his expression.

The banter flowed easily, laced with flirtation that grew sharper with each drink. Jian was a freelance photographer, not a banker, and his stories of capturing Singapore’s hidden corners—HDB rooftops at dawn, alleyways in Geylang—intrigued her. But it was his intensity, the way he leaned in when he spoke, that made her skin tingle. The bar grew louder, the crowd thicker, but they were in their own bubble, the world narrowing to the heat between them.

“Want to get out of here?” Jian asked, his voice a low growl, his hand resting lightly on her wrist. His touch was electric, and Aisha felt a rush of desire pool in her core, her lace panties suddenly feeling too tight.

She hesitated, her lawyer’s caution warring with the reckless need building inside her. “Where to?” she asked, her voice huskier than she intended.

“My place isn’t far. Telok Ayer. Private enough to… continue this.” His thumb traced a slow circle on her wrist, and she bit her lip, her resolve crumbling.

“Lead the way,” she said, standing, her stilettos clicking against the floor. The night air hit her like a wave as they stepped out, the humidity wrapping around them. Jian hailed a Grab, and in the backseat, their thighs pressed together, his hand resting on her knee, inching upward with every turn. Aisha’s breath hitched, her body hyper-aware of his fingers, the heat of his skin through her dress. She wanted to tell the driver to hurry, but the anticipation was delicious, a slow burn that made her ache.

Jian’s apartment was a sleek loft, all glass and concrete, with a view of the Marina Bay skyline. The door barely closed before he pushed her against it, his lips crashing into hers. The kiss was fierce, hungry, his tongue exploring her mouth with a possessiveness that made her moan. Her hands roamed his chest, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal taut muscles, her nails grazing his skin. He groaned, pressing himself closer, and she felt the hard length of him against her thigh, straining through his trousers.

“Fuck, you’re stunning,” he murmured, his lips trailing down her neck, nipping at her collarbone. Aisha arched into him, her hands tangling in his hair as he tugged the straps of her dress off her shoulders. The silk slid down, pooling at her waist, revealing her crimson bra, her nipples already hard against the lace. Jian’s eyes darkened, and he cupped her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples through the fabric, sending sparks of pleasure through her.

��Take it off,” she whispered, her voice thick with need. He unhooked her bra with practiced ease, letting it fall to the floor. Her breasts, full and firm, drew a low growl from him as he bent to take a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard. Aisha gasped, her back arching, her hands gripping his shoulders for support. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and urgency that made her thighs clench.

Jian’s hands slid lower, pushing her dress and panties down in one motion. She stepped out of them, standing naked except for her stilettos, the cool air of the loft kissing her skin. He stepped back, his gaze raking over her, and she felt exposed yet powerful, her body humming with desire. “You’re fucking perfect,” he said, his voice rough as he shed his shirt and trousers, revealing black boxer briefs that did little to hide his arousal.

Aisha moved first, closing the distance to tug his briefs down. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip glistening with pre-cum. She wrapped her hand around it, stroking slowly, relishing his sharp intake of breath. “Condom,” she said firmly, echoing a lesson from another life, another story. Jian nodded, grabbing one from a nearby drawer and rolling it on with a deftness that spoke of experience.

He lifted her onto the kitchen counter, the cold granite a shock against her heated skin. She spread her legs, and he stepped between them, his hands gripping her hips. “Ready?” he asked, his eyes locked on hers, a mix of challenge and need.

“Fuck me,” she said, the words raw and unfiltered. Jian didn’t hesitate, guiding his cock to her entrance, slick with her arousal. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching her, filling her. Aisha moaned, her head tilting back, the sensation intense, almost too much. He paused, letting her adjust, then began to move, each thrust deep and deliberate, hitting a spot that made her see stars.

“God, you’re tight,” he groaned, his hands roaming her body, one cupping her breast, the other gripping her thigh. Aisha wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, her nails digging into his back. The counter creaked under their rhythm, the city lights blurring outside as the world narrowed to the heat of their bodies. She felt the pressure building, a coil tightening in her core, her moans growing louder, mingling with his grunts.

“Harder,” she demanded, her voice breaking. Jian obliged, his thrusts becoming relentless, the sound of skin against skin filling the loft. Aisha’s orgasm hit like a tidal wave, her body shuddering, her cries echoing off the walls. Jian followed moments later, his hips jerking as he came, his grip on her tightening as he rode out his release.

They stayed like that, panting, sweat-slicked, until he pulled out, disposing of the condom. Aisha slid off the counter, her legs shaky, her body still buzzing. Jian pulled her close, kissing her softly, a contrast to the ferocity of moments before. “Stay the night?” he asked, his voice soft but hopeful.

Aisha smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Maybe. But only if you can keep up.” She felt alive, electric, the night pulsing with possibility.

[domdady39]

Late Night at the Karaoke Lounge

Late Night at the Karaoke Lounge

I leaned back against the plush red couch in the karaoke lounge, the neon lights casting a sultry glow over the room. My best friend, Mei, was belting out a Mandarin pop ballad, her voice wobbling from one too many lychee martinis. The private room smelled of sweet cocktails and fried chicken wings, and the table was a mess of empty glasses and half-eaten snacks. It was supposed to be a chill girls’ night out to celebrate the end of our final exams at the university in Kuala Lumpur, but Mei had invited her cousin, Jian, and his friend, Ethan, to join us. I wasn’t complaining—yet.

Jian was sprawled next to me, his arm slung lazily over the back of the couch, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body. He was cute in that effortlessly cool way, with messy hair and a smirk that screamed trouble. Ethan, on the other hand, was all intensity—sharp jawline, dark eyes that seemed to see right through me, and a leather jacket that made him look like he’d stepped out of a K-drama. They’d been flirting with us all night, their banter getting bolder with every round of drinks.

“Li Na, your turn!” Mei giggled, shoving the microphone toward me as the song ended. Her cheeks were flushed, and she wobbled as she plopped down next to Ethan, who caught her with a grin.

“Nah, I’m good,” I said, waving her off. Singing wasn’t my thing, especially not after three cocktails. My head was buzzing, and I was more focused on the way Jian’s thigh was brushing against mine. It was accidental—at least, I thought it was—but it sent a spark through me. I hadn’t hooked up with anyone since my breakup last semester, and the drought was starting to feel like a personal challenge.

“Come on, don’t be boring,” Jian teased, nudging me. His fingers grazed my shoulder, lingering a little too long. “Sing something sexy. I bet you’ve got a voice that could make us all weak.”

I rolled my eyes but felt my cheeks heat up. “You wish. I’m not here to perform for you.”

“Oh, but you’re already stealing the show,” Ethan chimed in from across the table, his voice low and teasing. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze locked on mine. Mei giggled again, whispering something in his ear that made him smirk.

The next song started, a slow, sultry duet that filled the room with a heavy beat. Mei grabbed Ethan’s hand, pulling him up to dance. They swayed together, her body pressed close to his, and I couldn’t help but notice how her hands slid down his back. Jian chuckled beside me. “They’re not wasting any time, huh?”

“Nope,” I said, taking a sip of my drink to hide the way my pulse was racing. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. Jian shifted closer, his arm now fully around my shoulders. I could smell his cologne—something woody and expensive—and it was doing things to me I didn’t want to admit.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Li Na,” he murmured, his lips close to my ear. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

I turned to face him, our faces inches apart. “Just wondering how this night got so out of control,” I said, half-joking. But my voice came out softer than I intended, and his eyes darkened.

“Out of control is the best kind of night,” he said, his hand sliding down to rest on my thigh. His touch was warm through my jeans, and I didn’t pull away. I should’ve. Mei was my best friend, and Jian was her cousin. This was a line I wasn’t supposed to cross. But the alcohol, the music, the heat of his hand—it was all blurring the edges of my better judgment.

Across the room, Mei and Ethan were no longer dancing. She was straddling his lap on the other couch, their kisses deep and hungry. Her top was halfway up, his hands roaming under it. I should’ve been shocked, but instead, it sent a jolt of heat through me. Jian followed my gaze and laughed softly. “Told you. Best kind of night.”

His hand slid higher up my thigh, and I caught my breath. “Jian, we shouldn’t—”

“Shouldn’t what?” he whispered, his lips brushing my earlobe. “Have a little fun? You’ve been stressed all semester. Let go, Li Na.”

I turned to protest, but his lips were on mine before I could speak. His kiss was slow at first, teasing, like he was testing me. My hands found his chest, intending to push him away, but instead, I gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted like soju and mint, and the way his tongue moved against mine made my head spin.

“Fuck,” I gasped when we broke apart, my heart pounding. I glanced at Mei and Ethan, who were too lost in each other to notice us. The karaoke screen was still blaring, the lyrics a blur of colors and words I couldn’t read.

Jian’s hand slipped under my top, his fingers tracing the curve of my waist. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmured, his voice rough. “I’ve been wanting to do this all night.”

I should’ve stopped him. I knew it. But my body was betraying me, aching for more. I shifted, straddling his lap, and his hands immediately found my hips, pulling me against him. I could feel his hardness through his jeans, and it sent a shiver through me. “This is a bad idea,” I whispered, even as I rocked against him.

“The best ideas are,” he said, his lips trailing down my neck. His hands slid up, cupping my breasts through my bra, and I moaned softly, the sound swallowed by the music. He unhooked my bra with a flick of his fingers, and I gasped as his thumbs brushed over my nipples, sending sparks straight to my core.

I glanced over at Mei again. She was on her knees now, Ethan’s pants undone, her head bobbing as he groaned, his head tilted back. The sight should’ve made me stop, but it only made me bolder. I tugged Jian’s shirt off, running my hands over his smooth, toned chest. He groaned, his hands gripping my ass as he pulled me closer.

“Fuck, Li Na, you’re killing me,” he muttered, his lips finding mine again. He lifted my top over my head, tossing it aside, and his mouth was on my breasts before I could think. His tongue swirled around my nipple, and I arched into him, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Condom,” I managed to gasp, my last shred of sense kicking in.

Jian grinned, reaching into his pocket and pulling one out. “Always prepared,” he said, tearing it open with his teeth. I slid off his lap just long enough for him to roll it on, my hands trembling as I unzipped my jeans and pushed them down. He watched me, his eyes hungry, and when I climbed back onto him, he guided himself inside me with one smooth thrust.

“Oh, god,” I moaned, my head falling back as he filled me. He was thick, stretching me in a way that made my toes curl. His hands gripped my hips, guiding me as I rode him, the couch creaking under us. The music drowned out our sounds, but I could hear his low groans, feel the way his body tensed beneath me.

Across the room, Ethan was fucking Mei now, her legs wrapped around his waist as he pinned her against the wall. Their moans blended with the karaoke track, creating a surreal symphony. Jian’s fingers found my clit, rubbing in slow circles, and I lost it, my orgasm hitting me like a wave. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, my nails digging into his back.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Jian growled, his thrusts growing harder. He buried his face in my neck, and I felt him shudder as he came, his grip on me tightening. We stayed like that for a moment, panting, our bodies pressed together as the music looped to another song.

I climbed off him, my legs shaky, and pulled my clothes back on. Mei and Ethan were still going at it, oblivious to us. Jian leaned back, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Told you it’d be a good night.”

I laughed, breathless, my heart still racing. “You’re trouble, Jian.”

“And you love it,” he shot back, winking.

As I sank back onto the couch, the reality of what we’d done started to creep in. Mei was my best friend. Jian was her cousin. And yet, the thrill of it—the forbidden, reckless heat of it—made me want to do it again. Maybe next time, we’d skip the karaoke and go straight to his place.