Never Deny Delight
The ceiling fan at Raffles turns slowly, slicing through humidity thick enough to wear. I sit at the Long Bar with my legs crossed at the ankle—stockings rolled just so; garters hidden beneath beaded fringe that catches the amber light. My bobbed hair is lacquered into a sharp line against my jaw. Three gin slings sit in my stomach, warm and golden, and the fourth is sweating rings into the rattan table.
Then I see him.
Lord Percy threads through the pith-helmeted crowd like a bad penny returning to circulation. His linen suit is rumpled in that particular way that costs a fortune to achieve. That ridiculous forelock falls across his forehead, and his grin spreads wide and foolish—the same grin that got me into trouble in English Countryside, The Western Front, and a yacht off Monte Carlo.
"Vivian." He says my name like he's tasting something sweet. "You absolute minx."
"Percy." I take a slow sip. The gin sling bites. "You absolute fool."
He drops into the chair across from me, signals the boy with two fingers, and leans forward. His eyes—grey-green, too clever for that goofy mouth—travel from my cloche hat to my T-strap shoes and back up again.
I let him look. I spent forty-five minutes becoming something worth looking at.
"When did you blow into port?" he asks.
"Tuesday. The Malaya out of Penang."
"And you didn't send word?"
"I wanted to see if you'd find me first." I run my finger around the rim of my glass. "Singapore's a small pond for big fish."
His drink arrives. He downs half of it in one swallow, throat working. I watch the tendons shift beneath sun-browned skin.
"I've got the bungalow," he says. "Tanglin area. Family money, family staff, family discretion."
"Family discretion," I repeat. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"I'm calling it a bed that doesn't rock and a door that locks."
"Since when did you prefer indoors to outdoors."
"Vivian, honey, front door, back door, I'm yours."
My thigh presses together beneath the table. The gin hums in my blood. Outside, a rickshaw boy waits in the sweltering dusk, his vehicle like a prayer for hire.
We leave money on the table and step into the wall of tropical heat.
The rickshaw's seat is narrow—built for colonial frames that don't eat well. Percy climbs in first, and I fold myself beside him, my silk skirt riding up past my knees. I don't pull it down.
"Chen Wei, at your service, where go, sir?"
He lifts the shafts. His shoulders are ropy with muscle, his queue damp against his spine. He takes off down the road, bare feet slapping the dusty pavement.
"Ashworth House, Tanglin," from Percy, as his hand finds my knee.
His palm is warm and slightly rough. He doesn't move it—just lets it rest there, a question and a promise. I shift my weight, and my thigh presses against his. The rickshaw bounces over a rut, and his fingers tighten.
"You're still wearing that scent," he murmurs.
His nose grazes my temple. "Jicky."
"You remembered."
"I remember everything about you, Vivian." His lips brush my ear. "The way you bite your lower lip when you're trying not to laugh. The way your neck flushes when you're—"
I turn my head. My mouth finds his.
He tastes like gin and cloves. His tongue slides against mine, and my hand grips his thigh—muscle hard beneath the linen. The rickshaw sways. Chen Wei's feet keep their rhythm on the road.
Percy's fingers walk up my thigh. Past the silk. Past the stocking top. Past the garter clasp. My breath hitches when he reaches bare skin.
"Here?" I whisper against his mouth.
"Here." He presses his forehead to mine. "Now."
His hand slides higher. My knees fall open—just enough. Just enough for his fingers to find the damp silk of my knickers. He strokes me through the fabric, and I bite down on his lower lip to keep from making a sound.
My fingers find his trouser buttons, one, two three, I'm inside his pants shaping hard to stiff.
Percy's fingers, two; nicely deep, squelch around inside my folds, releasing my juicy slick.
The rickshaw jolts. Chen Wei glances over his shoulder. His eyes go wide.
"No fuckie!" he barks. "No fuckie! I lose licence!"
Percy's hand freezes. I let out a breath that's half-laugh, half-whimper.
"Chen Wei," I say, my voice unsteady. "We're not—"
"No fuckie!" He's stopped running now, the rickshaw stationary in the middle of the road.
A cart passes, the driver staring.
"Police catch, I go jail! You go hotel, you go bungalow, you go—"
He gestures wildly.
"Opium house! Next alley."
Percy looks at me. His hand is still between my thighs, motionless but present.
"Opium den?" he says.
"I've never been to one."
"There's a first time for everything."
I make a decision that the gin would approve of.
"Take us there, Chen Wei."
The rickshaw lurches forward. Percy's hand resumes its slow circles. I grip the side of the vehicle and let the pleasure build—incremental, maddening, the silk growing wetter beneath his fingers.
My panties push into my slit by Percy.
The den is down an alley that smells of jasmine and decay. Chen Wei leads us through a beaded curtain into a room thick with sweet smoke.
Old men lie on wooden platforms, their pipes glowing like fireflies. A woman with opium-stained fingers gestures us toward a back corridor.
Percy flicks off bills from a fold. We're shown to a private room—mats on the floor, silk cushions, and the walls hung with scrolls, I don't look at.
The opium pipe tastes like burnt flowers. The first drag makes my limbs heavy. The second makes the ceiling ripple. The third—Percy takes the pipe from my fingers and sets it aside.
"Look." He points to the scrolls.
They're erotic paintings—Qing Dynasty, I realize through the haze.
A man and a woman in impossible positions, their bodies entwined like calligraphy. Her foot is behind his ear. His hand disappears between her thighs. The colours are faded but the intent is arousing and vivid.
"Shall we?" Percy whispers.
He unties my knickers and slides them off. I'm already swollen, already aching. The opium makes everything soft and slow and close.
My clit is throbbing as I straddle him. Rubbing my lips and cowl along his length.
His cock is hard and flushed, and I take him in my hand—feeling the heat, the pulse.
He groans and his hips lift.
"Like the painting," I say. I guide him to my entrance and sink down, inch by inch. The stretch is exquisite. My body opens around him, wet and willing.
Unlike the silence of the artwork, I gasp, "Oohh! Arrgghh! Oohh!"
His hands grip my hips. I plant my feet on either side of his waist and ride him—slow at first, then faster. The opium turns every sensation liquid. My clit grinds against his pelvis with each downstroke.
"Vivian—" His voice cracks.
I lean back, bracing my hands on his thighs. The angle shifts, and he hits something deep inside me that makes stars scatter behind my eyes. One of his thumbs finds my clit and presses.
A delicate press. A slow release. Press. Release. The perfect pattern. As long as it returns to press.
The scroll on the wall shows the woman arched backward, her mouth open in ecstasy. I match her pose. My spine curves. My breasts point toward the ceiling.
"I'm—" I can't finish the sentence. The pressure builds and builds, a wave gathering offshore.
"Mmm, Mmmm! On God yes! Mmmmm!"
Percy thrusts up into me, hard and desperate. His thumb works faster. The wave crests.
I come apart with a cry that echoes off the silk walls.
My pussy clenches around him in rhythmic pulses, and he follows—spilling hot inside me with a groan that sounds like my name.
It is, "Oh God! Oh Vivian! Oh Vivian! OrRGH!"
I collapse onto his chest. His heart hammers against my ear. The ceiling fan above us creaks on, as it has for endless years.
"So," he says finally, breathless. "My bungalow?"
I laugh—giddy, wrecked, satisfied. The opium hums through my veins. Outside, Singapore steams in the tropical night.
" It will need to be early, I'm onward to Macau, by steamer."
"Looks like I'll have to book passage," says Percy.
"You may need more than that, darling, I'm headed there to be engaged to Lord Belmont."