The first night in Singapore, I lay in my tiny hostel bed, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me, and realized just how quiet it was without Jay’s snoring beside me. Fifteen years of marriage, and not once had I slept alone—let alone in a foreign city where the air smelled like salt and engine oil instead of the damp earth of Kuala Lumpur. My fingers traced the outline of my phone on the nightstand, his last message still glowing on the screen: *"Go enjoy yourself, sayang. You deserve it."*
I knew what he meant. The fantasy we’d whispered about in the dark, his voice rough with need as he described watching another man’s hands on me, his cock stretching me wider than he ever could. The thought had kept me wet for weeks, but now, with the reality of it pressing against my skin like the humid night, I wasn’t sure if I was brave enough.
Then I met Franco.
He worked at *The Velvet Hour*, a speakeasy two blocks from my office, the kind of place where the lights were always amber and the ice never melted too fast. The first time I walked in, he was polishing a glass with the kind of slow, deliberate movements that made my thighs clench. Dark eyes, a smirk that promised trouble, and hands that looked like they could pin me down without breaking a sweat. When he leaned over the bar to take my order, his sleeve rode up just enough to reveal the tattoo snaking up his forearm—a serpent, coiled and ready to strike.
“First time here?” His voice was smoke and honey, the kind of accent that made *ciao* sound like a sin.
I licked my lips. “Is it that obvious?”
His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingered. “You’ve got that look. Like you’re hungry for something but don’t know the menu yet.”
I should’ve walked out. Should’ve gone back to my hostel, called Jay, let him talk me out of the reckless heat pooling between my legs. But I didn’t.
By the third night, I was sitting at the end of the bar, my skirt riding high enough that Franco’s knuckles brushed my thigh when he set down my gin and tonic. “You’re killing me, *bella*,” he murmured, close enough that I could smell the bergamot on his skin. “Sitting there like you don’t know what you do to a man.”
I swirled the ice in my glass. “Maybe I do.”
His laugh was low, dirty. “Prove it.”
The backroom of *The Velvet Hour* smelled like aged whiskey and something darker, muskier. Franco didn’t waste time. The second the door clicked shut, he had me pressed against it, his mouth crashing into mine like he’d been starving. His hands were everywhere—cupping my breasts through my blouse, skimming up my thighs, fingers hooking into the waistband of my panties and yanking them down in one rough motion. I gasped when his palm found my pussy, already slick, already aching.
“Fuck, you’re *dripping*,” he groaned against my neck, biting just hard enough to make me whimper. “Jay’s been keeping you satisfied, huh? Or is this all for me?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when his fingers were circling my clit, not when his other hand was unbuckling his belt, the sound of his zipper like a gunshot in the quiet room. Then his cock was out, thick and heavy in his grip, the head already weeping. I’d known Jay was well-endowed, but Franco? *Twelve inches*, curved like a scimitar, the veins throbbing under his tan skin.
“On your knees,” he ordered, and I obeyed without thinking.
The first taste of him was salt and man, the weight of his shaft on my tongue making my pussy clench with need. I took him deep, hollowing my cheeks, letting him hit the back of my throat until my eyes watered. Franco’s fingers tangled in my hair, guiding me, fucking my mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts. “That’s it, *puttana*,” he praised, voice rough. “Take it like you mean it.”
I did. I took every inch, gagging around him, my hands gripping his thighs for balance. When he finally pulled me off with a wet *pop*, his cock glistening with my saliva, he didn’t give me time to catch my breath. He spun me around, bent me over the bar’s counter, and drove into me in one brutal stroke.
“*Fuck*—!” The stretch was obscene, burning in the best way, his curved length hitting spots Jay had never reached. Franco didn’t go easy. He pounded into me, his hips slapping against my ass, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. “You like that, don’t you?” he growled. “Like being a dirty little whore for a stranger.”
“Yes,” I sobbed, my nails scraping against the wood. “God, *yes*.”
He reached around, found my clit, and pinched. The orgasm ripped through me like a storm, my pussy clamping down around him, milking his cock as I came so hard my vision blurred. Franco didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, his rhythm turning erratic, his breath hot against my ear. “Gonna fill you up, *bella*,” he warned. “Gonna breed this tight cunt until you’re dripping with me.”
And he did. His release was a roar, his cock pulsing deep inside me as he emptied himself, his cum so thick I could feel it leaking down my thighs when he finally pulled out.
I should’ve felt guilty. Should’ve run back to my hostel, scrubbed myself clean in the shower. But when Ziggy—the Jamaican reggae artist with a voice like velvet and a cock that defied physics—found me two nights later at the club near my hostel, I didn’t hesitate.
Fourteen inches of *black steel* later, I was ruined in the best
Author name: Shiela