The long-haired girl's skin bronzed under the hotel room's fluorescent light. I initiated a disconnected kiss to start foreplay.
I hit her lips fast, like driving the wrong way on a one-way street. A lack of pressure and saliva made it dry contact with my tongue behind my lips.
I gave up.
In my rush, I outlined her body shape at a rate of knots above the sheets, touching everything yet pausing nowhere.
I wore a light cotton shirt and thin pants. Her T-shirt and cut-off jeans covered parts of her.
My rampant sexuality looked to unload.
The lust part happened fast. I shucked my clothes at a breakneck pace. My muddled hands gestured and urged her to self-shed. I only slowed to release my money belt and toss it aside. I craved rapid action as I explored her naked body on the bed by touch, not sight. My body pressed into hers, and I fingered her.
She lacked wetness.
Yet I did not pause and strained my entry between her legs.
Straightforward, male-dominant, missionary position. She adjusted her body to my strident pelvic pushing.
She released an aah.
I initially inferred pleasure.
Her body flinched, and she winced.
My enjoyment stalled— we mixed as a dry and hard combination. Her body endeavoured to match my speedy tempo.
I judged — Tight, little miss.
My thrusting excited me. Her missing lubrication spoiled my party. At last, her moisture secreted and seeped. For a brief period, enjoyment stirred, though she resembled a doll with no movement underneath me.
My load loomed, and I withdrew.
She knows what to expect; cum over her face.
My jizz spread in jerky waves of self-pleasure across her cheeks. A smidgen of boy juice coursed over her parted lips — neither closed nor open. A dab dribbled and congealed on her lower lip. It slid to her chin. My last wave flew and stuck to her hair. A gluey glob lingered like a pearl earring on her right lobe; then, it swayed as a lank straggle like a moored glowworm.
Self-satisfied, I showered.
Under the cool water, I thought, What next? Rest and Recovery?
"Nah," I said to my reflection in the mirror as I vigorously lathered my hair.
The water sluiced further deliberations.
I dressed and re-entered the main space. I opened the minibar, grabbed a beer, and gulped it down. The girl waited on the bed, naked. Static, a body on call- twenty-four, seven. Or, in my case, twenty-four and six.
"Take a shower," I instructed between swigs, unconcerned by how well she might comprehend or use English.
I wasn't here to communicate with her soul.
I raised my hand and pointed in the general direction of the bathroom.
Her hair hung to her mid-back as she walked towards it. I crumpled into the hard corner vinyl chair as beer frothed and foamed atop the edge of the can.
My conscience found voice: Sweet Jesus, you banged her without even asking her name!
Yet, my ego scrutinised her body, heading to the bathroom.
She was not tall but had a cute butt. I liked her hair, long and straight.
I slurped the beer foam.
She showered.
While she bathed, I daydreamed —Six stunning days ahead.
No time limit; no limits in cavities to explore.
The beer refreshed me. The room fan, even rotating at the maximum speed, was futile in reducing the mugginess.
Certainty dominated me.
More heat would come as I screwed her.
The girl emerged from the bathroom with a standard white hotel towel wrapping her body. Her hair hung wet over her shoulders. I paid attention to her face.
Pretty, I concluded, especially her fine-boned cheeks.
I had requested long black hair, and the pimp obliged me.
I wondered, how many long, dark-haired girls did he choose from?
As for her age… Did I assume eighteen?
She had smallish breasts, as foreseen in the pimp's car. Her pussy on the bed prior surprised me! She presented shaved, only a few wisps of pubic hair above her hood.
The girl stood at the corner of the bed like a Porn maid, well minus a uniform, awaiting her next instruction, inexpressive.
The wrapping towel covered her bust and was tucked neatly parallel to her armpit. Her blank expression hid whatever thoughts she had about me and her present location deeper than the shadows cast in the corners of the room, like the narrow gap between the mini bar and the wall, where the debris collects — dust, pollen and cockroaches.
Her knees were paired whilst her hands hung loosely at her side. She forwent movement or speaking. Instead, she remained silent as I finished my beer. After several rapid gulps, I drained the can and tossed it in the trash bin.
I asked, "How old are you?"
Her wet hair dripped, yet she kept the towel in place.
She responded, "Nineteen."
I prompted, spreading my hands — for her name— and she intoned, "Patsaporn."
She flickered sideways the ends of her wettish hair to slow the dripping.
Puzzled, I repeated back, "Pat—Porn?"
The girl's face flushed, embarrassed, I think, at my weak effort.
She tried slower, "Patsaporn; you call me, Porn. It's the short name."
"Porn. I like porn. Porn it is."
I ignored exploring the meaning of her name or the girl inside the body.
Instead,I unwrapped the towel, exposing her youth. The cotton towel fell and clumped on the thinned bluish-grey nylon carpet.
I guided her effortlessly onto the queen-sized bed. Her nakedness was acquired quicker than a snap of fingers. I pushed her left thigh out. In automaton mode, she spread her right thigh to match. Two petals of genital flesh parted and greeted my tongue. I sought her rosebud. She unveiled petite moans as I licked, sucked and circled, indulging her clit. Her body signalled excitement in successive shudders.
She shouldn't be blessed with too much of this in one go.
Save something for later.
I stopped her enjoyment, like turning off a shower tap, as my stomach rumbled, and my mind suggested steak.
I told her to stay in the room and that I would return in thirty minutes.
She nodded her head; she understood me.
As I left the room, she sat, closed thighs, stationed naked at the base of the bed.
Downstairs, I selected the hotel restaurant. I ate passable steak offset by cheap beer. Tired, I yawned.
Close to re-entering the elevator, I realised my woman of the night likely hadn't eaten. The pimp's broad-brush fuzziness on detail meant I surmised Porn loomed as my accountability.
I found the nearest burger joint outside the hotel, grabbed a greasy option, and hustled to the room. The paper bag leaked into my hand as I opened the door. The young girl occupied the exact spot of thirty minutes ago, except for adding her panties and a T-shirt. She parked, near lifeless, on the edge of a bed.
I cocked my head and mentally belittled her.
What animates this type of girl beyond sex?
I chastened myself as I carefully passed the burger bag to her to avoid a grease leak on her T-shirt or underwear—a transfer to her slender hands, which held the bag meekly.
Involuntary, my mind cast out and drafted — Sunday school, and I thought, the beatitudes, blessed are the meek.
I side-stepped knotty pondering and observed how she ate.
She folded the bag and took small bites, holding the burger's sides in both hands.
I offered her a beer as I opened mine. She declined and drank water, her bottle in her small bag.
At a glance, her bag contained a spare T-shirt, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, her purse, deodorant, a pair of panties, and some loose tampons.
She won't need those this week; my chin jutted.
Her cut jean shorts, bra, and sandals were neatly piled on the low bench beside the bar fridge.
She finished the burger, folded the bag and went to wash her hands in the bathroom.
My energy lay sapped by a tropical train journey lasting twenty hours to reach Bangkok. I pictured myself as an endurance hunk who required rest.
A body-fest lay ahead of me. I reclined on the bed above the single sheet, and Porn lay next to me.
The ceiling fan swirled relentlessly, still useless at its fastest speed.
I fantasised, Pussy for breakfast. Snatch for lunch—Muff for dinner.
And dessert…?
I drifted to sleep.