Cecilia's Sunday Video Call

It wasn't the clergy but the decisive notes from the organ that signalled to the congregation of St. Andrew's Cathedral when the service was officially over. Cecilia could hear the organist fiddling still as she toddled down the main steps. What a nice-looking man, she thought, with big strong arms. Fair skin, deep brown eyes. Her clutch smacked against her side in awkward rhythms as she stepped into the afternoon light. He had looked at her too. Going up to receive the holy communion, and after mass, as she streamed out the parish with the rest of the flock.

On the main road a middle-aged Chinese man on a bicycle sprung into sight. Jamming his brakes, the man began apologising earnestly for stopping in front of her so suddenly, what a terrible shock she must have had. She smiled, waving her hand no, no, it's okay. But he simply smiled back, repeating himself. It occurred to her that he was waiting to see if she'd respond in Mandarin.

"Er, it's okay, uncle..." demurely, then off she went, no destination in mind. But places are like magnets, anyway. Dabbing on some sanitizer and rubbing her wrists, smooth palms, kissable fingers, Cecilia found herself steadily walking, already halfway towards Odeon Towers before she even realised it.

Her Saturdays she spent this way. Mornings in the church, with God, then a nice brunch somewhere not too loud, so that she could get some reading time in. That these places always happened to have the best drinks, your Singapore Slings, Mai Tais and such, was a bonus.

If she wasn't too tired, and if he happened to be free, in the evenings Cecilia would make the trip down to the godforsaken (really shouldn't cuss) west side to see Simon. Give him the titillating details in person. Most of the time he wasn't free, but he was always happy to get a call from her while she was out "in search of adventure."

So, Loof. A rooftop bar, with a view of the Raffles Hotel across the street, another magnet place she keeps coming back to. She sits at the counter, always, and the bar guy, Norman, brings around her usual Little Pink Dot, a delightful cocktail served in a lightbulb bottle.

Putting her bookmarked copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird' down, she noticed a young white man pass the big neon sign, which she'd thought had meant LOOF until Norman informed her the characters denoted something like 'fine, sunny weather'. The man passed her and sat on the far side of the counter. He ordered a double shot of whiskey and took out his phone.

She took out her phone as well and navigated to the browser, there had been something she'd wanted to look up... her eyes kept wandering back over to him. Dirty blonde hair, blue or maybe grey eyes. As she searched, she sucked on the pink and white straw, tasting too little marshmallow gin, and too much raspberry liqueur, but nevermind... Norman looked bummed enough. She returned her gaze to the young white man. If she had to guess, she'd say he was French.

He looked up, looked right at her, and smiled. She smiled back. Putting down his phone, he then lifted his glass and nodded, his teeth grazed over his full lower lip. It was too easy. Returning a smile that displayed her own fine set of teeth, Cecilia got up and went over to sit beside him, taking her drink with her.

*

The first thing Simon's eyes latched on to when he tapped the little green circle was the nails of his fiancée, perfectly trimmed and painted, wrapped around a sausage of a penis. Moving a loose strand back with her free hand, Cecilia's eyes met his for a moment before she shifted her gaze up, up to the man's cock she had just started sucking.

Maybe she's been sucking him for hours, he thought. Radio silence since before mass time. Glistening, glittering nails, sticky fingers. The engagement ring, he'd glimpsed it for only a second.

She was throating him, but he wouldn't go in more than two thirds of the way.

Up and down she licked, and when she brought her tongue up to the head and tried to put it in her mouth again... Jesus, it made her teeth look tiny.

Simon moved to say something, anything, even a customary "hi, honey!" and found that he was on mute.

For the first time, he realised that they were in public. There was a white riser behind them, the silver handle appearing and disappearing as the blushing girl bobbed her head, cramming the big pole down her gullet. A sign above her head like a halo that indicated "3rd floor", with kitschy sunflowers in the background.

This bastard hasn't even brought her into his home yet, Simon thought. But, here she was anyway, already down to nothing but her blue panties. He remembered the early morning selfie... all blue. Dress and sneakers. Nothing left of that outfit now, save for panties, ring, and the silver cross dangling from her neck.

She was lapping at his balls, bouncing them lightly with her little brush of a tongue, like they were snowflakes, or ping-pong balls. Her ring hand playing with the tiny turquoise bow at the brim of her panties, as her mouth moved over the length of his cock, left to right across his screen, trying to force more of it down her throat. Simon focused on her undulating body, so petite that her ribcage could be seen, and further down the perverse little bow, fluttering. The shimmer of her nails caught his eye again, all red save for the one on her ring finger, which had been painted a metallic silver.

Long dark and straight black hair trailed over one of her breasts; on the other he saw the bikini tan line, her very erect nipple. Simon had always liked Cecilia's tits, everybody knew this. Even back when they were in school, it was obvious that she had grown up a little quicker than the rest. She's skinny, sure, all the boys agreed, with a garden-variety flat ass, but have you seen how prominent her chest is, practically poking out her uniform? even when she's not bending over, and her back's perfectly straight?

It was a great view, and she was really giving it to him. Well, not really, because now he was giving it to her. Whitey was ramming something fierce; he had his hands on her hair, on the back of her head, pushing. And in the corner a twinkling star, the polished shine of the ring as her hand grabbed at her ass, massaging it. Simon watched her eyes shut, and though full up he saw her mouth expand, as if her body had suddenly found a novel way of imbibing more oxygen. To her the seconds must be passing so slowly, he thought in awe, small eternities spent gasping, waiting, obedient in lustful suffering...

Then he yanked her off his cock and she rocked back slightly, before promptly beginning to choke and cough and sputter saliva all over herself and her man's Uniqlo chinos. Simon was certain they were from Uniqlo, because he had the same pair.

But no cumshot. Simon knew when she played, she played for the cumshot.

In her fit she must've knocked the phone off the stair railing or something, because now there was nothing on the screen. Then back to chat, last message from her "Hey bby I'm calling u pick up pick up!"

Seven minutes. The ang mo stayed rock hard for the whole call. No anxiety about suddenly dropping his load, no moans of Christian self-control, trying to hold back before it felt too good. Just stood there, still as a monolith, and speared her tonsils into tomorrow.

Simon wasn't even sure he could stay hard for half as long. A full minute felt like an Olympian feat to him these days. Certainly not with Cece, he thought, working you over like that. It didn't matter. He got out the chair and sat. Wait for the next call.

*

When the phone finally buzzed Simon was in the middle of ordering himself something for dinner. He exited the Grab app, and between tapping the little green circle and the video coming onscreen he noted the time.

They were in bed, both naked, a big grey paisley mat behind them. He could see the ang mo's face. He wasn't bad looking, put it that way. If not Cecilia, then a bevy of other good little church girls were liable to start a line that would trail down the block.

His legs were stretched out, with her snuggling up against his lap, her hair up in a secretary's bun. His hand moved in stoic circles, different fingers tracing her clit. With a resting tiger's face he looked right into the lens, right at him. Simon felt his heart trip over its regular rhythm: they looked good together.

She broke the ice then, with the light sitting just right on her beaming face, and as the word "fiancée" surfaced in his mind once more.

"Hey baby!"

"Hiya, honey!" Ah, he wasn't on mute this time. How nice.

"We were all sweaty, so we took a quick shower to cool off! Have you been missing me terribly?" Simon nodded, all smiles. A three-hour rinse, eh? Cheeky minx.

She flopped over to the other side of his outstretched leg, onto her hands and knees, and stuck her butt up in the air. This was one of Simon's favourites, the side view.

She wrapped a hand around the thick white cock, and used her thumb to play with the tip. Simon wondered how long he'd last this time.

"Babe."

"Hmm?"

"He fucked me, you know," licking her hand and jerking the hardon steadily, her eyes on him still. "In the shower."

"It felt SO big. I had to hold the wall for dear life."

Had he finished inside already?

Simon looked on in devout silence as her pink lips took in the pulsing head, made it disappear, enveloped it with a soft pop. It was obvious from her cheeks, hollowing in ever so slightly, that she was swirling her tongue. How delightful it must feel, Simon tried to picture it, as if it were happening to him, but came up empty.

"Mmm. I've to smack it against my cheeks... and my tongue, every so often, just to remind myself how big it is..."

Simon felt for his cock lightly through his pants. Not even half hard, just a slowly fattening stubby. Cece has standards: she liked it when her men swelled up to full mast just like that. Like magic.

So there she was rewarding this Sunday's plaything, her toes curling and uncurling, as if she could barely contain her excitement. On her very first Sunday adventure, Simon had received only a picture with her face decisively left out. But holy shit, there it was, her first white cock in her tiny grasp... and she came to him later with a delicious recollection of what followed when she put the phone down, beside the pile of clothes. In vain she had tried to stuff the cock down her throat, two hands on the shaft, silently begging him in effect, a prayer for cum.

All because instigating Simon had jokingly asked her to send a "cheeky" selfie to a close friend of theirs. Tease him a little, you know. Men... Always trying to see how far they could push a girl. And just as eager to call his bluff by raising the ante, Cecilia Whatsapped a nude. That same afternoon Mark had her over and inducted her proper into The Life.

Her little cross stirred furiously: again the ang moh was taking his wife's throat. Watching this display reaffirmed yet again for Simon how she was the perfect woman for him. It was in the way she breathed the richest life into all of his fantasies. With keen eyes he'd observed her wayward gaze at the men they saw in church, even before they got together. After they got together, of course, her longing became truly explicit. That Sunday, forever ago, on a post-mass stroll down to the Esplanade. They stopped by the water, and that's where he brought it up. How she blushed, telling him to stop, looking away and looking back, danger in her eyes. He had to bring it out of her; she wanted him to.

Now he wanted to watch her straddle him. Mount him with her back facing the camera, so that he had to imagine the expressions she was giving him, their sweet little nothings whispered, only for the two of them to share across all of time infernal. He wanted her to bathe in that scrumptious knowledge, as he would in the unknowing, in his exclusion from the true heat of their passion.

When work started to pile up, Simon saw only serendipitous opportunity. He explained to Cecilia that he'd be going in on Sundays to try and get a leg up, and that in his absence he'd like her to learn how to make her own fun. That maybe she could make a day of self-care out of it. A little bit of me-time on the Lord's day of rest, catch her breath, and then lose it repeatedly in the arms of a strange, well-built Caucasian.

So it has been, from Chinese new year to Christmas. If it was a Sunday, Cece was somewhere having her brains fucked out. God, that rainy Boxing day, her family gone for morning mass. His brave nymphette made a show for him in the living room. With the well-lit tree in the background, elf in an extra small red do, toying with her present. His gift, of course, of a seven-inch beige dildo with a suckle on one end.

How she licked and sucked, the sounds! And then, her slim legs trembling, how she spread them wide, so that her skirt lifted up automatically. Mounting the dildo with her freshly shaved cunt in plain view, not for him completely, certainly not much that week, it would turn out.

But how she rode that dildo! rocking, eyes closed, her sex soaked, a slutty rhinestone cowboy. Watching her engulf his present completely, having to actually travel up and down its length. He saw how the sheer size of it made her belly bulge, and realised that was what she got every time a white man had his way with her. Her small frame practically guaranteed it, even if the guy was only average.

But they never were only average. Cecilia had proven herself to be not only a capable size queen; her desire had electromagnetic repercussions. Everywhere she went, she seemed to sniff out only the biggest, nastiest, just these literal batons of white meat. It was uncanny really, giving him the feeling that her targets were probably just as able to sense her willingness to take and give. He thought back on her nails, that silver outlier. Maybe it was code, a brazen signal for indecent suitors, like a hotwife's anklet...

"Baby, watch. I'm going to sit on him."

Didn't have to tell him twice. Simon lit a cigarette, and as he exhaled the first cloud he heard her heaving. A sigh of pain? or perhaps relief, pure joy? It was hard to tell with her back to him.

It looked like she'd swallowed it whole. He was definitely inside, but they weren't moving. The base of his cock was so wide that it pried her ass apart. Simon's eyes trailed over her relaxed asshole, its little mouth open and inviting, then up along her back. She had her hands in front, probably holding him, caressing him. Light touches that set his nerves on edge, barrelling all available blood down south.

She leaned her head forward, and he heard the sound of their wet lips' smacker. She was moving her hips now. Smitten oohs and aahs. He watched her butt cheeks come together briefly as she went up his shaft, only to spread out again, wider each time.

Simon realised he couldn't tell if she had put on a condom. He didn't even know if she had been using protection this whole time, or had given it up completely. It hadn't come up in conversation. He knew she wasn't on the pill. Simon certainly knew why he wouldn't be bringing it up, while gut instinct said he knew why she was keeping mum, too.

The first time she revealed that she'd recorded a video from a recent escapade, it had taken a full week of patient teasing and cajoling before Simon saw a frame. It was just a blowjob, she said, cheeks rosy and pinchable, but it felt like crossing a line somehow. Simon didn't pretend to understand, just nodded and waited for the next time he could sneakily bring it up. He was stuck in camp attending to another cycle of reservist, balls aching with each thought of his beloved, out there, somewhere in the heart of the city, getting dick left and right. They only got to chat at night, when he finally returned to the bunk, all defeated and done with the day's military bullshit.

Patience is a virtue is a ripe bitch. Why would a video be any different from a picture? In the wake of the countless stream of clips he's been proud to receive and fastidiously archive since those cutesy early days, he's more or less developed an explanation. In a video you could actually see her worship. It's right there in the jump from 2D into 3D. You watch her eyes sparkling like a rare jewel, her hair as if swept and tended to by a team of ethereal stylists. All light playing, and sound and graceful movements, the entire universe manifesting that she looked her best, all for the supreme exhortation of this moment's mate. With an image, Simon could only conceive of her as object, contrasting her with whatever item happened to be in the frame, a cock in her hand or spunk resting on the tongue, her normally puny mouth now become a cavern. Scientifically, a collection of horny atoms, blocks of no-things. And it didn't matter if she was madcap smiling or woeful; enjoyment was solely Simon's domain.

But in a video, in every video the pleasure was irrevocably all Cecilia's. Simon could jerk off all he wanted, but he would never be able to wrench the feeling of true ecstasy from her possession.

Oh, that first video... how right she was about it. He was up til four, brisk walking the tiny yellow-taped perimeter of the pathetic smoking corner downstairs. AirPods in, volume up, eyes transfixed. He could have written an essay discussing the intricacies of the dialogue, mise-en-scène and character development.

"Let me be your ballwasher, please?" a pretty grin on her face, yes she actually just said that to some guy she had met lounging on the beach, jaunting distance from his room in the Sofitel. Prostrating in front of him, giggling, the tops of her sunbrowned chest peeking through a newly bought white camisole, only a knot away from revealing all. Vixen's eyes, the sound of lapping juxtaposed with passing motors, just beyond the window. She stands up, and Simon's treated to the sight of loosening string, and well-timed kisses, landing on each of her thighs, then around to her bare bum.

"Yeah, you like that, daddy?" He looked at Cecilia now, working her way up to another otherworldly orgasm. There was a time when he had to remind himself of where his attention ought to be: only on his pleasure. It was all about him, wasn't it? It was he who brought it up in the first place, provided the impetus for fantasy to become reality, after all. Don't become possessive now, goddamnit. It's fleeting. It will pass.

And it did, when he quickly realised how childish, how typical a reaction that would have seemed to anybody who could sit in and observe such events unfolding. There must be something more. Nimbly flicking his ego aside, he worked, turning over leaves and stones in the garden of his mind to expose, buried under primal jealousy and a need for self-satiation... a kind of love he never even knew he had grown. It was the kind that throbbed gently, steadily, in the face of all egoic griping. Not out of timidity, you understand, but because it was strong enough to hold back. In absolute silence this inner luminosity spoke, and Simon became keenly aware that he enjoyed, wanted his girl to be bad, but now he was also becoming ready to accept the wild fire of her lust for what it was. That it had existed long before he'd entered the picture, and would blaze along ecstatically without him. He was only there to be aware, to facilitate the natural conditions that would allow her to burst into brilliant flames, and if he was lucky he got to watch. It felt sacrilegious, but Simon could only perceive all this as true masculinity: the ability to let it all just be, without losing himself.

It was funny in its own way, really: depraved sexual practices teaching a grown man how to love his partner better. Especially now that he was no longer the one physically putting the love in and out of her well-used holes. But as the weeks passed and Cece really began to hit her stride with the videos, he felt as free as he imagined she must have been feeling.