Seduction Unexpected: Sex Really Must Sell

Her drowsy voice would drift off at the end of a sentence, just enough to take his breath away and leave him straining to hear more.

Long, deep drag off her cigarette. Only much, much slower and she wouldn't look away. 

First, push (gently). Go ahead..

Easy, huh? 

(just let it roll, in the background as you read)

That’s supposed to be dirty.

I’m not supposed to want this.

But I do.

And I don’t care.

“Hey, she's messed up. Why are you even with her…is it because she’s nice to you?”

For a while, even that didn’t bother him. 

No.

After an unexpected heartbreak by one who finally admitted that she just wanted ‘a kid, car, and a house’…from that unexpected first heartbreak to the next one - the obsessive-compulsive pedigree he stumbled into on the rebound. He was done.

After that, who could give a fuck?

Well, Tiger Eyes did.

Who?

Tiger Eyes. That was what he called her. The way she tilted her head, the way she moved.

To feel needed…in bed. Needed by sex that comes across as hungry. Hungry for something. Hungry for what’s in you. 

Symmetry seen nowhere before, memory of her taste used to just make him pulse and salivate. Just about the only thing he got excited about. The only excitement when the numb of not caring is everywhere. Her turning and twisting. Intuitive movements, free of inhibition, somehow timed just right. 

And the ‘skinship’ as it’s called. The soft, warm flesh on flesh after the waves have come crashing down, only the slow up and down of breathing. Black, velvet sleep. They would both fall.

And it was always a pleasant surprise for whoever was awakened last. The bliss of being pulled out of the darkness through oral stimulation.

She’d said she had a kid. Shortly after their first night.

No big deal.

But kind of hard to believe.

Like anyone who has given birth ever had such clean symmetry down there.

Well. There was more truth to it than that. So he found out when she’d tried to OD on the bottle of prescripted what-ever-it-was. No spoonful of sugar. Just medicine. Seeing the bottle as half-full, it wasn’t so bad. Or was it? 

She didn’t wake up. Dead weight.

Water. Ice. Cold shower.

Fuck that half-empty bottle.

And the envelope full of cash.

What was going on?

After she’d had her stomach pumped…after he’d carried her to his car, driven to clinic to only then be told that she needed to go to the ER at the big hospital…only after she’d had her stomach pumped through a tube up her nose and down her throat, leaving her extra sore because the intern had grabbed the wrong one…only after her raging headache was gone and she’d been discharged…after it had been determined that she wasn’t a risk to herself…after all the shit, he still didn’t care. 

But the trust slipped away, just like that. 

Yeah, she’d lied about her kid. She didn’t have one. She had three.

Couldn’t keep her shit straight, so she hadn’t been given custody of her kids. Rare for here, so they say.

When she spread her legs, she was as flawless as her trim and neat triangle.

Since the trains were working when she got off work, she used to blow the money she’d made each night from the snack bar because it was a long taxi ride home. 

No, it didn't make any sense.

Except that she was desperate.

Guess that’s why she sold herself to the priest for a few grand a month. A big chuck up front, kind of like down payment. 

“A good deal” she said. “He’s older and diabetic, so he can’t even get it up.” And something about just keeping an old man company from time to time.

Yeah, that envelope full of cash.

She’d tried to sort of OD because of the predicament she’d gotten herself in.

“They’ll come after you if I don’t pay it back. He’s a priest. And the people I got the money from are dangerous.”

He thought, “If it really ever gets that bad, I can simply go away. Not that I’m worried about anything like she may be pretending to be.”

Near the end, she’d been working long hours. Once, her skin showed bruises...all over her back. No, not the kind from being beaten. More like meth-marks, only here, it’s called shabu. They’d fucked anyway.

But it wasn’t as good as before.
Never as good as the first few times. 

Even closer to the end, when it was obvious that he wasn’t about to play the part of her night in shining armor, she grabbed one of the knives in his kitchen.

What was going through his mind? 

At the time, he understood the best thing to do was to keep her engaged, keep talking, moving, and be prepared to use the pillow he’d just picked up if she was going to lunge at him. Just because the thing wasn’t that sharp didn’t mean it couldn’t cut. He may have grabbed a towel with his other hand.

Even people who don’t really want to do themselves in make the mistake of overdoing it sometimes.

She reached for a more suitable knife and threw the other one down.

Maybe she was bluffing.

He started talking and moved over to the sink to finish up the dishes. The pillow hadn’t been necessary after all.

Diffused. The situation had been diffused.

A few months before, she might have eaten a half a bottle of non-lethal so-called painkillers prescribed by the local medicine man, but she wasn’t about to slice into her wrist.

They fucked again that night.

And he really didn’t care. No. He really didn’t care, so he told her.

He told her, “This is too much of a hassle.”

Yeah, she had lots of problems.

He ended up giving her money.

And she went away.

Even though she said she’d paid back her loan, that payment for the man of a cloth...nobody gets out of debts like that, not without having to 'perform' for someone. And not just once. Especially when it involves someone losing face.

About a month later...

A month after the last time he saw her, he got a link in the mail from an anonymous whoever. The link went to a ‘full-service’ kind of set up. One of the pictures featured a familiar leopard-print. The description was simple. Everything was okay. And one of the charms or selling points translated something like:

インテリアがきれい