The first time I stopped in Singapore was on a trip back from France to Australia. The city’s tropical humidity perfectly complemented the relaxed mood following my Parisian vacation and exhibition. So, when the hotel doorman whispered an “escort” to me, I didn’t say no. He presented me with a delightful choice: a young woman, a young man, or both.

I opted for an “older woman,” assuring myself with a wink that she was 18. I pretended to believe him, amused by this little game of seduction. The doorman offered me two options: keep her for the hour or for the night. The night, of course, to discover her in the morning with an orchid, as he had promised. “Submissive” was my choice, and I felt a shiver of anticipation run down my spine.

The memory I have of her is indelible. She loved to be enveloped in my scent, as if she wanted to absorb my very essence. But it was her discovery that fascinated me most. When she undressed before me, revealing her delicate body, I discovered her hairless vulva, so perfect and so tiny that I thought I wouldn’t even be able to slip a finger inside.

Then we began to play. Clinging to me like a koala to its eucalyptus tree, her legs wrapped tightly around my waist, we moved back and forth across the room. She weighed almost nothing, a feather in my arms.

I felt myself sliding inside her, the lips of her vulva opening delicately to welcome me. She swallowed me gently, like a snake devouring its prey, each contraction of her vaginal walls a calculated caress.

I lay down on the bed; she remained on top of me, motionless. That’s when I discovered her true talent. I felt her vagina massaging my penis, squeezing and releasing it in a hypnotic rhythm, creating the impression of a slow, powerful back-and-forth. Without even moving, she brought me to orgasm, a true yogi’s feat. She, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch, the absolute master of her art and her sensations. Once again, she sprayed herself with my perfume, as if to mark her territory. Snuggled in my arms, we fell asleep.

In the morning, she thanked me in her own way for keeping her overnight: “It saved me about ten clients last night, and they didn’t all smell like you.” For breakfast, she took my penis in her mouth. One of her small fingers brushed against my anus, just on the edge, a sensation so delicate I barely felt it.

The warm oil cascaded down my buttocks, seeping into the fleshy cleft between them. Her expert fingers followed this pearly trail, kneading my flesh, relaxing every muscle until I felt my body melt beneath her caress. I opened myself to her, a silent invitation she understood instantly. She returned to my buttocks, my lower back, and I arched instinctively, opening myself even further, offering my body like a gift. My whole being yearned for her fingers, those that were there, watchful, controlling my burgeoning desire. Placed precisely on my innermost ring, her small, doll-like fingers already reigned over me, and I would soon discover that they would make me their slave, without yet knowing that I would beg for mercy. With feline grace, she turned me onto my back and knelt between my parted legs. The oil was there again, this time on my chest where her fingers danced, and I could now feel the delicate presence of her nails, brushing against my skin like a promise of future pleasures. Her massage began on my torso, slowly moving down to my aroused sex. From my beating heart to my burning sex, one hand then the other, in a hypnotic ballet. While one hand glided over my body, the other slipped between my buttocks, exploring my most intimate parts. My sex hardened, swelled, becoming tangible proof of my urgent need for climax.