Chapter 3: Something Wrong

A few nights later, I dragged myself to that client meeting in a dimly lit Wan Chai bar, the kind with sticky tables and karaoke screens blasting Canto-pop ballads about lost love. The air reeked of cheap whisky and cigarette haze filtering through red velvet curtains. My client, that sleazy property developer from Kowloon, grinned as two hostesses, one Thai with tattoos snaking up her thighs, the other a local girl in a too-tight cheongsam - flanked me on the cracked leather booth. Their lips brushed my neck, tongues flicking earlobes while manicured hands slipped under my belt, palming my dick through boxers. ‘Come on, handsome, relax lah,’ the Thai purred, squeezing my flaccid shaft. But nothing. Zilch. It stayed soft and shriveled, numb as a typhoon-soaked noodle. My mind raced back to Vanessa: her explosive handjob, that finger slipping into my ass, unlocking floods of cum I’d never known. Those hostesses’ touches felt wrong, mechanical, like wet market haggling. ‘Sorry, I’m married,’ I muttered, shoving their hands away, standing abruptly. ‘I need to go.’ The client laughed it off with a clink of beer glasses, but I bolted into the humid night, neon from Girls’ Street buzzing overhead.

I texted Van: On my way back. Her reply pinged instant: So early? Yeah, couldn’t stop thinking about you. Heart pounding like a drum circle at Temple Street night market, I MTR’d up to Admiralty, then cabbed to Mid-Levels, the Peak Tram cables humming in the distance.

Pushing open our apartment door, the scent of jasmine incense hit me. Van stood in the hallway like a vision from a Causeway Bay lingerie shop window. Sexy black lace teddy clinging to her gym-sculpted body, straps framing those perky tits, high-cut bottom riding up her firm ass cheeks. I’d never seen her like this. Not the prim doctor in scrubs, but a total bombshell, thighs toned from spin classes, skin flawless as fresh snow skin mooncakes. ‘Missed you too,’ she whispered, eyes smoldering, guiding me by the hand to our king bed, the city lights painting her curves in electric blues and golds through the blinds.

She pushed me onto the cool silk duvet, peeled off my clothes with deliberate tugs. Shirt, pants, briefs. Exposing my hairless groin, that smaller cock lolling limp against my smoother thighs. Dropping between my legs, she engulfed it in her hot mouth, lips stretching around the modest girth, sucking with vacuum pulls, tongue swirling the head. It stirred, twitching half-erect in the wet suction, veins pulsing faintly, but I craved a deeper fire. Embarrassment burned my cheeks. Begging her felt twisted to me, like admitting some hidden queer urge twisting my gut. ‘Please,’ I rasped, voice cracking, ‘Can you touch me ... down there?’ Her gaze flicked up, catching the flush of shame on my face, but no judgment. Just a tender kiss on my inner thigh, a reassuring smile. ‘Of course, baby. Turn around.’

I flipped onto my stomach, ass up, vulnerable as a peeled mango. Her hands kneaded my back first, thumbs digging into knots from desk slumps at the Mong Kok office, then lower, palms gliding over my waxed-smooth cheeks, spreading them wide. Fingers traced my perineum in slow circles, pressing that sensitive strip until I whimpered, cock hardening fully beneath me, untouched. She paused, there was a rustle of a drawer - then snapped on surgical gloves, the latex scent sharp like her hospital shifts. Cool lube drizzled my crack, her gloved finger circling my puckered hole before pushing in smooth, knuckle-deep. She crooked it, rubbing my prostate in firm, milking strokes. Pure bliss exploded in my groin, my prostate swelling under the pressure, cock throbbing rock-hard against the sheets, pre-cum soaking the fabric. No hands on my dick, just that internal rub, building pressure like a cascading waterfall. Then she reached under, fingers wrapping my shaft. One touch, and I erupted, cum spurting in heavy pulses onto the bed, body convulsing as she drained me dry, my asshole clenching around her digit.

Panting, spent, I rolled over on her command. Van straddled my face, peeling aside the teddy’s crotch, her shaved pussy hovering inches above—lips swollen, clit peeking like a pearl. She lowered, grinding slowly at first, smearing juices across my mouth and nose. I lapped eagerly, tongue plunging her hole, sucking her nub while she rocked harder, thighs clamping my head, moans echoing off the marble floors. ‘Yes, right there,’ she gasped in clipped Cantonese, hips bucking frantic. But after fifteen minutes of my fervent licks and sucks, she slowed, frustration etching her brow, pussy dripping but no release shattering through. She climbed off, collapsing beside me, breath ragged.