Take me away

What do you call something you can't stand?

The room is luxury, top floor apartment just short of a penthouse. Mirrors coat the wall in a vain attempt to make an already large space dwarf you even more. Couches, leather with not a single hint of peeling. Bedroom, a king surrounded by his army of plush cushions and reflected back to himself with yet another mirror on the roof. The bathroom, an ensuite, spa bath with a detachable shower head and controllable lights. The toilet next to it almost seems out of place. Prepackaged soap runs along the tub edge, lines of neat and tidy plastic ready and waiting as an audience. The bathrobes are black, embroidered, custom, and reeking of money.

“Fuck they’re trying too hard” I whisper to the air, wrapping my naked body in the plush black fabric. The shower head, the mirrors, the couch. I double check my booking to make sure I hadn’t lodged a room at Pornstache Central, Fuck City. My hair still dripping, I collapse onto the bed, stifling a laugh when the silk almost slides me off the other side. I’m unpracticed in a space that feels designed against me.

I peer down at myself through my reflection, untying my robe and laying it flat. A crater of darkness around me, crashing into this room from the UFO that is my own body. I stare, I analyse, I question. A chest risen where there was none, a thing between my legs I no longer had a name I felt comfortable with. It’s a body I have crafted as a vessel, not one that has grown with me.

The doorbell rings.

Shit

My uber eats.

Room service lacked a vegan option, and I was starving for fuel. I race through the bedroom, the living room, past the couch and crowded minibar, and swing the door open.

There she is, holding my salvation in her carefully manicured hands.

“Thank fuck” I’m greedy, I grab before she has a chance to even say my name. She looks flustered, shocked at my action, but I don’t care. I have the door half shut when she pushes her foot between the barrier.

“Uh, Ma’am?” she asks.

“You’re not getting a tip.” I order, turning away.

“I’m afraid you already have given me one” she smirks, and I notice the breeze on my naked skin peering through my open robe. She puts on her best flirty, try-hard voice and I can’t help but fall for it.

“Unless you want to give me more?”

The room invited her in before I had a chance, one foot in the door was enough to break the seal. She wasn’t tall, but I’d hardly call her short despite the hotel’s attempts to shrink her. Dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and a smirk that could only be read as “Gotcha”, she stands framed by the outline of the door. I hide within the kitchen.

She knows my body, she knows what I was working with. The idea of a good fuck without explanation was too delicious to ignore. Exchanging names, negotiation came quick.

“15 minutes I’m on the clock”

“No way in hell I’m cumming”

“Fine by me.” she sets an alarm “Hands?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Mouth?”

“Maybe,”

It’s stuttered, a delayed question to myself if I was actually going to enjoy it this time. It felt porny, hypermasculine, gross. Shoving myself somewhere so vital with a part of me I barely care for.

I want to try, I want to like it.

“If you’re good at it”

I feel like her eyes are unpicking me, tearing out each seam and laying me flat. She nods, it’s slow.

A pause.

“Names?”

“Not Daddy”

“For your body”

I find myself tripping once more, this time landing face first in the tiled mud at my feet. She offers a helping hand.

“I know some girls use dick, some girlcock. Hen. Princess Wand. Fucked a girl who called it a cock-ette once, it did not taste like Pepsi-Cola!”

She stifles a laugh, catching a glance at my blank expression.

“Like, Lana Del Rey? Coquette?”

“Just, call it what you like”

Regret is rising up inside me and threatening to bubble out through whatever way it can. I invited this. I wanted this. This room needed to be filled with the energy only we could give it. It felt like a necessity.

“Anything else”

I shake my head.

“Get on the counter”

My eyes scan the room, each surface aching for a body to be pressed against it and yet, she chose the kitchen. I press my palms into the marble, feeling it suck the heat from my skin, each muscle in my arms and back working their way to get me into position. Sitting upright, legs dangling off the edge, I watch as she moves stools out of her pathway.

She lays my food to my left, her keys to the right, and her hands on my thighs. My chest refuses to release, so I nod where words would work better.

Each hand traces up my thighs, thumbs teasing the soft skin running up my centre. It’s exploratory, gentle. A blind woman getting my picture as she refuses to break eye contact. Each slide is a question. Each grip answered by soft gasps and moans.

She explores my hips, my waist, running her fingers along the folds of flesh where my belly meets my thigh. I feel nothing but her eyes, dissecting and examining, so I stumble out a subject for her to study.

“You can go lower”

She raises an eyebrow and I feel like an idiot. She knows that, I know that, but still she gives it to me.

Fingers resting begin their trail downwards. She cups and cradles, not touching the most sensitive parts of me but holding it in her palm. My breath, rapid and expectant, echoes off the kitschy hotel paintings as we sit in that silence.

15 minutes, and we spend half of it in silence.

“Moneybags” she says, dancing on their surface. “I’ll call them money bags”

I don’t respond.

“And this” she shifts, her hand curling into a loose fist around me, the hormones leaving it not as hard as it once was.

“This is a spring roll”

A scoff escapes through parted lips, cut off by the jolt of her thumb. She’s circling me, the point just below the tip, easing it gently as I start to lose focus. Her hands trace the soft length of me, letting her fingertips skip and tease. She’s careful not to break the pastry skin crust, eying her entree with a delicate greed.

She pauses, and I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Hands fumble in the brown paper bag at my side as she pulls out a dingy plastic container. It’s viscous, and has a red glow that grabs the light like stained glass. The plastic peels with a sharp, abrasive rip, and we are both assaulted by its sweetness. She kneels and her eyebrows raise once more, but it reads differently. It’s another question, one that she doesn’t need an answer for.

Each drip of plum sauce spreads a cool ache on my springroll, each sharp shock making me jump and shake.

She laughs, a small release of air watching as my fingers curl into the marble in a hopeless attempt to find purchase. The sweetness in the air, the cold dripping liquid, and her hot breath painfully close to me. It sends my brain in a spiral and I’m pulled away from myself, my body, and into her.

She licks and I can’t help but moan, every muscle growing looser as I give in and give up. She traces the underside of my springroll, letting the plumsauce fall onto her face. It’s decadent, it’s succulent, it’s stupid, and she takes me into her mouth. I let her without question.

I hear an alarm on her phone, A vibration buzzing our brains back to reality. She pulls away and leaves me gasping as the cold air hits my wet aching flesh. She rocks backwards, practiced, like a dancer with a smile parted across sticky lips.

“15 minutes” she smirks.

“15 minutes” I sulk.

She rips some paper from my bag, pulling out a pen and writing 10 numbers in bold lettering.

“I get off shift in 2 hours.” she states, using a spare black hand towel to clean off the evidence, “Call me for the full meal.”