The woman standing in the center of the room was a goddamn anomaly.
Andre had spent the entire walk up the stairs mentally preparing to get scammed. He expected a "Derick Ten"—which usually meant a girl with three teeth missing and a drug habit, oversold by a friend who had a warped sense of humor.
But as the door settled, Andre's heart did a violent somersault. If she wasn't a perfect Ten, she was a 9.9, rounded up for the sheer audacity of existing in this hellhole.
She didn't have the blonde hair of his gooning fantasies, but her black hair was even better—slicked back and damp, as if she'd just stepped out of a steam room, framing a face that belonged on a billboard.
Her eyes were a piercing, predatory hazel, flecked with gold that seemed to glow in the dim light of the room. And her lips—they were full, dark, and painted with a subtle sheen that made them look like bruised fruit. They were the kind of lips that could ruin a man's life.
She had a thick, white towel wrapped around her body, but it was a losing battle. The fabric strained against the violentcurves of her hips and the heavy swell of her chest, hinting at a physique that was more "athletic goddess" than "street-walker."
"So, you must be Andre?" she purred.
The sound of his name coming from those lips hit him like a physical weight. He stood there, jaw slightly slack, his brain caught in a frantic loop: How does she know my name? And how the fuck is a girl like this living in a building that smells like a wet dog?
Answer her, you pathetic loser, his internal monologue screamed. Say something!
"Derick told me about you," she added, her smile widening into something that didn't quite reach those golden eyes.
"De-Derick?" he stammered, his voice cracking like a middle-schooler's.
For a split second, a flicker of judgment crossed her face—that familiar look of "Oh, I'm dealing with one of those." It was the look every girl gave him right before they walked away. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a mask of polished, professional warmth. She was an expert at this.
"Come on, dude, don't be shy," she said, leaning against a rickety dresser that looked like it might collapse under her gaze. "You're paying for this session, aren't you?"
Andre managed a clumsy nod, his pulse thundering in his ears.
"Look at me," she said, her voice dropping an octave, becoming a velvet command. "If I'm not ashamed of my job, why should you be ashamed of being here? Business is business, Andre. Now... are we going to stand here all night, or are you going to get your money's worth?"
Andre gulped, his throat feeling like he'd swallowed a handful of dry sand.
Then, she let the towel go. It glided, hitting the floor with a soft thud that sounded like a gavel in the silence of the room.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. My heart is going to burst through my ribs, Andre thought, his vision blurring at the edges.
He was staring at a naked woman. In high definition. In real life.
Her breasts weren't the gravity-defying balloons of his blonde fantasies; they were smaller, firmer, and infinitely more dangerous. Her nipples were a pale, dusty pink, peaked like hard pebbles against the cool air of the room.
Her body was a lethal hourglass, her skin glowing with a faint sheen of sweat that caught the flickering light.
"You've never actually seen one before, have you?" she asked, her voice dropping into a low, playful hum.
Andre's forehead was already dripping. "No... I mean, I have... I know what they look like..."
"I'm not talking about the pixels on your phone, Andre. I'm talking about the real thing." She stood there, unashamed, her hand grazing the dark silk of her bush. "Don't worry. You've finally found the real stuff. And I'm going to make sure you know exactly how it tastes."
She began to walk toward him. Every step was a deliberate strike against his sanity.
Don't fumble. Don't scream. Just breathe, he told himself, but his lungs weren't listening.
She reached him, her palm landing on his chest. Her skin was scorching. "No muscle here, huh?" she whispered, her eyes tracking the frantic beat of his heart. "Don't sweat it. I was never a muscle girl anyway. The only thing I care about is what's in your pants."
He felt a tiny spark of ego flare up through the terror. He wasn't small. If there was one thing six years of "training" had given him, it was that.
She reached down, her fingers curling around the outline of his cock through the fabric. Andre nearly winced as a bolt of pure, jagged electricity shot up his spine. It was too much. The sensation was so sharp it was almost painful.
"Relax, love," she murmured. She gave him a firm shove, and Andre fell back onto the bed.
The mattress groaned under him, smelling of stale laundry and old smoke. For a split second, a flash of clarity hit him.
How many guys have been on this bed? How many dicks has she seen today? This is wrong. I should get the fuck out of here.
But the thought was incinerated by the heat of her body as she straddled him. The logic was gone, replaced by a primal, screaming horniness that he couldn't fight.
She stripped his pants away with practiced ease, her eyes locked on his. She climbed over him, settling her weight on his thighs. She leaned down and winked, a predator playing with its food. "I promise to be gentle for your first time."
She lowered her head, her lips trailing fire across his neck, moving down toward his stomach. Then, she reached up and pinched his nipples, rolling them between her fingers.
Andre's head hit the pillow hard. He was gasping, his chest heaving as he fought for air that didn't seem to exist. He had never been touched like this. His brain was a mess of white noise and static.
The girl's hand wrapped around him, her grip firm and expertly calibrated. She began to move, a slow, rhythmic slide that made the room tilt. "This is going to be the best night of your life, Andre. Just breathe. Let Jessica take care of the rest."
She reached for a foil packet, the sharp crrk of the plastic sounding like a thunderclap in the silent room. She rolled the condom on with a clinical, practiced ease that should have been cold, but against Andre's hypersensitive skin, it felt like being branded.
"Fuck... it feels so good," Andre choked out. His eyes were rolled back, his fingers digging into the grimy sheets until his knuckles turned white.
Jessica leaned forward, the heat radiating off her body in waves, and began to rub him against the entrance of her warmth. The friction was a revelation.
It wasn't the friction of a hand he was used to, it was soft, wet, and incredibly real. It was a level of sensory input his "gooner" brain simply wasn't wired to process.
"Watch me," she whispered, her golden-hazel eyes locking onto his.
Then, she lowered her hips.
She slid down, taking him in inch by agonizingly perfect inch. The sensation was overwhelming—a tight, velvet pressure that seemed to hum through his entire skeleton. It felt like a data surge hitting an old computer; his internal fans were spinning at max speed, but the hardware was melting.
"Oh... oh god," Andre gasped. His heart wasn't just pounding anymore—it was vibrating. A sharp, stinging pain flared in his chest, right behind his sternum.
He had spent six years training for a marathon using nothing but a treadmill, and now he was being dropped onto a live volcano.
As Jessica began to move her hips in a slow, grinding circle, the world began to fracture. The flickering lightbulb above the bed turned into a blinding white sun. The sound of her heavy breathing became a roar of rushing water.
I'm doing it, was his last coherent thought. I'm finally—
And then.
The pleasure reached a jagged, white-hot peak, and Andre's heart gave one final, violent kick against his ribs. His vision snapped to black. The bed, the room, the smell of cheap perfume, and even Jessica herself vanished into a void.