Don't Call Me Good Girl

The coat check took the jacket and didn’t ask why the dress had nothing under it. Maren kept the claim ticket crushed in her fist and went down.

Leather oil on the landing. Other people’s sweat. Citrus cleaner losing to the wet heat coming off skin. Bass lived in the concrete and found the bones in her feet. She had not come to watch.

Matte black. Three scenes already running. She bought whiskey she wouldn’t finish and put her spine to a pillar. The fabric was thin enough that a wrong sit would tell the room she was bare. She had checked in the taxi. Then she’d checked again, thumb on the inside of her own thigh, pulse jumping like she was already late.

He was at the bench.

Sleeves rolled. Ink gone soft on his forearms from years under this light. Hair pushed back with a wet hand. A woman folded over vinyl, his palm parked on the small of her back like a weight, not a kindness. When he spoke, Maren only got the shape of the words. The woman made a sound that didn’t need English.

Maren watched the hold. The wait. The second press, thumb digging until the woman’s knees dipped. That was the part that took her off the pillar.

She set the glass down and stepped over the taped line.

He finished with the other woman first. Nape. A short thank-you that sounded like work. Then he looked at Maren and did not smile.

“You’re over the line.”

English, clipped, Tokyo sitting under it.

“I know.”

“Then step back.”

She didn’t. His gaze dropped the slit, stayed on the bare inside of her thigh, and came up dark. Something moved behind his face that wasn’t annoyance.

“I don’t put my cock in someone who can’t stay behind tape.”

“I’m not here for tape. I watched your hand. I want it on me. I want the rest of you after that. Not a show. Not gentle unless I ask.”

He closed the space until she had to tip her chin. Clean sweat. Same oil as the room. Silver ring in one ear. A scar through the left eyebrow that hadn’t been designed for anyone.

He could smell her from here. He could see the pulse in her throat. The usual no was already losing.

“Name.”

“Maren.”

“Koji. Limits. Now. I don’t guess.”

“No blood. No pictures of my face. Don’t call me good girl. Don’t stop because my eyes get wet. Hurt me if I push into it. Use my mouth. Use my ass when I’ve earned it. Talk to me like I’m here to be used, because I am. I want to sit on the train tomorrow and feel where you were.”

“Safeword.”

“Red. Yellow if I need air. I won’t use them to be interesting.”

The monitor flicked two fingers: his floor. Koji’s mouth changed. Interested. Not nice.

“Hands on the bench. Ass out. You don’t talk unless I ask or you need a word. You push back on my hand, I take it as more. Clear.”

“Clear.”

Vinyl still warm from the last body. The slit fell open up the back of her thigh. He stood behind her long enough that the look felt like heat with weight. Then his palm landed on the crease where ass met thigh and stayed, heavy, thumb not moving yet.

He felt the give of her. Felt himself get hard in his jeans with an impatience he usually billed as professionalism.

“You crossed on purpose.”

“Yes.”

“First time in this building.”

“Yes.”

His thumb dragged inward, found her bare, and stopped. A sound in his throat he didn’t mean to make. She was already slick. He split her with two fingers and they sank to the knuckle with no courtesy stroke. She dropped her forehead to the vinyl and opened her mouth. The stretch was a bright, dirty relief. She’d been wet since the taxi. Now it had somewhere to go.

He hooked forward and rubbed the spot that made her hips jerk, short, mean, his other hand pinning her lower back flat so she couldn’t chase it.

“So I know the noise you make when you start lying that you’re fine. You don’t come on my hand. You came here to get fucked.”

Third finger. Stretch that burned sweet. Her thighs tried to close around the feeling. He put a boot between them and kept her open. Then he pulled his fingers out and spanked her cunt, open-handed, three times, the wet smack louder than the bass. She jerked. Slick jumped on his wrist. The sting lit up everything he’d just been inside. He did it again because she shoved back onto the empty air, greedy, offering.

Heat crawled up his arm. He wanted his mouth there. He wanted to be mean about how ready she was.

He yanked the neck of the dress down so one breast spilled into his palm. He pinched the nipple until it hurt and kept the pinch while he shoved the three fingers back in. The dual shock made her flutter around him. She could feel herself dripping past his knuckles onto vinyl.

“You walked over tape with nothing on under this. Say what you wanted.”

“Your cock.”

“Louder.”

“Your cock in me. In front of them.”

Wet sounds under the bass. Someone at the bar laughed, and it might as well have been another country. Maren’s face burned. The burn fed the ache. She wanted them to hear. She wanted him to know she wanted them to hear.

He fucked her with his fingers until her legs shook and she was shoving back onto him, coating his wrist. Then he pulled out and wiped that hand along the inside of her thigh, a shining stripe she felt when the air hit it. Two fingers pushed between her lips.

“Clean it.”

She did. Salt. Her. The faint ghost of him. He watched her tongue. In his head the sentence was simple and ugly: she tastes like she meant it.

Belt. Foil. The head of his cock—hot, blunt, thicker than his fingers—notched against her and he gave her none of the inch people offered to be kind. He pushed in in one slow drive that shoved the air out of her. Full. The stretch sat right on the edge because she was bent and he was using the angle like he’d measured it on other bodies and was now fitting it to hers. He hauled her hips back until her ass met his pelvis and he was seated, balls against her, and he stayed there.

She felt every ridge of him. Felt her own pulse around the thickness. Her mouth opened on nothing.

He felt how tight she was, how she clenched like she was trying to keep him. It almost made him rude about it. He breathed once through his nose and did not move.

“That’s what you asked for. Feel the shape of it. This cunt is going to remember my cock when you’re on the last train. Stay open.”

She did. He started moving like the pace had been decided without her. Deep. Steady. The bench complaining. On the fourth thrust his breath went ragged, and that was what made her greedy—she shoved back, and he swore in Japanese and took a fistful of the dress and tore the slit to her waist so he could see himself disappearing into her.

The sight did something unprofessional to him. Wet, stretched, taking him in front of a room that would forget her name by last call.

“Look at you taking it where anyone can see.” His hand found her clit, two fingers circling too hard, matching the slap of his hips. “You don’t come quiet. I want them to hear if this is what you meant.”

She came with her mouth open on the vinyl, a raw punched sound, cunt clamping down so tight he hissed and kept fucking her through it, dragging the orgasm until her knees tried to go. The room tilted. She could feel herself going sloppy against him, humiliating and perfect. He planted a hand beside her head, drove in to the root three times, and came with his forehead on her back and a curse she felt in his chest before she heard it.

The pulse of him, even through latex, made her flutter again. She wanted it without the barrier. She did not say that. Not yet.

He stayed inside her while he softened a fraction, thumb stroking her hip as if his body had gotten ahead of the rules. He rolled his hips once more, lazy, just to feel her twitch. Then out. Condom tied. A string of her followed and hit the inside of her thigh. Sink water. Two fingers back in her, checking how used she was, and she flinched and pushed onto them anyway. He smeared what came out over her clit and left it shining.

“Sore.”

“Not enough.”

That answer landed in him like a second hard-on. He almost smiled. He didn’t.

“Turn around. Sit. Dress off. Mouth open.”

She sat on wet vinyl. He stood between her knees, cock still flushed, condom gone, and put his thumb on her lower lip. She opened. He fed her his cock. Latex ghost and skin and the taste of the rubber he’d just worn inside her. She took him until her eyes watered and spit ran down her chin onto her bare breast. His hand in her hair held her there. When she gagged, he stayed in her throat and counted three breaths against her nose, then gave her a half inch of air and took it back. He got hard again on her tongue like that was just a fact of his body.

The tightness of her throat made his thighs tense. He liked the tears. He liked that she didn’t tap out for them.

“Look at the bar. Not me. Let them see what you came downstairs to do.”

She did. A man watching. Koji fucked her mouth in short strokes timed to the bass, spit stringing off her lip, and did not give her the courtesy of pretending this was private. Shame and heat braided so tight she couldn’t tell them apart. When he pulled out, a thread of spit connected them. He wiped it on her nipple.

He dragged his thumb across her mouth.

“Lie back. I didn’t get to look at what I just used.”

She lay back in front of the room. He put her knees where he wanted them and looked at her cunt—swollen, shiny, still twitching. Then his mouth. Flat tongue up the mess he’d made, then he sucked her clit in a rhythm that had no interest in mercy. She grabbed his hair. He pinned her wrists to the vinyl without lifting his mouth and kept going until she said yellow, actual yellow, coming a second time with her heels on his back.

The second one wrecked her. Too much, too public, too good. He slowed. Licked her through the last tremor. Kissed the inside of her thigh once. First kiss. Not on her mouth.

Water bottle. Cap off. Against her lips until she drank.

He wanted, stupidly, to take her home. He put the want away.

“You don’t come home with me. House rule I keep. You want the rest, tomorrow, ask for Koji at the door. Back room. Bed. Lights. I don’t share back there, and I don’t perform. If you show, I will assume you want my cock again, and I will use you.”

“If I don’t show.”

“Then you got fucked on a bench in front of strangers, and I go home knowing how you taste when you stop talking.” No number. No mouth-kiss. “Either is fine. I won’t look for you in the city.”

That last sentence was a lie he intended to keep. He could already feel it slipping.

She stood with the dress clinging to the wet on her thighs and the claim ticket damp in her fist. At the stairs, he was already rinsing his hands, sleeves still rolled.

Wet Tokyo. Coat still in check.

Tomorrow was a decision she had already made.