I’d been staring at the clock for twelve minutes. Not since I made the call—just since the last time I checked. The first call to the agency had been earlier in the week. A text came this afternoon to confirm the details. And then, about an hour ago, she called to say she was on her way.

It was the first time I’d heard her voice.

I was already sweating through my button-up. I’d showered twice—once before I left home, then again not long after I got to the hotel. It wasn’t the heat. It was me. The nerves. The waiting. I’d changed my clothes more times than I’d showered. This shirt was the last one I had. I was out of options.

The air in the room felt off—too cold in some corners, too warm in others—and no matter where I stood or sat, nothing felt right. I kept moving, trying to find a spot where my body didn’t feel borrowed. I told myself it was just in my head, but honestly, that didn’t help much. If anything, it made it worse.

I paced.

From the couch to the door. From the door to the window. Then back again. The room wasn’t big, but it felt like a loop I couldn’t get out of. A maze with mirrors instead of exits—each one showing me the same thing: a guy who didn’t look ready. A guy like me, waiting for a woman like her, in a place like this.

The agency’s website said her name was Londyn. Not her real name. It felt like the kind of name a girl named Emma might imagine for herself—chosen for a reason, a hidden meaning only she knew. Maybe London was her fantasy, the way she was mine.

Her profile stood out because it didn’t try to. While the others competed for attention, hers had the confidence to wait—to be discovered. She wasn’t trying to sell herself to anyone. It felt more like a quiet challenge: meet her expectations, or move on.

Londyn wasn’t advertising sex. She was offering proximity to it. The suggestion. The potential. A quiet permission to believe it might happen—naturally.

That came through in the fine print, too. No quick visits. No one-hour sessions. A four-hour minimum. Girlfriend experience only. First-timers always welcome.

Everything about it was calculated — designed to dissuade the wrong kind of interest. But it was perfect for someone like me.

Someone who’d never done anything like this. Not with an escort. Not with anyone.

A virgin.

I wasn’t even sure how to start.

I never thought I’d be the kind of guy with “what to say when booking a call girl” logged in his search history. I was even naïve enough to think she’d answer the phone herself—not the disinterested appointment setter who actually picked up.

That was a few days ago.

Now my phone was ringing. It was her.

Her voice was calm. Certain. Her experience showed. She knew where my head was and offered aftercare before anything had even started.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she said. “If you don’t have any wine, have a bottle sent to the room.”

She paused. Not long. Just enough to feel it.

“We’re going to have fun tonight. Don’t spiral.”

Too late.

I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror and tried a smile. It didn’t work—it landed somewhere between used car salesman and psycho killer.

I exhaled. Rubbed the back of my neck. Tried again.

Still no good.

I had to stop performing and just be myself.

But the room wasn’t helping. It felt staged. And the envelope on the coffee table looked like a movie prop—thick with cash I’d already counted three times. Folded into a plain white envelope like I was sealing a secret. Now it just sat there. Still. Heavy. Harmless on the surface—but buzzing with intent.

My phone lit up.

“I’m in the elevator. Room 403, right?”

“Yes,” I texted back. My thumb barely steady.

My pulse was a mess. I kept checking the time even though I already knew it. In just a few minutes, there’d be a knock at the door.

My mouth was dry. I swallowed, but it didn’t help.

Then came the knock.

I wiped my palms on my pants, took the kind of breath that’s supposed to settle you—and opened the door.

There she was.

The woman from the internet. Londyn. Standing in front of me, smiling—pleasant, easy. Like this wasn’t strange. Like this was just a normal night.

The photos prepared me for what I’d see. She was tall—beautiful in a way that made elegance feel effortless. From the heels she wore to the black dress she’d chosen—tight where it drew the eye, loose where it invited imagination—everything lived up to her profile.

But nothing prepared me for what it felt like to be in her presence. To feel her without touching her. To be the reason for her smile. To know that her eyes cut through every layer of performance and saw me for what I was—a man full of doubt, too nervous to speak or move—and accepted it all without judgment.

I expected beauty. I hoped for seduction. But I wasn’t ready for the empathy. Or the grace. Or the way on a first impression alone she made it feel okay to be exactly who I was.

Her eyes held mine with quiet patience, steadying me without a word. Just long enough for me to realize I was frozen.

She leaned in a little and offered a whispered instruction.

“You should probably invite me in.”

I didn’t answer. Not right away. My brain was still buffering. She waited—still smiling, like this kind of pause was normal. Like I was.

I finally stepped aside and motioned her in, trying to remember what to do with my hands. Everything felt too fast. Or too loud. Or too close.

She walked in like she belonged there. Like the room had been waiting for her. Her calm was a sharp contrast to how I was unraveling inside my own skin.

She sat on the couch, legs crossed, posture relaxed—already in control of the space in a way I couldn’t imagine myself ever being.

“Okay,” she said, looking at me reassuringly. “First of all—just breathe.”

She lifted her shoulders, exaggerated a deep inhale, then let it out slowly. Waiting for me to do the same.

I tried. It helped. A little.

She’d done this before. That much was clear. She was used to nervous guys.

First-timers always welcome echoed in my head.

“Good?” she asked, seeking confirmation.

I nodded, but didn’t trust myself to speak. Not yet.

“You must be Greg, right?”

I managed a smile this time. Small, but real.

“I promise you, you’re going to be okay,” she said.

Her tone was light—almost playful—but not mocking. There was something grounding in it. She placed a hand on my knee, and it helped. More than I expected. Just the weight of it. Just the fact that she meant it.

“I—I’m sorry, I’ve never—”

“I know.”

She said it like it wasn’t a confession. Like it wasn’t a problem. Just a fact she already understood.

“We’re just going to go over some rules, okay?” she said, her tone even but practiced. “You don’t have to say anything. Just listen.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“The first thing is: you’re paying me for my time. That’s it. Nothing is owed. Whatever happens, happens because we both want it. Understand?”

I nodded again, slower this time.

“Good. Second—no means no. It doesn’t mean ask again. It doesn’t mean pressure, or try to charm your way around it. No means no. It’s final.”

“Of course.”

She smiled at that.

“I figured you were a sweetheart,” she said. “But I still have to say it all. Part of the job.”

Then, with a look that was equal parts caution and warning:

“And if our date gets to a point where we’re both comfortable—if things get physical—you have to wear a condom. No exceptions. Don’t ask. Just know it’s the rule.”

“Understood,” I said.

She held my gaze a second longer—like she was measuring how seriously I took her words. Then she softened again.

“And the last thing is compensation.” Her eyes drifted to the envelope on the table. Sealed, but still the only thing in the room with nothing to hide.

I reached for it. My hand was shaking. She said nothing—just opened her bag and waited.

I dropped the envelope in. It felt like handing over a confession.

“I’m not going to count it in front of you,” she said. “But just so you know—there’s a guy from the agency downstairs in the bar. And he really hates it when someone thinks eighteen hundred or nineteen hundred is close enough to two thousand.”

“It’s all there,” I said, maybe too quickly.

That earned me another smile. This one lingered.

“I know,” she said. “You’ve got an honest face.”

It took everything I had not to look away.

“Okay,” she said, sitting up straighter. Her posture changed—like something had shifted. “That’s the business part. Now let’s get to know each other.”

I moved before I knew I’d made the decision—crossing to where I’d left the wine, just glad to have something to do with my hands.

“I already had it,” I said, reaching for the bottle. “Didn’t need to have it sent up.”

She smiled—soft and easy—like I’d passed a small, private test. Her eyes didn’t leave me.

“I like a man who thinks of everything.”

She lifted her glass toward mine. “Cheers.”

The sound of the clink barely registered over the thud of my own heartbeat. I took a sip. My hand still felt stiff, like it hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of me.

Londyn curled into the couch with the kind of ease that seemed natural, not rehearsed. She slipped off her heels and tucked her legs beneath her in a fluid motion—graceful, relaxed. She didn’t take control. She already had it.

“So,” she said lightly, “why don’t you tell me a little about yourself. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

She gave it space, not pressure. Then she tilted her head and added, almost teasing:

“You can even lie. I’ll never know,” she said, flashing a wink that made it hard to tell if she was serious.

I smiled—nervous, but willing. “Well, uh… I’m a student. Last year of college. Business Admin degree, just a few months away now.”

She nodded slowly, like she was genuinely listening.

“And what comes after college?”

“New York, hopefully,” I said. “That’s the plan.”

Her smile widened. “A cute, smart guy like you? You’re going to crush it in the big city.”

She said it like it was fact. Her voice made it easier to believe than I expected. She sipped her wine again, twirling a piece of hair, watching me in a way that didn’t feel practiced—it felt real. Present. She wasn’t trying to play a part. She just was.

“Is it okay if I ask about you?” I said.

She adjusted her position, as her smile turned knowing.

“If by that you mean, ‘how did a girl like me end up in a job like this’—then no.”

She said it with the same calm as everything else, nothing sharp in it. Just a line, clearly drawn. A boundary.

“But if you mean ‘Kendrick or Drake’—then yes.”

She took another sip, her eyes steady on mine.

I wasn’t trying to push. I think I was looking for… mentorship. Hoping she might unlock something in me—some secret—so I could be more like her.

“Were you always like this?” I asked. “So sure of yourself?”

Her expression didn’t shift right away. For a second, she looked somewhere past me. Then she blinked, brought her gaze back.

“Boundaries are how I stay sure,” she said. “How I don’t lose myself.”

“Does that ever… not work?” I asked, unsure what I meant until it was out.

She paused again, the quiet around her filling with more than silence.

“So far, so good,” she said, voice softer now. “But life has a way of humbling us when we least expect it.”

Londyn leaned back into the couch, her posture easy again, but I caught a glimpse of something—something revealed, maybe—but I wasn’t sure what.

“Kendrick,” she said, changing the topic. “Final answer. If you say Drake, the date ends here,” she added with mock warning.

I laughed—naturally, for once. No stutter, no effort. Just a reaction. A small release of pressure I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

I wasn’t completely relaxed, but Londyn’s steady control gave me space to be myself—without judgment.

Over the next hour, we found a rhythm—drifting between playful tangents and quiet stretches that didn’t need to be filled. It wasn’t small talk, but it wasn’t heavy either. It felt like something people who’d known each other longer might slip into. Familiar. Comfortable.

And even though I was new to all of it—the flirtation, the pacing, the unspoken cues—Londyn never made me feel behind. She pretended not to notice when my nerves showed, or allowed me to think it was part of my charm.

She moved through the conversation like someone who knew the steps but didn’t mind teaching them as we went.

I don’t remember what we were talking about when she leaned in.

“Do you want to kiss me?” she asked.

My mouth went dry. My heart kicked up again.

“Yes,” I said—quieter than I meant to.

“Then do it,” she whispered, her eyes already closing.

I moved toward her, cautious but drawn. I hadn’t kissed anyone since high school, but the moment our lips met, she let out a small, breathy sound—something halfway between surprise and approval. It anchored me.

She pulled back slowly. Eyes still shut. Then open. A smile forming.

“That was nice,” she said, setting her glass down.

She reached for mine too, her fingers brushing my hand as she guided it to the table.

Then she leaned in again—closer, warmer, her breath felt on my cheek.

She kissed me deeper this time, and when her lips paused near my ear, she whispered:

“It’s okay to touch me.”

Not a command. Not a test. Just space, opened up in front of me.

My hand moved to her hip. Then to her waist.

She placed hers on my chest—palm open, steady. A quiet signal. You’re here. I’m real. This is happening.

I let my hand drift, slow and uncertain, tracing the curve of her side. She kept kissing me—soft, sure—her tongue moving with a kind of confidence that made it easier to stop thinking and just feel. She already knew what I wanted, even if I hadn’t let myself want it yet.

Gently, she reached for my hand and guided it higher and pressed it to her breast.

She smiled into the kiss. Not smug—just assured.

“I told you we’d have fun tonight.”

Her hand slid down to my lap, brushing over the growing shape beneath my jeans. Then shifted to my thigh, inching closer with quiet certainty—close enough that my whole body went tight, every nerve bracing in anticipation.

My breath hitched.

“Is that okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I managed. Barely above a whisper. But enough.

A few seconds later, she started to pull away. I moved with her without meaning to—not ready to let go. Her hand landed on my shoulder. Just enough pressure to stop me. Reassuring. In control.

“I’m going to freshen up,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable on the bed for when I get back.”

I watched her walk toward the washroom. Her hips, her hair—every part of her moved like she knew I was still watching. Not for effect. Just so I wouldn’t forget.

The door clicked shut, and the air changed. I tried to center myself. Took a breath. Then another.

This was it.

I walked to the bed, unsteady—my body hadn’t caught up with what was happening. I sat too fast. Stood up again. Then sat back down, near the foot of the bed, and undid the top few buttons of my shirt—just enough to feel like I was doing something. Not enough to feel ready.

I didn’t know what the right thing was. Fully undressed? Still in my shoes? Under the covers? On top?

In the end, I just waited.

And then the door opened.

I froze.

Her dress was gone. What she wore now was all black silk and intention—matching bra and panties. She walked toward me like a model on a private runway. Not performing. Just aware. Of her body. Of mine. Of what this moment meant.

On the way over, she reached into her bag without breaking stride.

“You like?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“You’re… stunning.”

She stood in front of me. I looked up. She looked down—smiling, not teasing, just seeing me.

My hands found her hips. They moved on their own. Then again, sliding lower. Touching the curve of her ass. I held her like she was made of glass.

She tossed a condom onto the bed beside me. It landed with the softest sound, but it carried the loudest intention.

“Let’s get you out of those clothes,” she said, her hands finding my arms, guiding me to stand.

“You’re still good?” she asked, once I was up.

“Better than good,” I said—and it came out in a laugh. Nervous, but real.

She lit up a little, like she enjoyed hearing it. Like she was proud of how far I’d come.

She undid the rest of my buttons slowly, her eyes moving between mine and each one as she went. When she reached the last, she eased the shirt off my shoulders and let it fall behind me onto the bed.

Then her hands moved to my belt.

“If this is too fast, we can slow down,” she said.

“No,” I said—too quick, too loud.

Her mouth curved into a smirk. Not cruel. She liked how much I wanted this.

With my belt undone and my pants hanging open, she leaned in and kissed me again—soft, unhurried—then lowered herself in front of me.

On her knees now, she hooked her fingers around the waistband of both my pants and underwear, tugging them down in one clean motion. I stepped out awkwardly, and she steadied me with both hands, pulling off my socks before rising back to her full height.

She didn’t say anything yet. She didn’t have to.

Londyn looked at me—naked, still, exposed in a way I hadn’t fully prepared for. Her gaze wasn’t clinical or appraising. It was… deliberate. Calm. Almost reverent. She didn’t speak right away. Just let her eyes move across me, like she wanted me to feel the weight of her seeing me. Not judging. Just witnessing.

Her hand found my cock, fingers curling around my shaft, slow and warm and careful. She adjusted her grip with the kind of touch that knew how to listen, even without words. She was watching me, even then—checking for any tension, any pullback, any sign I wasn’t ready.

But I was. Or trying to be.

She started to stroke me—steady, even—and something about the rhythm, the pressure, made my breath stutter. Her grip tightened slightly. Just enough to make me gasp.

“You’re so sensitive,” she said softly, smiling up at me. “That’s good. I like that.”

My heart was thudding so hard it felt like she could hear it. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t need to.

“I’m going to put it in my mouth now,” she said. “Don’t pull away. Stay with it. Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.”

I barely nodded, but she didn’t wait. She knelt and closed her lips around me a second later—slow, warm, enveloping. I felt the heat of her mouth and the softness of her tongue all at once, and it hit me so hard my knees gave out. I fell back onto the bed, hands gripping the edge of the mattress like I needed something to anchor me.

She didn’t flinch. She just slid her hands to my knees and guided them apart, giving herself more room to work. Then she leaned back in—deeper this time, her mouth moving with real purpose now. No hesitation. No caution. Just skill and confidence and that same maddening, grounding calm.

Her hand wrapped around me, stroking in rhythm with her mouth. Every few seconds she’d lift her eyes, holding mine while she worked, and something about that ruined me in the best way.

“You’re doing so good for me,” she whispered, breath hot against me as she paused to stroke.

Then her mouth returned—and she took more. Her head moved in slow, deliberate rhythm, her tongue swirling, coaxing. Her grip tightened. Her strokes matched the rise in my breath. And then she started talking again, voice low and thick with satisfaction.

“Don’t hold back,” she said, pulling off just long enough to speak. “Let it out.”

Her hand kept moving. Firm now. Wet with her own spit. My thighs were shaking.

“Cum for me. Cum in my mouth.”

And I did.

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t graceful. My whole body bucked beneath her, and I let out something between a moan and a cry, like the release was tearing through me faster than I could keep up with. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Just stayed with me, mouth still wrapped around the head, hand milking the last of it from me with slow, careful strokes.

Even then, she didn’t stop right away. She slowed it down, let me ride the end of it, let me tremble through the last waves until I collapsed fully onto my back.

Only then did she lift her head.

Her mouth glistened. Her expression was soft. Proud.

She wiped the corner of her lip with her thumb, then kissed the inside of my thigh before sitting back.

“You taste good,” she said, as if she were commenting on wine. “Your first blowjob.”

I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

She climbed onto the bed beside me, moving slowly, not in a rush to change the energy between us. Just before she settled in, she reached for the condom, handed it to me with a look that didn’t need explaining.

“Put this on the nightstand,” she said softly. “For now.”

I took it, fingers trembling slightly, and leaned over to set it beside the lamp—upright, waiting, like a promise we hadn’t spoken yet.

She curled in beside me and, for a long moment, didn’t ask anything of me. No movement, no decisions. Just her hand over my chest, grounding me. Letting me catch my breath.

Letting it all sink in.

I slid onto the mattress, turning until we were face to face—close enough to feel the warmth between us without touching.

“You can hold me,” she said.

I wrapped my arms around her. Carefully. Like I didn’t want to startle the moment. Her hand found my hip, fingers brushing bare skin in a way that made me shiver, even though I wasn’t cold.

“I wish I knew what to say,” I told her. And I meant it. There was too much in me, all trying to come out at once.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered. Her voice was low but close. Steady. “I’m just glad you liked it.”

“‘Liked it,’” I said, laughing softly. “You make it sound like you just introduced me to a new flavor of ice cream.”

"Well, there was a fair bit of licking involved," she said, her smirk slow and deliberate.

I laughed again—this time without nerves. Just joy. She smiled like she’d been waiting to say that all night. Something in the ease between us shifted then—like we’d crossed an invisible line and neither of us minded.

“You’re better at this than you think, you know.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it. You were a wreck when I walked in,” she said, laughing lightly. “I was honestly worried about you.”

She wasn’t wrong to be worried. I was a mess.

“But look at you now,” she said, her grin softening into something fond. “Naked in bed, just got your dick sucked. You’re making it look easy. Like an hour ago I didn’t just watch you forget how to open a door.”

I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “It’s been a day.”

“One that isn’t even close to being over,” she said.

I held Londyn a little tighter, and she let herself sink into it. No tension. No resistance. Like she wanted to be there just as much as I did. She didn’t try to fill the silence with words. She just stayed close, giving me the space to catch up to myself.

Every now and then, she’d move—her hand resting lightly on my chest, her lips brushing my shoulder. Not to interrupt my thoughts, but to remind me I wasn’t alone in them. She was still there. With me. Part of this.

I don’t know how long we lay like that. I almost wished it could last all night. But something else lingered at the edge of the moment. Quiet, waiting.

“I think I’m ready,” I said, finally.

She looked at me for a long second.

“You sure? We have plenty of time.”

“I’m sure.”

My voice surprised me. It sounded steadier than I expected—like I actually meant it.

She didn’t answer right away. Just smiled—soft, warm. Like she’d known I’d get there. Then she shifted on the bed, slow and quiet, like everything else we’d done. Deliberate. Waiting for me.

She turned toward me, closing the space between us with the brush of her leg over mine. Her hand came to my face, thumb grazing my cheek before she leaned in. The kiss was soft but full. Unhurried. Her lips stayed with mine just long enough that I still felt them after she pulled away.

Her hands moved next—over my shoulders, down my arms, across my chest. Not grabbing. Not rushing. Just learning me. Like every place she touched deserved her full attention. Like I did.

She took my hand and placed it at her waist, holding it there with hers before letting go.

I kept it there—fingers pressing gently into her side—then let myself explore. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. My breath caught.

I let my hand drift behind her, following the line of her waist until I felt the shape of her ass beneath the silk—warm, soft, impossibly real.

She shifted just slightly into the contact, her breath deepening in a way that told me it mattered. That I was doing something right.

She kissed me again—deeper this time. Her body pressed into mine like she didn’t want space between us. One hand slid down my side, fingers trailing over my skin until she reached my cock. Then she paused there, her palm resting, kneading softly—slow, assured.

“You’re getting hard again,” she murmured, her tone low and satisfied—like it delighted her to feel it, to know what she’d done to me.

She reached behind her, unfastening her bra with a kind of ease that made the moment feel natural. Unforced. The straps slipped from her shoulders as she held my gaze.

“Take it off,” she said, her voice soft but certain.

I reached up, slow and careful, letting my fingers find the straps and draw them down her arms. She slipped out of it without hesitation, letting it fall behind her. And then she was there—bare, beautiful, her skin catching the soft light from the bedside lamp. She wasn’t posing. She wasn’t hiding. She just hovered above me, open and sure, like she didn’t need permission to be seen.

“Touch them,” she whispered. Her eyes stayed on mine, watching.

I did—tentatively, then with growing familiarity. I let my hands cup her breast, feeling the warmth, the softness, the weight. She leaned into my touch without a word.

Then she shifted again—lower—her body sliding down mine until I felt her breath at my neck, her lips brushing my collarbone.

“Use your mouth,” she whispered. “Lick my nipples.”

I kissed her breasts—soft at first, uncertain—then again, firmer. She sighed.

“Mmm… that feels nice,” she said—not as encouragement, not to guide me, just because it was true.

Her hand was stroking my cock now with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each motion felt like an invitation, not a demand. Like she was letting me know I was wanted—really wanted—and trusting I’d feel it.

Without warning, she shifted—sitting upright, leaning back on her hands as she parted her legs just slightly. Not wide. Not showy. Just enough to make the air between us change.

Her eyes locked on mine—steady, unblinking.

“Take my panties off,” she said. Low. Unapologetic.

I swallowed. Hard. My hands were trembling, but I moved anyway. I reached for the edges of the black silk, hooked my thumbs beneath the fabric, and began to ease them down. Slowly. Carefully. Like I was unwrapping something sacred.

She lifted her hips to help me—wordless, effortless. That same quiet grace she’d carried all night.

As the fabric slid past her thighs, I paused. Not because I meant to—but because I had to. My breath caught. My body went still.

I wasn’t prepared for how much it would hit me.

Just seeing her like that. Open. Composed. Beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal. And trusting me with all of it.

I let the panties fall to the floor and stayed there for a moment, hands hovering near her thighs, not sure if I should move. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I did. So much it felt like too much.

“Can you see how wet you make me?” she whispered.

There was no shame in it. Just pride. And a quiet kind of wonder.

“Touch me,” she said. Then, softer, like a teacher reminding a nervous student: “Lick your fingers first.”

I nodded again, eyes shut, my whole body reacting. My hand moved on instinct now—guided more by feel than thought. My inexperience showed. I didn’t hold the moment. Just reached for her center—like I was afraid it might disappear if I waited. She was soaked. My fingers slid between the softness of her folds, and when I pressed into her, her hips lifted in response—an unspoken invitation, immediate and electric.

She let me explore. Let me feel how ready she was. Her body pulsed around my touch, and her breath turned into a low, needy sound that made my skin tighten with want. I felt her thighs flex, her rhythm meeting mine, her whole body answering each movement like it had been craving this just as much.

Her fingers curled around my shoulder, holding me steady. Keeping me there. Not taking control—just making sure I didn’t drift away.

Her eyes opened slowly, locking onto mine, dark with hunger and something tender underneath.

“You feel that?” she whispered. “That’s what you do to me.”

Then, after a beat—voice lower, rougher. “I need you inside me, Greg.” Her eyes drifted to the nightstand.

As I reached for the condom—my hand trembling just slightly—she leaned in and took me into her mouth again. Just for a few seconds. No more. It wasn’t teasing. It felt like a check-in. A signal. Like she was asking: Are you still here? Still with me?

I was. God, I was. Every nerve in my body felt awake. Waiting.

She took the condom from my hand without a word, her fingers grazing mine in a way that made it feel like more than just a handoff. That small touch settled me. So did her voice.

“Lie back,” she said—calm and clear. Like it was nothing new for her. Like she’d said it before, but meant it differently now.

I did. I watched her sit back on her heels, tear the wrapper open with quiet precision. No performance. No hesitation. Just steady hands and full attention. She didn’t look away, not even as she slid it down—her grip gentle but sure.

She took her time. Watched my face. Made sure I was still breathing. Still there. I was. More alive than ever.

When she finished, she moved closer, straddling me slowly—like she was easing into a place she already belonged. Her knees hugged either side of my hips. Her palms rested lightly on my chest.

Londyn looked down at me with something that wasn’t about approval or control—it was curiosity. Tender and focused. Like she wanted to see me. Not just what I looked like, but who I was, right now, before she allowed me to become something different.

“You okay?” she asked.

I nodded. I couldn’t trust my voice.

She leaned down, kissed me—soft, lingering—and whispered, “Stay with me.”

Then her hips shifted. Just enough for her to reach between us, her hand finding my cock—steady, careful—as she guided it into place. I swallowed hard as she began to lower herself.

Slowly. Intentionally. Like she understood how much it mattered—that this wasn’t something to hurry through.

I felt her warmth first, then the slow, breathtaking draw of her body taking me in. My breath caught. Every muscle stilled. Even my heartbeat seemed to pause, like it didn’t want to miss a second of it.

Londyn let it happen, inch by inch, her body opening around me with steady control. And when she finally settled into me, her breath caught too—just for a moment.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?” she whispered, her eyes steady on mine.

I nodded. My breath was already uneven.

Her hips began to move, slow and controlled, like she was easing both of us into something unspoken but deeply understood. Her palms stayed pressed to my chest, holding me there—not to restrain, but to anchor.

Each motion was deliberate. Responsive. Like she was listening not just to my breath, but to the parts of me I didn’t know how to express.

“Relax,” she said. “Feel me. Enjoy it.”

She leaned forward again, her chest brushing mine, and with the next motion of her hips, she pulled me deeper into her. I gasped. It came out too loud, too raw, but she didn’t flinch. She just nodded softly, like she’d expected it, like it was the exact sound she wanted to hear.

Her hands moved for balance, but didn’t stop touching me. Her gaze never left mine. It was the strangest thing—being held so open by someone’s eyes.

“I can’t believe how good your pussy feels,” I whispered, almost shy about the words, unsure if I was allowed to say them—even though every part of me meant it.

“Mmm,” she quivered back, her voice lower now, husky and full. “So does your cock.”

I was suddenly more grateful for the blowjob she’d given me. It was a lifeline. One that allowed me to savor this moment. Without it, her words alone would’ve completely undone me, robbing me of everything else that was about to follow.

Londyn moved with intention—slow, rhythmic, deliberate. Each motion sent something sharp and full through my chest, up my spine, into parts of me I didn’t know existed.

I let my hands find her hips. My grip tightened without meaning to, but she didn’t protest. Didn’t pull away. If anything, she pressed into it.

“Just like that,” she said. “Hold me. Use your hands.”

Her rhythm settled into something deeper—steadier. She leaned in until her body pressed fully against mine, her breath warm against my neck.

And then, in the stillness between us, she said it.

“You’re fucking me Greg.”

The words lit something inside me—something that had been trying to name itself since the moment we touched. I didn’t realize how hard I was breathing until she kissed the corner of my mouth and added,

“Don’t hold back.”

I didn’t.

My hips rose to meet hers. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t precise. It just happened—our rhythm finding itself, like it had been waiting for us all along.

She moaned into my neck—not loud, but real. Like it was meant just for me. Her fingers threaded through my hair, her body tightening around mine with every motion, drawing me deeper into her.

I held her. Matched her. Followed what she gave. And I listened—not with my ears, but with everything I had.

“That’s it,” she said, breathless now. “That’s it. You’re doing so fucking good.”

And for the first time all night, I let myself fully believe her. Let it in. Let it settle somewhere deep.

Her body moved with mine—every thrust more connected, more necessary. The pressure wasn’t just in my hips now, but in my chest, my throat, building fast. Not just arousal. Gravity. Need.

And I could feel it in her too—the way she tightened around me with each motion, the way her breath quickened like she was trying to hold something in and failing.

Words faded. What remained was the sound of our bodies—raw, unguarded, alive.
Breath and skin. Movement and heat. Something guttural, born from the sensation of being so completely inside her, I couldn’t tell where I ended and she began.

And even though I knew I wouldn’t last much longer, I didn’t panic.

Because she was with me.

And I was exactly where I needed to be.

Her forehead rested against mine, breath brushing my lips. Her eyes stayed closed. Her mouth stayed open. Not speaking. But close. I could feel everything—her breath, her heartbeat, the soft tremor rising just beneath her skin.

“Greg…” she whispered. Just my name. But the way she said it—the way her voice thinned around it, stretched between a gasp and something deeper—told me everything I needed to know.

She felt it. Just as real for her as it was for me. The line between work and want had started to blur.

Then she started to tremble.

It started in her legs—a quiet shiver in her thighs, the way her grip on my shoulders tightened without warning. Then her hips rolled forward again, slower now, like her body had shifted from rhythm to instinct.

And then I felt it.

Everything inside her drew tight—gripping me, surrounding me, pulling me deeper like her body wasn’t ready to let me go. She let out a sharp, broken breath that wasn’t quite a moan, wasn’t a word—just a sound caught in the raw edge between pleasure and disbelief.

“Greg…” she gasped, her voice thin and urgent, like it was catching up to what she felt. Her forehead touched mine. “You’re making me come.”

The way she said it—like she couldn’t believe it herself—sent a surge through my chest.

She came.

Not loud. Not wild. Just total. Her whole body trembling through it—shaking against me, hands fisting at my back as she held on like I was the only solid thing in the world.

That’s what undid me.

My hands gripped whatever I could—her waist, her back, the slope of her ribs—as if I could keep the moment from breaking. I didn’t move with rhythm anymore. I just moved with need, thrust after shuddering thrust.

I came hard, buried deep, every pulse spilling into the condom as she held me there — steady, close, like she didn’t want to let go.

We didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stayed there—still joined, still inside each other—barely breathing. Her body draped over mine, mine curled into hers, still unsure where one ended and the other began.

The air around us felt heavy. Not just with sweat and heat, but with something deeper. Something previously unknown.

Londyn eased down beside me, her body warm where it met mine, her breath still uneven. She was the first to speak.

“That was…”

She stopped herself. The rest of the sentence caught somewhere behind her teeth, like she’d almost forgotten who I was—then remembered.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. Swallowed. Tried to find a voice that didn’t sound cracked open.

“Better… better than okay.”

She smiled into my skin—the curve of her lips warm and soft where they pressed against my chest.

“Good,” she murmured, and there was something amazed in her tone. “Because that was fucking beautiful.”

I let out a long breath. It felt like more than just relief. It felt like something uncoiling inside me—some combination of disbelief and quiet joy, like I hadn’t known how tightly I’d been holding onto everything until it all let go.

“Greg,” she said quietly. There was a small catch in her voice, like something unscripted had slipped out. “What just happened… that doesn’t happen. Not like that.”

I turned my head toward her, still trying to slow my breathing. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated. For the first time all night, she looked almost shy. Her voice softened. “What you just did to me… when I’m with a client, that doesn’t happen. Almost never.”

“You mean—?”

She nodded, then looked away for a second before finding my eyes again. “Definitely not with a virgin.”

The words hung in the space between us, and I didn’t know what to do with them. My mind was still trying to make sense of what she was really saying. What it meant that she had said it at all.

“I just wanted you to know… the connection. That was real,” she said, her voice a little steadier now. “This was special for me too.”

She paused—not for effect, but because something genuine was settling between us.

“I won’t forget it,” she added. “I won’t forget you.”

As the words left her mouth, I caught a glimpse of something—quick, but telling. In her eyes, a flicker. An epiphany, maybe. Or something close to it.

At the time, I didn’t know what it meant. I thought maybe she was just tired. Drifting down from the moment. But later, I’d understand—that was when it happened. When she realized she’d let something get away from her. That she’d crossed a line she thought she never would. And it scared her.

“I should go,” she said abruptly.

Something had changed. I could feel it—not just in her tone, but in the way she started to gather herself. A flicker of panic, maybe not full-blown, but growing behind her eyes.

I turned slightly toward her, my hand still on her back.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Londyn had been steady all night. Composed. Controlled. But now something in her was shifting—coming apart by degrees. And for the first time, I was the one asking.

She pulled back and sat upright at the edge of the bed. Her back was to me. Her hands moved automatically—reaching for her bra, finding the clasp. She fumbled. Once. Then again. Hurried. Rattled.

“Londyn?” I said, sitting up behind her.

She didn’t turn around.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” she replied, fast. Like the words were trying to outrun something.

“What do you mean?” My voice sounded smaller than I expected.

Her dress came next. Still facing away. Still not meeting my eyes.

“That thing I said,” she began. “About how this was special for me too, how I won’t forget you. I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

Something in her voice was unraveling, her movements became uneasy.

I was starting to understand what was happening. Not all at once. But enough.

She turned toward me—just slightly. Enough for me to see her face in profile. Her mouth was calm. Her eyes weren’t. Something behind them raced—uncertainty, maybe even fear.

“This is my job, Greg. I’ve been doing it long enough to know what the boundaries are. And this is the biggest one.”

“What?” I asked, knowing I’d regret the answer.

She looked at me then, and it was the most human I’d ever seen her.

“No connections.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the strap of her bag. She stood, adjusted it once, and glanced around the room like she was trying to erase herself from it.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she added quickly. “It was me. I let myself feel.”

I sat up straighter, the words coming out before I could second-guess them.

“You don’t have to go,” I said. “Not yet.”

She froze—not dramatically, just a pause in motion, her back still to me. I wasn’t sure if she was listening until I saw her hand ease off the zipper of her bag.

“We can just… sit,” I offered, quieter now. “Or lie down. No expectations. I don’t want anything from you, I just…” I exhaled. “You don’t have to be alone with this. Not tonight.”

For a second, I thought she might stay.

But then she shook her head—barely, just enough to stir her hair.

“If I stay, it gets harder,” she said.

And I hated that I understood.

I didn’t want to make it worse by trying to make it easier.

She was already at the door, one hand on the knob, when she paused. Didn’t turn. Just spoke into the space between us.

“You got through,” she said quietly. “You were the one to humble me.”

“Please… just stay,” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“No connections,” she said—not to me, but to herself. A reminder. A line redrawn.

She opened the door. Started to step through. Then stopped. Turned back.

“Greg?” she said, quiet now.

“My name is Beth.”

A parting gift. A final moment of truth.

She’d given me her real name.

Beth. Elizabeth. Like the Queen. London.

And then she was gone.

She left because she got lost in the moment and crossed one of her boundaries — and now, quietly, she’d chosen to break another.

Not as a souvenir. Not out of guilt.

But because she accepted a truth: our time together meant something.

She knew I wouldn’t forget her.

And Beth wanted me to remember who she really was.

I sat there a while longer. Listening to the silence she left behind.

I didn’t try to chase it away.

I just let it sit with me.

Because for the first time all night… it didn’t feel empty.

It felt like her.