The Real Thing

Jia sits at the pool bar, staring at a phone that has stopped being interesting hours ago. Her mother is two loungers over, buried in a book, a drink sweating in the heat. Jia’s bikini is pale pink, but the rest of her is not. For weeks her browser history has been nothing but black cocks stretching pale skin, and now one of those cocks is real. He’s across the courtyard, shirt off, the kind of build that fills a doorway. Jason. She knows the name already. They have brushed past each other in the lobby twice. Each time the air thickened. Tonight her mother will be asleep early from wine and sun. Jia is counting on it. She walks past him on the way to the elevator, letting her shoulder graze his arm. The contact is brief, but the message lands. Later, when the hallway is empty, he follows her inside. The door barely clicks shut before her knees hit the carpet. His shorts drop and she gets what she has been staring at on screens. Thick, dark, already heavy. She takes him in both hands, tongue tracing the ridge, spit running down her chin. He lets her work until she is choking, then pulls her up, turns her, and bends her over the desk. The mirror shows her small tits swinging while he drives in from behind, one hand gripping the red bush between her legs, the other clamped over her mouth to keep the noise down. She comes hard, legs shaking, every thrust pushing a new sound out of her throat. When he finishes she stays bent, panting, the room smelling like sex and sunscreen. Down the hall her mother is still asleep. Jia smiles at her reflection. Finally something worth staying for.