Room 214

He handed me a little bottle – some stuff called Rush – and told me to exhale hard, then snort it deep through each nostril. I did, pulling in so much I nearly blacked out. Then I felt him push in, no hesitation. It hurt, but I was too far gone to care.

I was floating somewhere else as he started moving. The sting faded, and every thrust got better. “Turn over,” he said. “From behind now.” I rolled, and he went back in – no pain this time, just steady, relentless rhythm. It was unreal: the movie up front, him working me from the back.

After what felt like forever, he pulled out again. “On your back.” I had to hit the bottle one more time first. He lifted my legs high, lined up, and waited till I finished sniffing before slamming in. My knees were by my ears – I could’ve almost reached myself. He went hard, finishing fast, unloading inside me.

He collapsed on me for a second, then sat up and grabbed me with his hand. Three or four strokes, and I was done, exploding. “Mouth open – swallow,” he ordered. I couldn’t resist – I took it all, gulping down more than I thought possible. When I was spent, he let me drop my legs.

“Go shower,” he said. I didn’t argue, scrubbing off the night in a long rinse. When I came back, he’d cracked two beers from the minibar. We chugged them in silence. “Good time, kid,” he said, tossing me a folded bill. “Here’s your tip. Now get out – I’m beat.”

I stumbled out, only checking the cash in the hall. A crisp hundred.

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