Midnight Molasses

There are only three sounds that you can hear as the four walls of your room tighten around you in this moment. First, the lazy and unmetered clicking of stilettos against the polished floor. Second, the gentle patter of your phone screen against your bedside cabinet as it is taken from your grasp and set aside. And third, the unsteady pounding of your heart as it threatens to escape the confines of your clasping and raking ribs.

It’s happening. This is really happening. And you can’t believe it.

You see the whole of her as she’s steadily coming into view, approaching your unmoving form sitting at the edge of your bed. You scan her form and mark the details like you’re ticking items off a checklist. Five-foot-five. Raven hair that curled at the tips by her lower back. A body so slender that you could wrap your arms around her twice. You could pick her up and throw her across the sheets. Lightly toned abs that sink to profusely childbearing hips that then connect to curvatures so undulated they are absolutely hypnotic—all tucked neatly under a tie-dyed mini-skirt that covers as much skin as underwear did. She’s a slender woman, but she’s by no means lacking in substance. Her body fills out in all the right places, and you just know that if you spent any more than half a millisecond staring at the outline of her top-heavy bust, you’re bound for a scolding and a half.

She’s a woman unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. And thanks to your friend’s little ‘favor’, she’s completely yours for the night.

Just yours.

But as she sits on your lap and caresses the side of your face, pulling you in to her own visage to have a taste of you, why do you find yourself stiff in the neck and spine?

As she pushes you towards the pillows cramped against the headboard to crawl over your laying form, why do you find yourself staring past her and into the dimly-lit ceiling?

As she’s squirming onto you, bucking against you, grinding into you, why do you find yourself seeing through her well-practiced facade and glancing right into the soullessness of her actions?

Your friend paid one of the most expensive fucking hookers in all of Seoul, and yet, your mind was anywhere else but here.

Parting from your lips with an audible gasp, sounding almost as if she wants more but is actively stopping herself from indulging excessively from right off the bat, she slides backwards a few inches before placing her hands on your thighs. You don’t know what face she’s making right now, but you gather it’s a sultry one—one aiming to seduce you into a stupor with but a glance. But you don’t clock it, eyes transfixed at some invisible point behind her—past her. One only you can seem to see.

“I think you might want to focus on me for this part, big boy. The first taste is always the most delicious. Wouldn’t want to let it go to waste,” the woman entices, breaking the thick and dry wall of ice between you both. Her fingers find purchase into the garter of your shorts, tucking them down to your knees and letting them bundle there. You’re relying on your peripheral still, but you notice the ever-so-slight shift in her expressions as she sees what she’ll be working all night on bulging within your boxers. “My my, seems like someone’s all pent up and packing. Mmm, I think this will be as fun for me as it will be for you. Go lay back—let me handle the rest.”

You don’t even respond. You just sit there with your head tilting towards your right shoulder, hands and arms limp by your sides, just … watching it all unfold before you. Just letting it happen.

She knows what she’s doing. God, even if you aren’t present present, your body acknowledges all the stimuli it’s receiving.

Before you’re even released, she’s cupping your underside through the fabric, feeling the heft, letting it bounce and roll across her fingers like she’s weighing it. The slight tremble of her fingertips an indicator that she’s oh-so-tempted to give it a good squeeze. When her free hand crawls across your sheathed length like a spider, her nimble digits tug and tweak at the garter of your underwear know like they might yank it at any given moment, keeping you guessing from the constant push and pull she gives it.

After a tantalizing few minutes of this warm up, she digs both thumbs into your skin and draws a straight line down towards the part of your legs. The woman strokes your tensing thighs with her palms in an attempt to soothe you as she drags your boxers into the inside of your shorts, then tugging both articles of clothing off and away fro your feet. 

You don’t know where they disappear to because almost immediately your line of sight is obstructed by her towering form.

The day a goddess might descend upon your half-nude body could not have come any sooner. As she stalks forward on her hands and knees, imprinting into the mattress at ever-shifting spots, your breath ceases when you feel the soft of her face presses against your nether bits. She glances up at you while your crotch is being served on the silver platter of her visage but you know better than to even remotely catch a glimpse of this sinful scene.

No matter—she can sense your budding desire. She presses on.

She licks your underside. A stroke. Maybe two or three. You feel a wet and tender engulfment around your tip, and just like putting on a pair of warm and fitted socks on a cold winter day, you indulge in the comfort her mouth can offer as she consumes your length.

She’s skilled—no, she’s beyond that. She’s done this many times before, you can tell. She’s clearly got the experience to justify the price your friend complained about paying her for. His money, your luxury. And you allow yourself a breath to feel the repeated motion of her craning neck straining to take your full length inside of her.

“Need a pill? I won’t judge,” she says right after a wet pop. She’s stroking you now in slow motions like one would rock the cradle of a child to comfort it. Her thumb even knows to swipe at the swath of skin beneath your crown to keep what little attention you still had on her. “Cold feet? You know, many guys need a good dose of viagra to help them get in the flow of things. Its normal.”

You let out a sigh. Whether that’s from trying to restrain yourself from fully relishing in her ministrations or from a desire to expel all these motes of tension bubbling up inside you, you’re not too sure.

And she senses that too.

She leans your member against the inside of your left thigh and withdraws herself. This is the first time you look at her—the first time you really take a good look at her. She’s got round brown eyes that shimmer and swirl when they fixate on you, drawing you in. Her lips are coated with a shade of lipstick so red that it would be impossible to notice anything else on her face if you stare at them for too long. The tight choker around her neck, adorned with a sprinkle of varying accoutrements gave her a gentle trickle of allure. But it’s the way she raises one brow, smiles with only one side of her face, and dips her chin as if in gesture that really captures your attention.

“It’s way past foreplay time, big boy. Keep at it like this and all you’ll get from your time with me as a sad handy with some drool,” she matter-of-factly states. You imagine a part of her is serious about that warning, but you couldn’t be bothered to think of it too much.

“Ya, are you gay?”

“What …?’

She shrugs, eyes daring towards your flaccidity still sprawled against one of your thighs. “I don’t know—you tell me. I’ve never had a client staying this soft for me for this long. You sure you aren’t gay?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “No, I’m not fucking gay. I’m just …”

“Just what? Not into me?” she snaps, wiping her lathered hand against the back of her mini-skirt, which you perceive is a bad sign right about now. “Huh, never been told that before. You should have picked a cheaper girl then. Instead of wasting your money on me.”

“You’re not … I-I wasn’t …”

She chuckles, and you watch her professional facade drop in real time as she has this mocking smirk on her now. “Can’t even finish a full sentence. Look, you have me for three hours. That’s what you paid for. Either we do this, or you just formally let me go, so both of us can be on our way. You don’t get bothered by me, and I don’t get bothered by … this.”

You’re left at a bit of an impasse. On one hand, you know this isn’t going anywhere. There’s just too much going on right now. But on the other hand, your friend spent all this money on you just to make you feel better. You might as well at least do something with one of the most highly-rated companions in all of Seoul.

So you reach for your underwear and untangle them from your shorts, pull them both back on, and then sit back on the edge of the bed—the same way you had been sitting previously when she walked into your apartment. You turn to her now and purse your lips. “Is there anything in the rules about staying with a client even if there isn’t any sex?”

She knits her brow in disbelief, unable to immediately make heads or tails of this foreign situation. “I mean, I guess it’s fine. I’d rather just be finding the next john, but sure. Why not?”

The woman sits across from you on the other edge of the same side of your bed. Hands on her lap, fingers tugging at the holes in her fishnets, lips twitching from side to side restlessly. “So what now?”

What now indeed. You hadn’t really thought this through. What could you do with a hooker outside of sex?

“I guess we just … chill like this then, you know? Just vibe together,” you offer. “I’m sure you could use the break. Do you work every night? Did you … have someone before me?”

She’s shooting you a glance that’s halfway between ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ and ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’. “I work nightly. I usually get booked by the higher spenders past midnight—right around now. So yeah.”

“Higher spenders? Is there a difference in what you … ‘provide’ if they pay more?” you naively ask, meriting a snarl from this woman. “What …? I’m just curious, ok?”

“Tch, if you put it that way, then yeah. Need to treat those types of clients better so they keep coming back. One to two of them per week is usually enough to cover an entire month’s wort of rent.”

You think back to your friend. You think back to the bullshit he was spouting when you were at the bar, head tucked between your folded arms, bawling continuously over the counter. You remember what he said about the types of escorts he knew how to access, and how they might help you with your situation.

Then the reality sinks in and you just stare at her. “So, when I—when my friend … booked you, what … what exactly did you agree to…?”

“Based on how much you spent? Everything,” she replies without a hint of uncertainty. “You have me fully for the evening. Just nothing gross, please.”

You tug on the hem of your shorts and chuckle a little. “Yeah, you can see how that went.”

“Enough about me,” she pivots, right knee now on the mattress as she turns to face you. “What about you? Got a story to tell?”

“A story?”

She nods, resting her elbow on the same knee, propping her head up against an outstretched palm as she continues, “Yeah. What’s your deal? Virgin? Bored? Curious? Breakup?”

Your body shudders upon hearing the word. The diction of this woman did little to weaken the lightning that strikes your mind as you think back to what that single word implies.

“Oh, so it’s a breakup. That’s rough,” she spouts, huffing aloud. “Is that why your little buddy was struggling earlier? Yeesh, and here I thought you were gay. I’ve had a couple clients before who wouldn’t admit it either. Can you blame me for making sure?”