The KTV Descent

You stand in the dimly lit hallway of the KTV lounge, the muffled thump of bass from inside the room vibrating through the walls and into your chest like a second heartbeat.

The air is cool from the air-conditioning, but Singapore’s ever-present humidity clings to your skin, making the thin fabric of your white tank top stick slightly to the curve of your back.

You chose this outfit deliberately this morning, knowing where the night might lead—the tank top snug against your full breasts, the cotton thin enough that the lace of your black bra peeks through when the light hits it right, nipples already sensitive and half-hard from the anticipation that’s been building all day.

Your denim shorts are short, high-waisted but riding up your thighs with every step, exposing the smooth, toned legs that turn heads at the office.

You’re the picture of the cute, professional office lady: hair in loose, glossy waves framing a pretty face with wide eyes, plump lips glossed a soft pink, makeup subtle but perfect.

No one at work would guess the inner slut simmering beneath, the one that’s been craving this exact kind of surrender.

Your hand hovers on the door handle.

Guilt hits you in waves—your husband is at home in your Woodlands flat right now, probably on the couch with the TV on low, checking his phone for Linus’s updates.

He knows you’re out “drinking with colleagues,” knows Linus is involved because Linus bragged in their chat group about his “lifestyle” with you, about owning a pretty married woman.

Your husband encouraged it—sent normal couple photos, smiling ones from dinners and holidays, to prove you were real, desirable, his to share.

He accepts the dynamic, gets off on the scraps Linus feeds him.

But he doesn’t know the full details, the humiliations you’re about to embrace tonight.

The thought twists in your gut: shame, yes, but laced with that dark, throbbing arousal that makes your panties dampen, your clit ache against the seam of your shorts.

He could never make me feel this alive, you think, the guilt fueling the heat instead of quenching it.

You push the door open.

The room hits you like a wave—neon lights pulsing purple and blue across the low ceiling, the massive screen flashing a K-pop video of girls dancing in coordinated outfits, all bright and innocent in a way that feels mocking here.

The couches are oversized black leather, cracked and sticky from countless nights, arranged in a U-shape around a low glass table cluttered with microphones, remote controls, and half-empty bottles of beer and whiskey.

The air is thick with the scent of alcohol, men’s cologne, and that underlying masculine musk of anticipation.

The bass from the speakers thrums through the floor, into your heels, up your legs.

Linus is there first, lounging in the center of the main couch like he owns the entire building—and tonight, he owns you.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features, stubbled jaw, dark hair tousled perfectly, wearing a fitted black shirt unbuttoned at the top and jeans that hug his thighs.

His eyes lock on you immediately, dark and predatory, a smug half-smirk playing on his lips.

He doesn’t stand to greet you.

Just crooks a finger.

“Come here, baby.”

The group isn’t complete yet.

Josiah is to his left—lean and athletic, with a swimmer’s build, messy brown hair, and a boyish charm that makes his hungry gaze feel even more dangerous.

He’s cute, the kind of guy who’d charm you at a bar, but tonight his eyes rake over your body openly, lingering on your cleavage, your legs.

Mark sits opposite, the youngest, slim and quiet, hands folded in his lap as if to hide his nervousness.

You’ve met him before—Linus introduced you months ago as a “test,” and you remember how his hands shook when he touched you, how he came fast but looked at you with wide-eyed awe afterward.

Ivan hasn’t arrived, nor the quiet one.

It’s just the four of you for now, the smaller group making their stares feel heavier, more intimate, like they’re already undressing you in their minds.

You cross the room, heels clicking on the tiled entry before sinking into the thick carpet.

Linus pulls you down onto his lap the second you’re close—sideways, your back against his chest, thighs draped over his right leg.

The position looks casual, like a girlfriend meeting friends, but his grip is possessive, one arm banded around your waist, hand splayed across your bare midriff, fingers digging in just enough to claim.

You feel him instantly: his cock already half-hard beneath you, pressing insistently against the seam of your shorts.

His other hand rests on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles that inch higher with every pass.

“Gentlemen,” Linus says, voice low and amused, carrying easily over the music, “this is her. The one I’ve been telling you about.”

Josiah leans forward, beer bottle dangling from his fingers, eyes bright.

“Holy shit, Linus. The pictures didn’t do her justice. You’re fucking gorgeous.”

Mark mumbles a shy hello, cheeks flushing, but his gaze flicks to your breasts, then away, then back.

You force a sweet smile, playing the innocent wife out for drinks, but inside, the arousal builds like a storm.

Guilt spikes again—Husband showed them normal photos of us, smiling like a happy couple. He thinks it’s just me with Linus tonight, maybe a quick fuck.

But the thought of proving Linus’s stories true, of being the slut he bragged about, makes your pussy clench, wetness soaking your panties.

Drinks are poured.

Someone hands you a cocktail—pink and fruity, masking the strong vodka kick.

You sip, the sweetness burning down your throat, loosening the knot in your stomach.

Questions start casual but probing, curiosity laced with disbelief.

“So, you’re really married?” Josiah asks, his knee brushing yours as he shifts closer on the couch.

You nod, voice soft.

“Yeah, seven years.”

“And your husband… he’s cool with this?” Mark’s question is quiet, almost whispered, but the room quiets to hear your answer.

Linus’s hand slides higher under the hem of your tank top, fingers brushing the underside of your bra, thumb flicking your nipple through the lace until it hardens painfully.

“More than cool,” Linus answers for you, voice dripping satisfaction.

“He knows his place. Knows she’s mine when I want her.”

Laughter ripples through the room—low, masculine, edged with excitement and a touch of awe.

They can’t quite believe it: this pretty, office-lady type with the cute face and killer body, married to some loser who lets her be used like this.

The door opens again—Ivan bursts in with a loud greeting, stocky frame filling the doorway, beard full, eyes lighting up when he sees you on Linus’s lap.

He leans in for a cheek kiss that’s too close, his beard scratching your skin, breath smelling of beer already.

The quiet one slips in last, no words, just a nod, taking the corner seat with a beer, his average build and unassuming face hiding that intense, silent stare that makes your skin prickle.

The group is complete now—five men, all decent-looking, some cute in personality and looks, beers flowing, the energy thickening like the air before a storm.

Games begin to “break the ice”—dice rolls, card games, bad karaoke attempts at first.

But Linus steers it deliberately.

Loser drinks or takes a dare.

You “lose” the first few rounds—rigged, you’re sure, Linus’s hand on your thigh squeezing in warning when you try to win.

First dare: sit on Josiah’s lap for the next song.

You stand, legs a little unsteady from the drink and the tension coiling in your belly.

Josiah pats his thigh, grinning wide, eyes sparkling.

You lower yourself slowly, feeling the hard line of his cock through his jeans the moment your ass settles.

His hands go to your hips immediately, thumbs tracing the waistband of your shorts, pulling you back against him.

He’s warm, solid, his cologne fresh and citrusy, breath hot on your neck as he murmurs, “Fuck, you’re even prettier up close. Soft, too.”

The song drags—some slow R&B track—and his hands roam subtly, one sliding up your thigh, stopping just short of where your shorts end, the other tracing your waist.

The room watches, comments low: “Look at her blush.” “Bet she’s wet already.”

Another round.

You lose again.

Dare: kiss Josiah.

You turn in his lap, and he doesn’t wait—mouth crashing to yours, hungry and demanding, tongue sliding in deep, tasting of beer and raw want.

His hand cups your ass, squeezing, pulling you closer so you grind against his hardness.

The kiss stretches, wet and obscene, the room silent except for the music and your soft moans.

When you pull back, lips swollen and tingling, breath ragged, the energy has shifted irrevocably.

Linus’s voice cuts through, rough with desire.

“Time to show them more, baby.”

His fingers dip below your waistband, tracing the edge of your soaked panties.

“Strip for them.”

Heart pounding, you stand in the center of the room.

The neon lights paint your skin in colors, the bass thrumming through your body.

Tank top first—hands gripping the hem, lifting slow, teasing, over your head, breasts bouncing free in the black lace bra, nipples stiff peaks visible.

The top falls to the floor.

Shorts next—button popped, zipper down slow, peeling the denim down your hips, thighs, stepping out gracefully, kicking them aside.

Now just lingerie, the lace panties clinging wetly to your pussy, the scent of your arousal faint but there.

The men lean forward, eyes hungry.

Josiah exhales sharply.

Mark’s mouth parts.

Ivan grins wide.

“All of it,” Linus commands, voice like gravel.

Bra unclasped, straps sliding down shoulders slow, cups falling away, breasts spilling free—heavy, soft, nipples dark and aching for touch.

Panties last—thumbs hooked in, eased down, bending forward to give them the full view of your ass, the glimpse of your glistening pussy as you step out.

Naked.

Completely.

The air-con kisses your skin, goosebumps rising, every inch exposed under their gazes.

Silence for a beat.

Then Josiah: “Jesus Christ, Linus. You weren’t exaggerating. She’s perfect.”

Linus stands, moves behind you, hands on your shoulders guiding you down to your knees on the sticky leather ottoman in the center.

The carpet is rough against your shins.

He unzips slowly, cock springing free—thick, veined, bigger and better than your husband’s in every way.

He doesn’t need to tell you.

You lean forward, mouth opening, taking him in deep.

The taste floods you—salty skin, pre-cum bitter on your tongue.

You moan around him, bobbing, throat relaxing as he thrusts gently at first.

“Tell them,” Linus growls, hand tangling in your hair, pulling you off just enough.

“Tell them what you are.”

Voice trembling, lips wet: “I’m a slut… I need dick that’s not my husband’s. His is small… useless.”

The words burn coming out, guilt surging like fire—Husband accepts this, but hearing me say it?—but arousal crashes harder, pussy dripping onto the leather beneath you.

Josiah next—unzipped, cock curved and thick.

You take him deep, gagging softly.

Mark hesitant but joining, young cock eager.

Ivan rougher, beard scratching your thighs as you suck.

The quiet one watches at first, then feeds you his, silent but insistent.

Mouth passed around like a shared toy—deep-throats, saliva dripping down chin onto breasts, hands in hair guiding, slapping ass lightly then harder.

Fingers find your pussy—two, three sliding in easily, curling against that spot, making you moan around cock.

Linus bends you over the couch arm first—raw entry, no condom, stretch perfect, filling you completely.

Thrusts deep, punishing, hitting spots your husband never could.

Orgasm builds fast, crashing as someone—Josiah—feeds cock back into your mouth.

Used from both ends, the room filling with wet sounds, grunts, degrading comments: “Pretty wife wasted on a cuck.” “Can’t believe she takes it like this.”

By the time you leave just past midnight, body marked—lips swollen, thighs sticky with cum and arousal, faint handprints on ass—the night has only begun.

The house calls.