- Kurzarbeit
-
Germany’s short-time work system that had preserved jobs through the global downturn.
Chapter 123 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=219
Chapter 124 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=220
Quote:
Originally Posted by
CasanovaSG
Chapter 123: Velvet and Sake (Part 1)
https://freeimage.host/i/fFxDLAl
(AI-generated image of Haruna)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Tokyo, 2005.
I had never been to a hostess club before.
There were whispers about them back home, of the velvet rooms, beautiful Japanese women who laughed at your jokes, then charged your drinks to padded bills, and vanished before sunrise.
But on this night in Shinjuku, curiosity got the better of me.
⸻
The club was understated, covered with black curtains, floored with polished wood, and soft jazz piped through hidden speakers.
A hostess in a shimmering dress greeted me with a bow and led me to a booth, where she poured me sake and offered me a towel for my hands.
Then came Haruna.
She was 23, tall for a Japanese woman at around 1.68 meters, with the grace of a model and doe eyes that held something between curiosity and quiet calculation.
Her dress clung to her soft, full breasts, her skin luminous under the low lighting.
“
You’re not used to places like this
,” she said in lightly accented English.
“No,” I admitted. “But I’m open to learning.”
She smiled. “
Then I’ll show you gently.
”
⸻
Over drinks, she explained how the hostess world worked. No touching, no sex, just conversation, flattery, companionship.
“
But sometimes,
” she said, leaning in, “
someone interesting comes along.
”
“Am I interesting?”
“
You’re different. And you’re not pretending to be Japanese.
”
I laughed. “That’s a low bar.”
“
But a good start,
” she whispered.
⸻
She invited me out after her shift.
We took a cab to her apartment in Nakameguro, a small, Japan-minimalist style, with a pale futon and a single framed picture of a snow-covered street.
“
Niigata
,” she said. “
Where I grew up.
”
She poured us tea, then stood before me, slipping out of her dress without a word.
Her body was stunning with long limbs, round hips, large, soft breasts, and a perfectly smooth, shaved vagina that caught the light like satin.
“
I wax every week,
” she said, catching my gaze. “
Do you like it?
”
“I love it.”
⸻
She guided me onto the futon and pushed me down gently.
“
Let me give you a massage first,
” she said.
She knelt beside me, oiling her hands, and began kneading my shoulders, gliding down my back, her bare breasts occasionally brushing my skin.
Her fingers were expert… firm where needed, feather-light elsewhere.
I turned, aroused beyond words.
She smiled, slipped on a condom for me, and lowered herself slowly.
⸻
She rode me with precision, her breasts bouncing lightly, her hands on my chest.
Her moans were soft but unfiltered, making Japanese syllables in half-whispers, her eyes locked on mine.
I reached up, cupped her breasts, then slid my hands to her hips as she quickened her pace.
She leaned down and kissed me deeply as I thrust up into her, her slickness growing by the second.
She came with a gasp, clenching tight, her voice muffled against my shoulder.
I followed soon after, groaning into her neck, our bodies sweaty, stuck together in the heat of the moment.
⸻
Afterwards, she cleaned us with a warm towel, then curled beside me.
“
You don’t seem like the usual foreigner,
” she said.
“And you’re far more than a pretty face.”
She laughed. “
We play roles. But tonight felt real.
”
⸻
I slept lightly, her body wrapped around mine, her scent, sake and jasmine, lingering on the sheets.
I didn’t know then that I’d see her again.
And that the second time would leave a mark far deeper than the first.
⸻
[End of Chapter 123 — to be continued in Chapter 124]
Mirror Site:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/68...ters/194833586
Quote:
Originally Posted by
CasanovaSG
Chapter 124: Velvet and Sake (Part 2)
https://freeimage.host/i/fFzFijs
(AI-generated image of Haruna)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Tokyo, one week later.
I wasn’t planning to see her again.
But some women linger, not just on the skin, but behind the eyes. In silence. In scent. In the shape of your hands when they’re empty.
Haruna texted me first.
“
Are you still in Tokyo?
”
“One more night.”
“
I’m off at 10. Come?
”
I hesitated. But not for long.
⸻
Her apartment smelled the same: jasmine and memory.
She looked more casual this time: soft cotton tank top, no makeup, hair tied loosely behind her head.
“
You remembered,
” she said.
“I couldn’t forget.”
⸻
We didn’t talk much.
We kissed quickly.
She undressed faster this time. Her large, soft breasts bounced free as she peeled off her top, her smooth, hairless pussy already glistening beneath her panties.
“
I’ve been wet since your message,
” she said in Japanese.
Something about this second encounter felt deeper.
Hungrier.
She lay back on the futon, spreading her legs for me.
I went down on her first, licking slowly, deliberately, watching her react.
Her thighs trembled. Her voice cracked.
She moaned loudly, grinding her hips into my mouth as she came, her fingers gripping my hair.
When I rose, fully erect, she guided me in without pause.
⸻
And I
forgot
.
In the heat. In the wetness. In her scent. In the grip of her body.
I forgot to reach for a condom.
She didn’t stop me.
And I didn’t stop myself.
In Japan, condoms were common, almost expected, as a quiet ritual before sex.
But in moments like this, with heat clouding judgment and skin begging for skin, even the usual rules slipped away.
I thrust into her raw, and the difference was immediate… a warmth, a closeness, a danger I hadn’t felt in years since my encounter with Iselin (
Chapter 3
).
She moaned, clawing my back, whispering, “
More… harder…
”
I pounded into her, her breasts bouncing beneath me, her shaved pussy slick and tight, wrapping around me like it had memorized me.
I came deep inside her, a long, hard release that left me shaking.
Only then, in the breathless silence after, did I remember what Haruna had told me on our first night, that as a hostess, she met many men, and sometimes slept with them if the chemistry was right.
It was part of the trade, albeit unofficially.
Back then, I’d told her to be careful in this city that could swallow you whole.
Now, lying inside her without protection, those words felt like a warning I’d given too late.
She just smiled sweetly, as if the night was all that mattered.
We didn’t speak to each other after that evening, but two days later, I sent a message asking her to get tested. She never replied.
⸻
Back in Singapore, sleep came in short, broken fragments.
I’d wake at 3 a.m. with my chest tight, replaying the night in Tokyo over and over, each time imagining microscopic dangers threading through my bloodstream. My phone glowed in the dark, and I’d search symptoms I didn’t have, read about infections I didn’t fully understand, scroll through medical forums until the sky turned pale.
By Monday morning, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I called the clinic first thing. Told them I needed a full panel… discreetly. The receptionist’s voice was calm, routine, but I felt like I was confessing to a crime.
They ran the works:
• HIV antigen/antibody combo test,
• Syphilis (RPR and TPHA),
• Hepatitis B and C,
• Chlamydia and gonorrhoea NAAT via urine,
• Even HSV-2 IgG, just in case.
I sat in the waiting room like a boy waiting for judgment, my knee bouncing so hard the chair rattled. Every time a nurse walked past, my stomach flipped.
The first batch came back clear after three days. Relief, but not enough… I knew some infections, especially HIV, could take weeks to show. That knowledge sat in my gut like a stone.
I marked my calendar for the 28-day test, then the three-month one, each date like a finish line I wasn’t sure I’d reach unscathed.
During those weeks, I couldn’t bring myself to touch Elya.
She noticed, of course. Her body would slide toward mine, and I’d gently shift away. When she reached for me one night, I turned and said softly:
“I need to make sure I’m clean before I come back to you fully.”
She didn’t ask questions. Just nodded. “
You’re being careful. That’s enough.
”
We still slept beside each other. Still held hands. Still talked like lovers and friends. But there was no skin. No sweat. No surrender.
When the final test came back negative, the relief didn’t hit all at once. It came in waves: gratitude, shame, clarity.
I told her everything. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. Just listened.
“
You thought with your body,
” she said. “
Then remembered with your mind.
”
“And nearly forgot with my heart,” I replied.
We made love that night. Slowly. Carefully. With a reverence born from consequence. And when I came inside her, safely and intimately, I whispered her name not like a confession, but like a vow.
⸻
If you ever find yourself in the same position, here’s what I learned:
Don’t panic immediately.
Fear makes you imagine the worst, but most STIs are treatable, and the earlier you act, the better.
Stop all sexual contact until you know.
No “
just once
” exceptions.
Get tested promptly.
Tell your doctor everything, even if it’s embarrassing. The truth can save you.
Know the window periods.
HIV, for example, may need a retest at 28 days and again at three months for certainty.
Look out for symptoms
, like burning, discharge, sores, but remember that many STIs are silent.
Tell your partners if you test positive.
They deserve the chance to protect themselves.
Follow treatment exactly.
Stop halfway and you risk relapse or resistance.
Use condoms every time.
They’re not perfect, but they cut risk dramatically.
⸻
Testing isn’t shameful. It’s smart. It means you care about your health and the people you touch.
[End of Chapter 124]
My Reflection on These Two Chapters
These two chapters are not written to glamorise anything. They are meant to show a situation that many men go through quietly, when desire takes over and the fear only comes afterwards.
The actual events in the story are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist, but the feelings are real. The worry, the sleepless nights, the waiting for results, the imagining of the worst. Many people have been in that space before, even if they never talk about it.
If there is one message I hope readers take from this, it is that testing is not shameful. It is responsible, it protects your partner, and it gives you back your peace of mind. One mistake does not define a person. Avoiding the truth does far more harm than facing it early.
If these chapters encourage even one reader to get tested or to think more carefully about their choices, then sharing them has been worthwhile. Stay safe, take care of yourself, and take care of the people you love.
Chapter 123 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=219
Chapter 124 -
https://sbf.net.nz/showpost...&postcount=220
Quote:
Originally Posted by
CasanovaSG
Chapter 123: Velvet and Sake (Part 1)
https://freeimage.host/i/fFxDLAl
(AI-generated image of Haruna)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Tokyo, 2005.
I had never been to a hostess club before.
There were whispers about them back home, of the velvet rooms, beautiful Japanese women who laughed at your jokes, then charged your drinks to padded bills, and vanished before sunrise.
But on this night in Shinjuku, curiosity got the better of me.
⸻
The club was understated, covered with black curtains, floored with polished wood, and soft jazz piped through hidden speakers.
A hostess in a shimmering dress greeted me with a bow and led me to a booth, where she poured me sake and offered me a towel for my hands.
Then came Haruna.
She was 23, tall for a Japanese woman at around 1.68 meters, with the grace of a model and doe eyes that held something between curiosity and quiet calculation.
Her dress clung to her soft, full breasts, her skin luminous under the low lighting.
“
You’re not used to places like this
,” she said in lightly accented English.
“No,” I admitted. “But I’m open to learning.”
She smiled. “
Then I’ll show you gently.
”
⸻
Over drinks, she explained how the hostess world worked. No touching, no sex, just conversation, flattery, companionship.
“
But sometimes,
” she said, leaning in, “
someone interesting comes along.
”
“Am I interesting?”
“
You’re different. And you’re not pretending to be Japanese.
”
I laughed. “That’s a low bar.”
“
But a good start,
” she whispered.
⸻
She invited me out after her shift.
We took a cab to her apartment in Nakameguro, a small, Japan-minimalist style, with a pale futon and a single framed picture of a snow-covered street.
“
Niigata
,” she said. “
Where I grew up.
”
She poured us tea, then stood before me, slipping out of her dress without a word.
Her body was stunning with long limbs, round hips, large, soft breasts, and a perfectly smooth, shaved vagina that caught the light like satin.
“
I wax every week,
” she said, catching my gaze. “
Do you like it?
”
“I love it.”
⸻
She guided me onto the futon and pushed me down gently.
“
Let me give you a massage first,
” she said.
She knelt beside me, oiling her hands, and began kneading my shoulders, gliding down my back, her bare breasts occasionally brushing my skin.
Her fingers were expert… firm where needed, feather-light elsewhere.
I turned, aroused beyond words.
She smiled, slipped on a condom for me, and lowered herself slowly.
⸻
She rode me with precision, her breasts bouncing lightly, her hands on my chest.
Her moans were soft but unfiltered, making Japanese syllables in half-whispers, her eyes locked on mine.
I reached up, cupped her breasts, then slid my hands to her hips as she quickened her pace.
She leaned down and kissed me deeply as I thrust up into her, her slickness growing by the second.
She came with a gasp, clenching tight, her voice muffled against my shoulder.
I followed soon after, groaning into her neck, our bodies sweaty, stuck together in the heat of the moment.
⸻
Afterwards, she cleaned us with a warm towel, then curled beside me.
“
You don’t seem like the usual foreigner,
” she said.
“And you’re far more than a pretty face.”
She laughed. “
We play roles. But tonight felt real.
”
⸻
I slept lightly, her body wrapped around mine, her scent, sake and jasmine, lingering on the sheets.
I didn’t know then that I’d see her again.
And that the second time would leave a mark far deeper than the first.
⸻
[End of Chapter 123 — to be continued in Chapter 124]
Mirror Site:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/68...ters/194833586
Quote:
Originally Posted by
CasanovaSG
Chapter 124: Velvet and Sake (Part 2)
https://freeimage.host/i/fFzFijs
(AI-generated image of Haruna)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Tokyo, one week later.
I wasn’t planning to see her again.
But some women linger, not just on the skin, but behind the eyes. In silence. In scent. In the shape of your hands when they’re empty.
Haruna texted me first.
“
Are you still in Tokyo?
”
“One more night.”
“
I’m off at 10. Come?
”
I hesitated. But not for long.
⸻
Her apartment smelled the same: jasmine and memory.
She looked more casual this time: soft cotton tank top, no makeup, hair tied loosely behind her head.
“
You remembered,
” she said.
“I couldn’t forget.”
⸻
We didn’t talk much.
We kissed quickly.
She undressed faster this time. Her large, soft breasts bounced free as she peeled off her top, her smooth, hairless pussy already glistening beneath her panties.
“
I’ve been wet since your message,
” she said in Japanese.
Something about this second encounter felt deeper.
Hungrier.
She lay back on the futon, spreading her legs for me.
I went down on her first, licking slowly, deliberately, watching her react.
Her thighs trembled. Her voice cracked.
She moaned loudly, grinding her hips into my mouth as she came, her fingers gripping my hair.
When I rose, fully erect, she guided me in without pause.
⸻
And I
forgot
.
In the heat. In the wetness. In her scent. In the grip of her body.
I forgot to reach for a condom.
She didn’t stop me.
And I didn’t stop myself.
In Japan, condoms were common, almost expected, as a quiet ritual before sex.
But in moments like this, with heat clouding judgment and skin begging for skin, even the usual rules slipped away.
I thrust into her raw, and the difference was immediate… a warmth, a closeness, a danger I hadn’t felt in years since my encounter with Iselin (
Chapter 3
).
She moaned, clawing my back, whispering, “
More… harder…
”
I pounded into her, her breasts bouncing beneath me, her shaved pussy slick and tight, wrapping around me like it had memorized me.
I came deep inside her, a long, hard release that left me shaking.
Only then, in the breathless silence after, did I remember what Haruna had told me on our first night, that as a hostess, she met many men, and sometimes slept with them if the chemistry was right.
It was part of the trade, albeit unofficially.
Back then, I’d told her to be careful in this city that could swallow you whole.
Now, lying inside her without protection, those words felt like a warning I’d given too late.
She just smiled sweetly, as if the night was all that mattered.
We didn’t speak to each other after that evening, but two days later, I sent a message asking her to get tested. She never replied.
⸻
Back in Singapore, sleep came in short, broken fragments.
I’d wake at 3 a.m. with my chest tight, replaying the night in Tokyo over and over, each time imagining microscopic dangers threading through my bloodstream. My phone glowed in the dark, and I’d search symptoms I didn’t have, read about infections I didn’t fully understand, scroll through medical forums until the sky turned pale.
By Monday morning, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I called the clinic first thing. Told them I needed a full panel… discreetly. The receptionist’s voice was calm, routine, but I felt like I was confessing to a crime.
They ran the works:
• HIV antigen/antibody combo test,
• Syphilis (RPR and TPHA),
• Hepatitis B and C,
• Chlamydia and gonorrhoea NAAT via urine,
• Even HSV-2 IgG, just in case.
I sat in the waiting room like a boy waiting for judgment, my knee bouncing so hard the chair rattled. Every time a nurse walked past, my stomach flipped.
The first batch came back clear after three days. Relief, but not enough… I knew some infections, especially HIV, could take weeks to show. That knowledge sat in my gut like a stone.
I marked my calendar for the 28-day test, then the three-month one, each date like a finish line I wasn’t sure I’d reach unscathed.
During those weeks, I couldn’t bring myself to touch Elya.
She noticed, of course. Her body would slide toward mine, and I’d gently shift away. When she reached for me one night, I turned and said softly:
“I need to make sure I’m clean before I come back to you fully.”
She didn’t ask questions. Just nodded. “
You’re being careful. That’s enough.
”
We still slept beside each other. Still held hands. Still talked like lovers and friends. But there was no skin. No sweat. No surrender.
When the final test came back negative, the relief didn’t hit all at once. It came in waves: gratitude, shame, clarity.
I told her everything. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. Just listened.
“
You thought with your body,
” she said. “
Then remembered with your mind.
”
“And nearly forgot with my heart,” I replied.
We made love that night. Slowly. Carefully. With a reverence born from consequence. And when I came inside her, safely and intimately, I whispered her name not like a confession, but like a vow.
⸻
If you ever find yourself in the same position, here’s what I learned:
Don’t panic immediately.
Fear makes you imagine the worst, but most STIs are treatable, and the earlier you act, the better.
Stop all sexual contact until you know.
No “
just once
” exceptions.
Get tested promptly.
Tell your doctor everything, even if it’s embarrassing. The truth can save you.
Know the window periods.
HIV, for example, may need a retest at 28 days and again at three months for certainty.
Look out for symptoms
, like burning, discharge, sores, but remember that many STIs are silent.
Tell your partners if you test positive.
They deserve the chance to protect themselves.
Follow treatment exactly.
Stop halfway and you risk relapse or resistance.
Use condoms every time.
They’re not perfect, but they cut risk dramatically.
⸻
Testing isn’t shameful. It’s smart. It means you care about your health and the people you touch.
[End of Chapter 124]
My Reflection on These Two Chapters
These two chapters are not written to glamorise anything. They are meant to show a situation that many men go through quietly, when desire takes over and the fear only comes afterwards.
The actual events in the story are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist, but the feelings are real. The worry, the sleepless nights, the waiting for results, the imagining of the worst. Many people have been in that space before, even if they never talk about it.
If there is one message I hope readers take from this, it is that testing is not shameful. It is responsible, it protects your partner, and it gives you back your peace of mind. One mistake does not define a person. Avoiding the truth does far more harm than facing it early.
If these chapters encourage even one reader to get tested or to think more carefully about their choices, then sharing them has been worthwhile. Stay safe, take care of yourself, and take care of the people you love.
My Reflection on These Two Chapters 123 and 124
These two chapters are not written to glamorise anything. They are meant to show a situation that many men go through quietly, when desire takes over and the fear only comes afterwards.
The actual events in the story are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist, but the feelings are real. The worry, the sleepless nights, the waiting for results, the imagining of the worst. Many people have been in that space before, even if they never talk about it.
If there is one message I hope readers take from this, it is that testing is not shameful. It is responsible, it protects your partner, and it gives you back your peace of mind. One mistake does not define a person. Avoiding the truth does far more harm than facing it early.
If these chapters encourage even one reader to get tested or to think more carefully about their choices, then sharing them has been worthwhile. Stay safe, take care of yourself, and take care of the people you love.
Chapter 125: Beneath the Irrawaddy Sky
https://freeimage.host/i/fFp0rv4
(AI-generated image of Thiri)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Southern Myanmar, 2006.
The bus from Dawei was older than any I’d ever been on: its paint flaking, rusty windows stuck open, plain metal floor hot under my soles. A faded speaker rattled with Burmese ballads as the driver smoked silently, eyes half-lidded.
This wasn’t a business trip.
Well, not exactly.
I’d been in Bangkok for a regional development workshop, and the opportunity came, a rare visa window, a whispered suggestion from an NGO friend: “If you’re going to see the real Myanmar, go now, go south, before it changes.”
So I did.
Sometimes, I chased roads just to see where they bent.
⸻
Myanmar in 2006 was still shuttered. A military regime held the reins, and foreigners were watched closely. But in the coastal south, near the Irrawaddy Delta, things were looser. Quieter. You could disappear for a while. You just had to stay out of trouble and keep your head down.
Children fished barefoot with nets tied from plastic string. Women in faded blouses and longyi sold mangoes by the roadside, their cheeks painted with thanaka swirls. Monks walked barefoot in the morning mist, alms bowls steady in hand.
And there, under the lazy shade of a tamarind tree, I met her… Thiri.
⸻
She was twenty. Short, maybe 1.55 meters. Slightly plump in a way that made her seem younger than her years. Her face still carried the softness of adolescence, but her eyes, almond-shaped and rimmed with light kohl, held an alertness that belied her innocence.
Her chin-length hair was dyed a fading auburn, uneven at the tips. It looked like a rebellion attempted and then surrendered. She wore a white blouse and a pink-checkered longyi. On her cheeks: intricate circles of thanaka.
She poured my tea with both hands. I thanked her.
She lingered a second longer than necessary.
“
You not from here,
” she said, her English hesitant.
“No,” I smiled. “But maybe I was meant to be.”
She blinked. Then smiled.
⸻
I returned the next day. And the day after.
She always served me. Always smiled. Always made sure my teacup was full before anyone else’s.
We didn’t say much. But sometimes silence holds more meaning than language.
On the third afternoon, as I waited under the tamarind tree, clouds began to gather. Thick, dark monsoon clouds. The downpour hit fast, with sheets of rain turning the red earth into thick soup. The power died, predictably.
Thiri found me still under the tree, soaked.
“
You come,
” she said. “
My aunt’s house. You wait rain.
”
⸻
Her aunt’s house stood on stilts, the timber worn smooth by time. Inside, the air was warm and dark. A single jar lamp burned with oil and a smoldering cotton wick. The rain battered the zinc roof above like a mad drummer.
We sat cross-legged on a woven mat. The air smelled of lemongrass and wet bamboo.
I complimented the thanaka on her cheeks.
She giggled, then reached for the little wooden container and dabbed her finger in.
“
Here
,” she said, and playfully painted a clumsy swirl on my cheek.
“
You look funny,
” she giggled.
“You look beautiful.”
She stopped. Looked down.
And then looked up again, questioningly, imploringly. I moved closer, much closer… and kissed her.
⸻
Her lips were soft and tentative.
But her hands, trembling but determined, found my collar buttons and began to undo them, one by one. I let her. Her fingers fumbled, but she didn’t stop.
I helped her out of her blouse, revealing skin the colour of golden tea. Her breasts were full, heavy and natural, their gentle sway made more striking by the modesty she’d carried just hours before.
When I undid her longyi, she hesitated.
Her voice barely audible: “
You sure?
”
I nodded. “Only if you are.”
She nodded once.
As I knelt and kissed her thighs, she sighed… a breath that trembled like a held secret.
Between her legs, she was shaved bare, which was a surprise. I kissed the soft skin around her mound, inhaling her scent, warm and musky. She flinched, not from fear, but anticipation.
I pressed my tongue to her vaginal folds, slowly. Gently.
She gasped, both hands clenching the mat.
I circled her clit with my tongue, starting with soft strokes, then firmer, and slid a finger inside her. She tightened around me, eyes fluttering open in astonishment. I added a second finger, curling just so, and watched her squirm beneath me, her breath quickening.
She came softly, with a long shudder and a breath held tight, as if releasing it would shatter her.
⸻
I rose, unbuckled my pants. Paused.
From my wallet, I took a condom, tore it open, and slid it on.
I kissed her again as I entered her.
She was tight, impossibly so, her warmth wrapping around me like a glove soaked in heat. Her breath caught, hands gripping my back as I began to thrust.
Slow. Deep. Then faster, as her legs locked around me and her hips began to meet mine.
She moaned, low and barely audible. But her eyes never left mine.
When she came again, her whole body trembled, her breasts heaving, neck arched, and eyes squeezed shut.
I followed soon after, groaning against her neck as I pulsed into her, emptying myself in long waves.
⸻
We lay under the flickering light of the jar flame. The rain softened into a rhythm like breathing.
She traced the outlines of my muscles on on my chest with her fingertip, looking deep into my eyes.
“
I never with foreign man,
” she said.
“Then I’m honored.”
“
You different,
” she whispered. “
You not… rush.
”
“You’re worth more than rushing.”
She smiled, shy and uncertain. Then pressed her cheek to my chest and closed her eyes.
⸻
The next morning, the rain had stopped.
She walked me to the bus stop just as the sky began to lighten. Neither of us said much.
Just before I boarded, she pressed something into my palm, her napkin, slightly crumpled, wrapped around a few tamarind candies.
“
For memory,
” she said.
I nodded. I didn’t know how to say goodbye. So I just said, “Thank you.”
She smiled once more. Then turned and walked away.
⸻
I ate one of the candies at the checkpoint, where Myanmese soldiers checked passports under suspicious eyes.
It was sour.
And perfect.
⸻
[End of Chapter 125]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 126: Books and Barren Fields
https://freeimage.host/i/fKz5SYx
(AI-generated image of Jariya)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Khon Kaen, Thailand, 2006.
Most tourists in Thailand never make it to Isan. They chase sunsets in Phuket, tuk-tuks in Bangkok, and full moons in Koh Phangan.
But Isan, Thailand’s northeastern expanse, moves differently.
It’s poorer, drier, and prouder. The soil is parched, the politics neglected, but the people speak softly and work with fierce grace. Their dialect dances closer to Lao than Thai. And their hearts? You don’t earn those easily.
⸻
I was in Khon Kaen for a rural development conference, which was half logistics and half diplomacy. On the second day, I met Jariya.
She was 26, with golden-dyed hair and thin-framed glasses, the posture of someone who read more than she spoke. About 1.65 meters tall, dressed in a crisp white blouse and a black pencil skirt that clung to her hips with quiet authority.
She worked in a regional think tank, researching how to keep Isan’s best minds from draining into Bangkok.
“
We’re not the kingdom’s backyard
,” she said, “
but sometimes it feels that way.
”
⸻
Over iced coffee, she taught me about the northeast’s neglect, how water never flowed when promised, how roads cracked before they were paid for, how children left and didn’t return.
“
But we’re not victims,
” she added, her tone proud. “
Just overlooked.
”
“What keeps you here?”
She smiled, wry and wistful. “
Stubbornness. And books.
”
⸻
That evening, we found ourselves in a dim café-bookstore hybrid just off the university road. Wooden beams. Woven chairs. Quiet jazz under fluorescent flicker.
She ordered whiskey neat. I raised an eyebrow.
“
Books make me think,
” she said. “
Whiskey helps me forget.
”
We shared stories, traded compliments and occasional laughter. Then increasing lengths of silence, as I let the tension build. Then fingers brushed.
Outside, under the faint glow of a hanging paper lantern, she said, simply, “
My place is walking distance.
”
⸻
Her apartment was compact. Clean. A standing fan rotated lazily. A single bed was pressed against the wall. A shelf brimmed with Thai novels, policy papers, and worn translated volumes: Orwell, Sontag, Kundera.
She untucked her blouse, eyes locked on mine.
Slowly, deliberately, she unbuttoned it… one, two, three… revealing a pale lilac bra, the lace faint against her tan skin.
Her skirt dropped next, pooling around her ankles. Her panties were plain, damp at the center.
She stood before me, topless, golden hair tousled, her breasts small but round, nipples firm and dusky.
“
You study bodies the way you study books?
” she asked.
“Only the ones I’m willing to read cover to cover.”
She smiled. “
Then, let’s start.
”
⸻
I knelt before her, kissed her navel, then lower.
She stepped out of her underwear and lay back on the bed, legs slightly parted, breath shallow.
I kissed her inner thighs, tasted the salt of her skin, then let my tongue trace her folds… slow circles, rising pressure. Her clit throbbed beneath my touch.
She moaned, low and breathy.
“
Yes… like that… more…
”
I slipped a finger inside her. Then two. Her body clenched, trembling as I curled upward, brushing her g-spot.
Her hips bucked. Her glasses fogged on the nightstand.
She came suddenly, gasping my name, with breath jagged, and fingers tight in my hair.
⸻
I rose, kissed her deeply, then reached for my wallet.
I slid on a condom while she watched, propped on her elbows.
“
I want you,
” she said.
I entered her slowly, deliberately.
She was warm, slick, still pulsing from her climax. Her legs wrapped around me. Her heels pressed into my back.
We moved together in a steady, quiet rhythm.
She pulled me closer, chest to chest, moaning softly into my ear, her voice breaking in Thai, then switching to English.
“
Don’t stop…
”
Her second orgasm came with a shudder, with her back arching, and mouth open in a silent cry.
I thrust deeper, faster, chasing the edge until I came hard, groaning into her shoulder, buried to the hilt.
⸻
We collapsed side by side, breath mingling, hearts still racing.
She wrapped herself in a sheet, leaned on one elbow, and studied me in the moonlight.
“
Did you know Isan used to be part of the Lao kingdom?
”
I shook my head. “No.”
She smiled and touched my chest. “
Then tonight… you’ve tasted both.
”
⸻
[End of Chapter 126]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 127: Between the River and Her Skin
https://freeimage.host/i/ffUEJQ2
(AI-generated image of Phayao)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Luang Prabang, 2007.
The Mekong flowed slow and wide that morning. Monks passed barefoot in saffron lines, and the smell of grilled river fish mingled with frangipani blooms along the dusty streets. Laos was the quietest country I had visited… not empty; just unhurried. Like it had nothing to prove.
I was here for no other reason than to be. No meetings. No schedules. Just a pause, a break, after years of motion.
And that’s where I saw Phayao.
⸻
She stood by a stall near the night market, tending to skewers of sticky rice and sausage over charcoal. Bronze skin. A round, gentle face. A shy smile that folded and disappeared like the last light of day.
I bought two skewers. She nodded, unsure if I was just another tourist. She handed me change, our fingers brushing for the briefest second.
As she reached for a container, her sleeve lifted. I caught a glimpse of ink, that of a name, written in Lao script on her shoulder.
Curious. In a culture so quiet, tattoos were loud.
I came back the next night. Then the next. My Lao was nonexistent; her English limited to single words:
“yes,” “no,” “you like?”, “thank you.”
But smiles lingered longer. Eyes held a little more. Words failed, but something else translated.
⸻
On the fourth night, I returned later, after the stalls had begun closing. She saw me waiting near the steps that led down to the Mekong.
She finished packing, then walked over silently and motioned for me to follow.
We didn’t speak.
⸻
Her home was on the edge of town, a small wooden structure raised above ground. A single bulb flickered near the ceiling; everything else was bathed in amber candlelight.
She poured water into metal cups. No wine. And no pretense.
Then, she reached for my hand, hers calloused and strong, and led me to a floor mat by the open window.
The air smelled of frangipani and river water.
⸻
She pulled her top over her head in one motion.
Without hesitation, without shame.
Her breasts were modest, round, and soft, the curve of her ribs catching the light. Her belly was smooth, and on her navel, of a small spider tattoo, was delicate and still.
I kissed just above it. She giggled softly.
She turned to show me the sword and snake etched down her spine, showing off a confident, dark ink from shoulder blade to waistline. I ran my fingers down its path.
She shivered. Then faced me. Her lips found mine… slow, searching.
⸻
We undressed together. Her skirt dropped to the floor. She wore no panties.
Her scent was warm and slightly sweet. Her body lean, her thighs full. A thin tan line framed her chest.
I cupped her breasts, kissed her collarbone, her neck. She moaned, soft and breathy.
I moved lower. She lay back on the mat, spreading her legs, her knees bent like invitation.
My tongue brushed against her pussy folds. She gasped.
“
Ngam… ngam…
” she whispered.
Beautiful.
I licked her slowly, from bottom to top, swirling around her clit, teasing the tip. Her hips lifted off the mat, and she whimpered, legs wrapping around my shoulders.
When I slid my fingers deep inside her, she arched sharply, with one hand over her mouth, the other gripping the woven mat beneath.
Her orgasm came in pulses, her thighs clenching, breath caught in fragments, her eyes fluttering shut.
⸻
I kissed my way up her body, her chest rising and falling beneath me.
She reached into the small drawer beside the mat, and pulled out a gold-foiled condom and handed it to me with a small nod.
I smiled, opened it, and slid it on.
She watched me, her round eyes dark and wide, her hands stroking my thighs.
I entered her slowly, holding her gaze.
She was tight. Soaked. Her walls pulsed around me as I began to thrust, with slow and deep strokes, grounding every movement in rhythm.
She whispered in Lao, in gentle words I couldn’t understand, but the tone said enough.
I cupped her hips, pressed deeper.
She gasped, gripping my arms. Her nails dug into my shoulders as she came again, trembling and wet around me.
I followed, shuddering, buried to the base, moaning into her ear.
⸻
We stayed tangled on the mat, slick with sweat, the candle flickering between us.
She curled into me, head resting on my shoulder.
I traced the old tattoo on her right shoulder, and saw two names. Hers… and someone else’s.
I didn’t ask.
Some stories are meant to be left unread.
⸻
[End of Chapter 127]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 128: Steppe Fire
https://freeimage.host/i/foH6N4t
(AI-generated image of Sarnai)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, 2007.
I had come for the winter light.
Not for business, not for love, not even for curiosity… just a strange, persistent desire to feel the cold of the steppes against my face. To see what the world looked like where nothing grew easily. Where wind and silence reigned.
It was March, and the thaw barely beginning. The city of Ulaanbaatar felt like a leftover dream from Soviet times. Concrete blocks, Cyrillic signs, and coal smoke hanging heavy in the air. But there was warmth too, in the yak meat soups, the shared vodka, the gaze of strangers who stared frankly but without malice.
I was invited to speak at a development forum on urban planning in rapidly growing capital cities. A friend from grad school had made the connection. He said, “It’s cold as hell, but worth the trip.”
He wasn’t wrong.
That’s where I met Sarnai.
⸻
She stood at the back of the conference hall, tall and regal in a dark wool coat, her cheekbones casting perfect shadows in the fluorescent light.
She wasn’t just tall; she
towered
, at least 1.78 meters. Slender, but not slight. She moved like she owned the floor, as if she’d walked straight off a canvas of Genghis Khan’s court, except with red lipstick and long black gloves.
“
Are you here to save our city?
” she asked during the coffee break.
“I’m just passing through,” I replied.
“
Good. We don’t need saving,”
she said with a sly smile.
⸻
Sarnai had once modeled in Beijing and Moscow, but had returned home. “
Too many people. Too much noise,
” she said. “
In Mongolia, I can hear myself again.
”
That night, she invited me to an artist’s loft in the old district, to celebrate her friend’s birthday. Paintings leaned against raw concrete walls, and someone strummed a
morin khuur
while others smoked and danced barefoot.
We sat close, knees brushing.
Her skin was porcelain pale. Her eyes were dark and deep-set beneath long lids. She smelled of cedar and wildflower honey.
“
You’re not like the men here,
” she whispered.
“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met,” I said.
She tilted her head, amused. “
Then let’s be different together.
”
⸻
Her apartment was minimalist, with clean lines, grey tones, and a floor-to-ceiling window that framed the frozen hills like a painting.
We stood by the heater, her fingers tracing the hem of my coat.
I leaned in, brushing my lips against her cheek, then lower, down her jawline to her throat. Her breath caught.
“
I’m not fragile,
” she murmured.
“I never assumed you were.”
⸻
She undressed with exquisite slowness, first removing her gloves by tugging each finger loose, then her coat, then her turtleneck sweater. All the while, keeping eye contact with me.
Her body was long and graceful, like a dancer’s. Her breasts small, perky. Her waist tapering to lean hips.
She stepped out of her leggings, revealing full thighs and a high-slung pelvis, her pubic hair trimmed in a neat line.
She stood before me, proud and calm.
“
Touch me,
” she said.
⸻
I kissed my way down her long neck, over her collarbone, down to her breasts, flicking my tongue across each nipple, teasing them into tight buds. She moaned softly, placing a hand on my head to guide me.
I knelt before her. Her long legs tensed as I kissed her navel, then lower, inhaling her womanly scent, musky and faintly sweet.
I flicked my tongue against her folds in slow, deliberate circles. She trembled, whispering in Mongolian.
I slid two fingers inside her, curving upward. Her moans rose in pitch, fingers clutching the window frame behind her.
When she came, her body stiffened, then released in waves, her breath hot and ragged against my scalp.
⸻
She pulled me to the floor, tugging off my clothes one piece at a time, watching every movement like a ritual.
She reached into a drawer and handed me a condom.
I smiled, tore it open, and slid it on.
Sarnai straddled me slowly, her thighs gripping my sides as she lowered herself onto me with a hiss of pleasure.
“Goodness, you’re so tight…” I groaned.
She rode me in a steady rhythm with hips rolling like waves across sand. Her long black hair fell forward, veiling her face, but I could see the flush on her cheeks, the fire in her eyes.
She leaned forward, kissing me hard, her teeth grazing my lower lip.
⸻
I flipped her gently onto her back, lifting one long leg over my shoulder. She gasped as I thrust deeper, her moans echoing off the concrete.
We moved in perfect rhythm, pausing to kiss, to whisper, to look, really look, into each other’s eyes.
She came again, legs locked around my waist, her moans stifled by my shoulder.
I followed moments later, groaning against her neck, the sensation intense and overwhelming.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay tangled in the glow of the city lights outside.
She ran her fingers through my hair.
“
I always thought I’d leave Mongolia forever,
” she said. “
But sometimes… even the wind calls you home.
”
“I’m glad it called you back,” I said.
She smiled sleepily. “
For tonight, at least.
”
⸻
[End of Chapter 128]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 129: Flamenco and Ashes
https://freeimage.host/i/fozwuu1
(AI-generated image of Lucía)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Barcelona, 2008.
The city was golden.
Even in October, the late Mediterranean sun spilled across Gaudí’s rooftops and into every plaza. Tourists still wandered Las Ramblas, and the beaches of Barceloneta rippled with youth, skin, and heat.
But there were cracks beneath the postcard.
Spain’s housing bubble had started to sag. Unemployment, especially among youth, was quietly rising. The cafés were still full, the sangria still flowing, but the uncertainty was palpable, like a drumbeat under a flamenco dancer’s heels.
I was there for a regional consulting workshop on high-speed rail procurement, something dry with a fancy view. But what I remember most… was Lucía.
⸻
She was twenty, local, and worked part-time in a coastal bookstore.
Blonde hair, bleached lighter by the sun.
Tanned, toned, and carried herself like a dancer who didn’t need a stage to perform.
She wore a red sundress the first time I saw her, and I later learned it was a nod to her grandmother, a flamenco teacher from Seville.
We struck up a conversation after I bought a dog-eared Spanish novel I’d never read.
“
You don’t need to understand every word,
” she said, “
just the rhythm.
”
That described her, too.
⸻
She was Protestant, which surprised me: her family had roots in southern France.
She wore a small gold cross around her neck, and had the phrase “
Buena chica
” tattooed just above her hip bone, in looping script.
“
Am I?
” she asked with a smirk when I noticed it.
“No,” I said. “But that’s what makes it better.”
⸻
Our first kiss was on the beach at dusk.
She leaned in, her lips soft and slow, perfectly timed, like she knew exactly how to build tension.
When her tongue met mine, she moaned softly into my mouth, pulling me closer with surprising force.
“You kiss like you’ve done this a thousand times,” I said.
She smiled. “
French boy taught me the technique. But I only use it when I want to.
”
⸻
She took me home that night.
Her room was lined with books and sand. Her bikini hung drying from the balcony. A guitar leaned unused against the wall.
“
I’m tight,
” she whispered, pulling off her dress, revealing sun-kissed skin and small firm breasts. “
So you’ll go slow.
”
She undressed me, kissed my chest, then dropped to her knees.
And what followed was one of the most artful, mutual, and intense 69 sessions I’d ever had.
She was immaculate down there… shaved, smooth, and incredibly tight, just as she’d said.
Her tongue worked my shaft with a dancer’s precision, every movement matched by the swirl of my own tongue between her legs.
She came first, her back arched, breath catching and her thighs trembling against my ears.
Then she slid on a condom and climbed atop me.
⸻
She rode me slowly, controlled, her eyes never leaving mine.
Her moans were melodic, punctuated with soft Spanish…
“
Sí… sí… así…
”
She came again, harder this time, her nails digging into my chest.
When I finally came, she collapsed onto me, giggling softly.
“
You taste like Asia,
” she whispered.
“You kiss like Spain.”
⸻
In the morning, she was already dressed, pouring coffee.
“
The crisis is coming,
” she said.
I raised an eyebrow.
“
My father’s construction firm isn’t paying workers on time. And my cousin just moved back in. Something’s breaking.
”
“You’re still smiling.”
“
Because I have today,
” she said. “
Tomorrow’s not promised.
”
⸻
I left her with a kiss on the neck, a copy of her novel in my bag, and the smell of salt on my skin.
Lucía was young, but she knew how to live inside the moment.
And that made all the difference.
⸻
[End of Chapter 129]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 130: Phoenix on the Tagus
https://freeimage.host/i/foynxse
(AI-generated image of Inês)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Lisbon, 2008.
The city folded in on itself like a well-loved book, with its cobbled alleys, peeling
azulejo
tiles, and trams screeching along yellow rails. It smelled of roasted chestnuts and Atlantic wind.
Portugal hadn’t fallen yet. But the tremors from Wall Street and Madrid were seeping into Lisbon’s stone and bone. Jobs were tightening. Bank loans were hesitating. But in the evenings, the
Fado
still played.
That’s when I met Inês.
⸻
She was twenty-four, in her fourth year of medical school, and looked like she’d stepped out of a dream crafted from soap and saltwater.
Dark red hair, thick and curly… she said it came from her father, a quiet man from Porto.
Her skin was pale but freckled from summer sun.
She had that girl-next-door softness, but when she spoke, it came with precision: not cold, but scalpel-sharp.
We met at a co-working café where I was wrapping up a presentation for a Portuguese fintech client. She was studying anatomy, half-distracted, biting the tip of her pen.
“You look stressed,” I offered. “
You look bored,
” she replied.
That was our beginning.
⸻
Over
vinho verde
and grilled sardines that evening, she told me she didn’t believe in burnout, only neglect.
“If you don’t feed your soul, your brain turns to soup.”
I asked her what fed her.
“
Sun. Sea. Good sex. The rest is negotiable.
” She was glancing at my physique.
⸻
Her apartment was near Alfama, three flights up, and no lift. A potted cactus guarded the door.
Inside: notes taped to the wall, stethoscope on the couch, worn textbooks on every surface.
She lit a candle, turned off the lights, and said, “
You’re not here to talk medicine, are you?
”
“No.”
She stepped out of her dress in one fluid motion.
No bra.
No hesitation.
Her breasts were round and natural, her body lightly toned, her hips curving into a tattoo, that of a phoenix, wrapped elegantly across her lower back and onto her right buttock.
She turned, letting me admire it.
“
My mother hated it,
” she said. “
But I got it the day I finally passed second-year pathology.
”
She pulled me in. Kissed me slowly.
⸻
We undressed each other, kissing down shoulders, across ribs, down thighs.
I laid her on the bed and slid my tongue between her legs.
She gasped. Then moaned, rolling her hips into me.
Her fingers threaded through my hair. She said my name like a question.
I licked her slowly, circling her clit, slipping a finger inside.
“
Like that,
” she whispered. “
That’s it…
”
She came with a low shiver, thighs trembling, body arching.
I kissed her tattoo next, following its curves, feeling the firebird under my lips.
⸻
She pulled me up, slid on protection, and guided me inside her.
She was wet, tight, and moved with deliberate rhythm… a woman who studied the human body and knew how to use hers.
She clenched when I thrust deeper. Her eyes fluttered.
I held her hips, matched her rhythm, kissed her until her moans turned into near-sobs.
When I came, it was with her nails in my back and her name on my tongue.
⸻
After, we lay tangled in sheets.
She traced lazy shapes on my chest and said, “
Do you think we’re headed for a crash?
”
I nodded. “Economically? Probably.”
“
And personally?
”
I thought for a moment. “Some crashes are necessary. Like molting.”
She smiled. “
Like a phoenix.
”
⸻
In the morning, I left before sunrise.
She texted me one line later that day:
“
Don’t forget me. I’m the one with fire on her skin.
”
I didn’t.
⸻
[End of Chapter 130]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 131: Stillness in Berlin
https://freeimage.host/i/fxRdVzN
(AI-generated image of Annalena)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Berlin, 2009.
Germany had been rattled, but not shattered.
While banks collapsed in the US and austerity swallowed southern Europe, Germany held its breath and kept building. Unemployment spiked, then steadied. Factories slowed, but didn’t shut. Berlin, ever the odd child of reunification, absorbed the turbulence in its own detached rhythm. In Kreuzberg, art still bloomed in graffiti-covered studios. In Mitte, pensioners still lined up for
Apfelstrudel
. And in basements beneath Friedrichshain, techno thumped like a second heartbeat.
I was in Berlin for a manufacturing audit, a dry, high-stakes one, and filled with procurement ledgers and compliance reports. But the evenings belonged to me. And to the city.
That’s when I met Annalena.
⸻
She was in her early thirties. Ash-blonde hair tied in a no-nonsense bun, glacier-blue eyes, and the faintest freckles on her sharp nose. She sat at a café along the Landwehr Canal, reading
Der Spiegel
with a pencil in one hand and a double espresso in the other, underlining like it mattered.
“
You’re not German
,” she said when I accidentally dropped my pen nearby, “
but you write neatly. That’s rare
.”
Her voice was precise, slightly German accented English honed by literature, not conversation. She wore a grey wool jacket, a navy turtleneck tucked into slim, dark jeans, and ankle boots that made her already long legs seem endless.
“
I translate patents,
” she said later. “
Chemical, mostly. Sometimes biotech. German to English. Occasionally Japanese to German.
”
“So you’re trilingual.”
She shrugged. “
Quadrilingual if you count silence.
”
⸻
We walked along the canal, passing cyclists and smokers, old couples and graffiti-streaked bridges. She explained
“
We hate chaos,
” she said. “
So we institutionalize flexibility.
”
She paused at a mural of the Berlin Wall. “
But some fractures can’t be designed away. East versus West. Immigrants versus old-stock Berliners. Art versus rent.
”
She looked at me. “
Where do you fall?
”
“Nowhere. I’m just passing through.”
She smirked. “
Good. That’s harder to judge.
”
⸻
Her flat in Prenzlauer Berg was cool and clinical, with white walls, high windows, and polished floorboards. A Kandinsky print framed with perfect symmetry. Her cat, Otto, regarded me with disapproval from a windowsill.
There was no music. No clutter. Just a bottle of Riesling on the table, two slender glasses, and her presence, which was tall, quiet, contained.
“
I don’t usually do this,
” she said, handing me a glass.
“I won’t ask why,” I said.
“
You shouldn’t.
”
She stepped back. Removed her sweater and jeans in one deliberate motion.
No underwear. Just smooth, pale skin on long thighs, taut belly, small breasts with pale nipples that stood from the cold.
“
I don’t like rush,
” she said, her voice lower now.
“I don’t do rush,” I whispered.
⸻
I kissed her collarbone, tracing the curve of her shoulder with my lips. She exhaled slowly, as though she were allowing the moment, not surrendering, not indulging, just permitting.
Her nipples stiffened under my tongue as I circled and gently sucked, one then the other, while she cupped the back of my neck, fingers tense.
She guided me to the black leather couch, clinical and bare. I placed my coat beneath her hips, kneeling between her long legs, spreading them gently.
She was already damp. Her scent was clean and faintly sweet, like cedar and skin.
I kissed down her abdomen, then flicked my tongue along her vaginal folds, slowly… watching her gasp, her hands gripping the couch.
Her legs trembled as I licked her clit in patient circles, then faster, pressing two fingers inside her, slow at first, then curling upward in rhythm with her moans.
Her orgasm came like a quiet tremor: a tensing, a release, and a hiss of breath through clenched teeth. No theatrics. Just truth.
⸻
She pulled me up and kissed me deeply with her tongue slow, her mouth cool but hungering. Then she whispered:
“
Wait.
”
She reached into the drawer beside the couch and handed me a condom.
I rolled it on, watching her eyes scan me, not with lust, but with precision, as though every movement was a test passed.
She climbed onto my lap and sank onto me in one slow, fluid motion, her long fingers pressed against my chest.
Tight. Smooth. Hot.
She moved with control, her hips shifting in rhythmic pulses, her breath soft and even. Her back arched slightly as she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to mine.
No words. Just the wet slap of skin, the friction, the deep connection of eye contact that refused to break.
She rode me until she shuddered again, long legs clenching, jaw slack, gasping a single syllable: “
Ja…
”
I lifted her, turned her over, and entered her from behind, one hand on her hip, the other reaching around to tease her clit.
Her moans were shorter now, sharper. Her body responded in waves, pressing back into me.
When I came, I growled into the back of her neck, gripping her shoulder as she arched beneath me.
⸻
Afterward, we lay tangled on the couch, skin cooling, sweat drying on our bodies.
She stared at the ceiling, her fingers playing idly with a strand of her own hair.
“
Berlin teaches you restraint,
” she said. “
Even in pleasure.
”
“I felt everything,” I murmured.
She turned. Kissed me once. Precise. Detached. Finished.
⸻
In the morning, she handed me a coffee in a white ceramic cup and a folded note, penned in sharp graphite strokes:
“
You don’t have to be loud to leave a mark.
”
– A.
⸻
[End of Chapter 131]
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