Sold in Singapore

We went on a long trip, and at the end of the trip we were in Singapore. We stayed at a four-star hotel called the Orchard, which unbeknownst to us (or maybe my husband knew and didn't tell me...) was right beside a building known for its bars and nightclubs catering to visiting businessmen and ex-pats (we discovered that the popular name for it was "four floors of whores" because it was four floors of nightclubs and bars catering to the sex trade...). There were, in other words, hundreds of young bar girls surrounding us, mostly Thai and Malay, dressed in short skirts and high heels, along with high class escorts who looked Vietnamese and Chinese, dressed in expensive brand name clothes.

My husband didn't seem interested in hiring one of the girls--he was convinced that they were all were carrying some sexually transmittable disease of some sort--but I'm sure seeing them all the time must have made him horny (I have to admit that being surrounded by such wanton sexuality, all for hire, intrigued me...). We talked about what we thought was going on next door and in the rooms surrounding us (the walls seemed thicker than most hotels and so we actually didn't hear any sex, but seeing the slutty girls coming and going down the hallways late at night, I'm sure there was plenty of activity.)

We had a beautiful hotel room, with a view window from the bed of the shower (!) and bathroom, which my hubby speculated must come into constant use as a view port for the visiting businessmen to watch the call girls bathe. I had a little fantasy in my head our first night, pretending in my mind to be a bar girl, but even as I fucked him, riding his thrusting cock, it ended up being pretty tame. I was still horny after we both came, and despite my desire for him to abuse me somehow, to treat my like a slut, I saw his eyes get the sleepy look that hits him after he has an orgasm. I quietly fingered myself to another orgasm after he fell asleep, fantasizing about what it would be like to be picked up in one of the bars next door, and I eventually dozed off with scenarios fluttering through my mind.

When my husband was out at a meeting the next afternoon, I dressed up in my slut wear (fuck-me heels, mini-skirt, halter top...) and went next door to check out the night clubs. I got a lot of evil stares from the working girls, who I'm sure were checking me out as competition and as an interloper. Some of the pimps looked at me as well, and I felt a little fear, but decided that I would be okay as long as I stayed alert. I picked one bar called "Peyton Place" which was incongruously named, since it didn't really suggest the salacious activities that were going on inside. The bar was crowded (it was a Friday in the early evening) and full of Thai bar girls waiting to be picked up. They all had long black hair, and were tiny--most below five feet tall, and so I towered over them. Some drunken Aussies were lumbering about shouting rugby songs, each of them with a little Asian prostitute on their arm. Everywhere the girls were dwarfed by their loud sweating johns.

I leaned against the bar and started to imagine myself into the role--what was it like to be a working girl here? Were they making money for families back home? Single mothers sacrificing for their children? Or did they just like having spending money for Prada bags and designer outfits? I had seen a number of these young whores walking in the expensive malls on Orchard road with older white men, hands clutching the handles of shopping bags. Were they rented by the day, by the week? Was shopping one of the perks of being a high end escort? I doubted that the girls in this bar were taken shopping--they seemed like one-night stand material. Many of them were soft, with belly fat oozing over their low-cut skirts. They wore make-up like a stereotype of cheap whores. They were also darker skinned than the high class escorts we had seen walking in the hallways of our hotel, and I realized I probably looked and was dressed in a way that made me look more like them than the girls in this bar. I must have stood out somehow, literally because of my height, but also perhaps because I was light skinned and half-Asian, exotic looking amidst their dark complexions.

I hadn't been in the bar long enough for my eyes to adjust to the dark when a middle aged man in a suit and tie came up to me and asked if he could buy me a drink. I smiled and said "why not?" and ordered a rum and Coke. He ordered the same, and asked the waitress (who I had to admit was quite pretty--I found her sexy, not quite as young as the girls stocking the bar, and more fully chested, but with an alluring face, quick eyes and sharp smile--I wished that I could come back later and perhaps hire her for a private visit to our hotel room...) to make both drinks doubles. He was handsome, not much taller than me and thin, but with a gentle smile. I asked him whether he was trying to get me drunk, and he replied that he hoped that there were other ways to "take advantage of me." I laughed and played coy. We chatted over the drink, talking through another three. He worked for a multinational, and was here for a week of meetings. I couldn't quite place his accent, it wasn't American, but wasn't as strong as a British or Australian accent. He was obviously intellligent and quick witted, and I could tell that he was increasingly excited that I was able to match him conversationally. Outwardly he was confident and relaxed, but I knew from years of experience with men that I was controlling the conversation, almost teasing what was apparent to me as his eagerness to find some personal connection as we conversed.

I told him that I was visiting Singapore as well "for work," and left it vague. After chatting for almost an hour, I felt like he was a little boy on a leash, even though I'm sure from his point of view he was initiating things. I could tell that he was increasingly eager to move the conversation to a more transparent level of negotiation, but took my hint to keep our exchange on the level of sexual innuendo and suggestive comments. I hadn't eaten since lunch, and so after the fourth rum and Coke I was beginning to laugh easily and I recognized myself losing my inhibitions, becoming increasingly crude in my joking, and finally he asked me flat out what it would take for me to go up to his hotel room.

I told him I didn't come cheap, and that I wasn't sure he could afford me. He laughed and said he was willing to find out. He paid for the drinks and we walked out of the bar. It turned out that he was staying at the same hotel that we were, except on one of the executive club floors. When we got to his room, I told him that I wasn't available for "everything" tonight, and that there was a "limited menu" for him to choose from. Even though I was feeling a buzz from the alcohol, I was nervous and there was a tinge of very real fear, especially as we entered his room. He wasn't that much larger than me, and he seemed very gentle, but as much as I felt in control of our interaction so far, I knew that once in his hotel room his demeanor might change. To make sure he knew that someone else knew where I was, I pretended to dial my cel phone and talked into the phone as if I was reporting what room and hotel I was in, saying that I would check in again after the "usual time."

I made sure that I stayed between him and the door as we spoke, and I was alert in case his tone changed, especially if he became disappointed with the fact that I wasn't available for "fucking." But he seemed quite happy with a limited set of services, and asked my prices. I said casually that he had the option of a handjob for $250 Singapore dollars, a blowjob for $500, or he could have both and the chance to lick my cunt and ass for $1000. I knew that these prices were outrageous for the local market (having looked up on the internet what the going rates were), but he actually seemed happier after he heard my prices, as if he had been validated in choosing a more valuable, and therefore more desirable, brand of handbag. I felt the thrill of playing a whore (which I knew was very different than what it must be like to have to do this every night in order to live...), and imagined the look that would be on my husband's face as I described every detail of this to him later.

I waited as the man (I realized I still didn't know his name, nor had he asked mine...) contemplated his choices, and finally he pulled out his wallet and pulled out ten $100 bills. I saw that he had come prepared, and that there must have been at least another four or five thousand dollars in his wallet. On impulse, I said, "I'll consider special requests, but they'll cost much more." He brightened up at this, and looking straight into my eyes, said that he would like me to give him a blowjob, but if I would consider doing it as a "girlfriend experience."

I had heard this phrase before, and knew that it involved the illusion of intimacy rather than just the buying of sex, and in actual practice meant going bareback without a condom, and the crossing of the no-kissing boundary practiced by many prostitutes. I thought about whether he had any STD's, and decided that it wasn't worth the risk. But just as I was about to tell him no, he anticipated my concern and said that he had just been tested for life insurance and given a clean bill of health, no HIV or any STD's, and to my surprise he pulled out a medical report from his brief case. He said that he had been fantasizing about this moment and had brought the life insurance file just in case he met someone on this trip that he wanted to be truly intimate with, but that he hadn't really been expecting it to actually work out. He explained that as soon as he saw me in the bar he realized that I was different from the other girls, whom he had no desire to be with--he would never make this request of them, but he knew that I was different, that he could "trust" that I was clean if I told him I was.

Strangely enough, as he shifted the conversation towards his own perspective of weighing the risks of contracting a STD from a prostitute, it changed my outlook on my risks with him. I looked at his medical report, still wary, but as he showed me his passport and how the names matched, I realized that I actually believed him. All of his medical history was laid out before me, and I began to think that it was like seeing an x-ray of his life, at least in terms of his physical body. There was an old injury sustained playing football, medication to control high blood pressure, a broken finger suffered playing volleyball. And on the fifth or sixth page of test results, a short list with "negative" checked one after another: "HIV," "Syphillis," "Gonorrhea" and "Hepatitus" both A and B. If this was an elaborate forgery or fake, then he had taken a great deal of trouble to execute it.

Somehow, his desire to trust that I, the prostitute, was in fact clean, made me worried less about his potential for disease. Perhaps it was the four double rum and Cokes as well eroding my caution, but I found myself beginning to trust that he wasn't carrying any sexually transmittted viruses. And since I had ruled out intercourse, the only contact we would have would be oral-genital. I'm sure for a real prostitute, the consideration to be weighed would be money, but since I didn't need the money and this was part of a fantasy role play, I found myself actually deciding based upon how compelling my experience would be that night. And I decided that it would be better if I indulged his desire for a "Girlfriend Experience." But I would charge him through the nose for it!

"For no condom and the kissing and intimacy of having me as your girlfriend for an hour, that'll cost you $5000." I fully expected him to balk at this price, since it was all out of proportion, but he almost immediately said "Done." I had a momentary twinge of thought that I should have asked for more, but I realized as he counted out the cash that I had actually guessed right about how much he had in his wallet, and after he had finished counting out the bills, his wallet was empty. I gathered up the very thick wad of bills and put them into my purse.

"Would you mind if I took some pictures of you, as well?" he asked. I said "No pictures," but I would allow him to use my camera to film and I would send him an edited clip by email later. This was a stroke of inspiration on my part, because I had been wondering if there was a way I could film the night's activities so that I could show my husband every detail later. Suddenly, I had found a way to rope him into being the cameraman and yet still have control over editing the version that he would have (even if I could trust that he wouldn't give me an STD, that didn't mean I trusted him not to spread a video all over the internet!).

He eagerly agreed, and I told him to take off his clothes and shower. I sat on the bed and videotaped him through the bathroom window as he showered, then set the camera on the bed table to continue filming as I went in to lather him (and examine his cock--just to see if there were any warts or other tell tale signs of infection--might as well check, even with the medical report...). As soon as I touched him his cock sprang stiff, and as the hot water poured over his body I soaped my hands and swept them over his thin body. He was gangly, with a cute pot belly and a medium sized cock with a bulbous head. Fortunately he was circumcised (I had been afraid that his vaguely English accent had meant an uncut cock--not something I enjoy...).

After drying him off, I told him to go sit on the bed as I bathed. He picked up the camera and seemed to genuinely relish being a pornographer. I rinsed off, squatting down to give my pussy and ass a thorough cleaning. Putting on the terry cloth robe supplied by the hotel (the one in his room was much nicer than the ones in ours, I noticed), I came out and sat on the bed as he continued to film me.

He switched my Canon Elph from video to photo mode, the flash sparking again and again as he photographed me slowly untying the robe and letting it fall open. I rubbed my hands over my breasts and down my stomach to my thighs, pulling my knees up, and then spreading my legs. "Do you want to watch me masturbate?" I asked softly. He whispered yes, and I laid back and begin playing with my breasts, slowly kneading them, rolling my nipples between my fingers and pinching them until they were hard.

I could feel my breath begin to quicken as the familiar warmth coursed through me. I knew even before my index finger parted my lips that the inside would be wet, and as I pulled my lips open to show him, he eagerly crawled between my outspread legs on the bed and put the camera right up to my open pussy. "Give me the camera," I commanded, "and get your mouth onto my cunt and make me cum..." My hunch was that the right approach for him would be to talk directly and tell him what to do. His eager response confirmed my intuition. I filmed him as he eagerly lapped at my pussy, and as I lay back and let myself enjoy the feeling of his tongue on my lips, I began to forget that this was a paid transaction, and it began to feel like a sordid one night stand, a "true" sexual encounter, even if not quite a "girlfriend experience" yet. As his tongue did its work (a little hurried, worshipping, although pleasant...), I found myself relaxing, and then as he flicked my clitoris lightly, the warbling of an orgasm began thrumming outwards through my lips and then clenching the walls inside my cunt.

I gasped and grasped the back of his head with one hand, still holding the camera with my other hand but realizing as the waves of pleasure subsided that I had not been aiming anywhere in particular for several minutes. I felt a surge of intimacy with him, after this most intimate of acts (cunnilingus, especially when it's "well done," always makes me feel closer to the giver...), and I whispered, "come here," pulling him up and over me and french kissing him, the slick taste of my secretions coating his lips and tongue. I was surprised how long we kissed, exploring each other's mouths with our tongues as the slow waves of my orgasm subsided in my thigh muscles and through my belly. I found myself genuinely desiring him, and as the hardness of his cock throbbed against my pussy mound I thought about abandoning the financial agreement we had made and telling him to start fucking me. I wanted his cock inside of me. But enough of me was still playing the role of whore for hire to restrain me. It was odd, this pretending to be a whore pretending to be his girlfriend, and yet wanting to dispense with both illusions and just wanting him to fuck me like an animal, to strip down to the basest of desires.

I rolled him over so that I was now on top of him. I broke our kiss and gave him the camera, looking up into his eyes and I moved slowly down his body. I lingered on his nipples, suckling them and teasing and flicking them with my tongue, before kissing down the furry trace of his belly to his belly button. I could feel the warm hardness of his cock between my breasts, and as I continued downwards it slid against my throat and poked the underside of my chin. The friction of my skin sliding against his cock made him shiver involuntarily and his cock twitched, leaking slimy pre-cum onto my throat.

"Do you want to fuck my mouth?" I whispered. He groaned in answer, and I enveloped the head of his cock with my lips. I heard him moan, and a surge of happiness and pride rose inside me, catching me off guard. What did I care about his pleasure? Wasn't this a financial transaction? Wasn't this veneer of pleasure an act, a pretense, a commodity to be sold just as my body? It didn't feel like an act. I began to feel ever more horny as my head began to bob up and down the shaft of his cock. I flicked my tongue stud across the underside of his cock, slobbering over the head until his shaft was glistening. I took his left hand and placed it on the back of my head, encouraging him to pull my hair and to shove my head up and down on his cock. At first he was tentative, but as the gurgling sounds in my throat grew louder with each thrust of my head downwards onto his shaft, he grew bolder and began to jack hammer my face up and down with violent force. Obscene sounds ejaculated from my throat, and as I felt his cock begin to tense, I pulled my mouth off his cock and used my hand to milk him as he came. His come oozed out in thick rivulets, the alkali taste coating my teeth and gums. As his hips relaxed I licked his cock clean, making sure he saw me swallow every last drop of his sperm.

I was surprised when he pulled my face upwards and kissed me, his tongue diving into my mouth and licking the traces of his sperm in my mouth. We continued to kiss, making out like horny teenagers, and after about fifteen minutes of kissing and petting, I was surprised that his cock began to recover and stir again. The thought entered my mind again that I wanted him inside me, to feel him fucking me. I wanted him bareback, to feel the warmth of his cock driving my lips apart, to feel the spurting of his hot sperm inside me. But the whore's voice in side my head insisted that fucking him wasn't part of the deal. So instead of climbing on top of him and guiding his cock inside my now very wet pussy, I swung my hips up and over his face and we began to 69. This time, I rode his face like it was his cock, using his nose to rub my clitoris and sitting up so that he was forced to lick and tongue my asshole. I jerked his cock with both my hands until it was taut and straining.

I tried to concentrate on finishing him off again, on making sure that the customer came again and was satisfied, but I found myself thinking only of the feeling of his lips and tongue and nose on my cunt and clitoris and ass. A quick orgasm led to another longer rolling set of convulsions, and then I was shocked to hear my own voice screaming as a third monstrous orgasm wracked my body, sending contractions all the way down to my toes as my feet arched. So powerful was this last orgasm that my calves began to cramp, but it felt so good, and my body was so out of my conscious control that I could not unclench my muscles and the pain of the cramping muscles mingled with the waves that coursed through my legs. I gasped for breath and felt a jet of his sperm hit my cheek, slowly clinging and rolling down as the guttural scream continued to erupt from my throat. My hands clenched on his shaft, squeezing as I pulled upwards.