Chapter Text
The hotel is far nicer than Mira had anticipated.
She had emailed the client a list of options in the area. Accommodating for a range of budgets, but all clean, well-reviewed and discreet. This place happened to be the most expensive alternative, one that she's never worked at before; Mira is used to far seedier places, so she takes a moment to appreciate the marble floors, fancy light fixtures, and modern furniture—no sad-looking rubber plants or neon in sight.
The aesthetics are nice, but in the end, it doesn’t matter—it won’t change what’s going to happen once she gets to the room. A high thread count means almost nothing when your only intent is to dirty the sheets.
“We’ve got you in one of our standard king suites this evening,” the receptionist tells her. She’s quite cute: dark hair in two buns, a smattering of freckles over her nose and big brown eyes that probably earn her plenty of tips. Her nametag indicates that she speaks English and Spanish as well as Korean. “Looks like the room has already been paid for in full, so you’re all set. And your travel partner has already arrived.”
Travel partner. How diplomatic. Mira watches as the receptionist pens the room number on a small paper sleeve. “Did you see them when they checked in?”
Zoey—per the nametag—tilts her head at her slightly; Mira concedes it’s an odd question. “I didn’t, sorry, my shift only just started. I can tell you that they got here about forty minutes ago, though.”
She tucks the keycard into the sleeve and slides it across the counter, room number face-down, along with a pamphlet with information about the hotel amenities. “Our restaurant is to your left, just through the foyer. Breakfast service starts at six, room service ends at midnight. Is there anything else I can get you?”
Your phone number, Mira would say, were she in a different mood and not on the clock. Instead she pushes the pamphlet back across the counter—no use wasting it—and takes just the keycard with a smile. “I’m good. Thank you.”
“No problem. Elevators are off to the right.”
Zoey pauses, searching Mira’s face for a moment, then sweeps her eyes down the length of her body. Mira’s wearing a dark coat and black leather boots, the strap of her overnight bag slung over one shoulder. Inconspicuous by her standards, but she gets the feeling that Zoey has clocked her anyway. “Enjoy your evening.”
“You too.”
She’s started moving towards the elevators when Zoey speaks again. “Um, I just—”
Mira turns. Waits. Expectant.
Zoey frowns a little, lips pursed as she chooses her words. “You can dial zero on the room phone if you need anything. My shift ends at four AM, so I’ll be here. If you run into any problems.”
To anyone else, it would come across as nothing more than good customer service, but Mira can read between the lines. She offers Zoey a reassuring smile. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” Zoey says. “Have a good night.”
Mira checks her reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator on her way up to the third floor. She’d gone with understated makeup, hair loose and pin straight as usual, since the client hadn’t requested that Mira dress or style herself in any particular way. They hadn’t really requested anything at all; their emails had been almost overly polite, if not jarringly formal, and had selected only the most vanilla options on the questionnaire she provided. Certainly a far cry from the standard practices of her usual clientele, but this one had paid upfront and picked this expensive hotel, and Mira’s fees are dear enough on their own that she had been coloured intrigued.
Mira takes a left down the hallway after leaving the elevator and finds herself at the door to the room. She doesn’t steel herself—doesn’t need to. She can handle anything. Has handled most things. Mira swipes the keycard and lets herself in.
The person sitting on the bed is probably the last thing she expects.
A young woman, for starters. Maybe mid-twenties and disarmingly pretty, with a soft face, big eyes, and a long, purple braid that snakes down her back. She’s dressed comfortably but intentionally: a cropped white hoodie and beige track pants that cinch at the ankles and waist. Despite having confirmed this meeting with Mira at multiple points, she looks somehow astonished to see her.
Still, Mira has learned not to assume anything about anyone just from their appearance, and allows the door to shut behind her. “Rumi, is it?”
“Yes. Hi.” The client—Rumi—jumps up from the bed. “I’m Rumi. Yes. Hello.”
“Hello,” Mira echoes.
Rumi’s face goes pink, and she drops into a short bow. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Huh. Mira stares at the top of Rumi’s head. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No, that’s okay. Um, I mean—” Rumi straightens up with a jolt. “You didn’t keep me waiting! I just got here early, that’s all.”
Mira says nothing to that, fighting to keep her face impassive, but can’t seem to prevent the way her eyebrows go up. Rumi turns even pinker at her silence, cheeks quickly going the way of Mira’s hair, so Mira thinks it best to at least try to make her feel at ease, lest she have some kind of medical emergency. She wouldn’t be the first.
Mira steps forward and extends her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mimi.”
There’s an obvious tremor to Rumi’s hand as she reaches out to take Mira’s. Her grip is firm but sweaty. “Rumi,” she says, then promptly turns impossibly redder. “Sorry. You knew that. Sorry.”
Jesus. If any more blood goes to this girl’s head she’s going to pass out. Mira offers her a nod. “It’s fine. Why don’t you get comfortable while I get my things together?”
Rumi sits down on the bed again as if magnetised to it, wringing her hands and staring at the floor. Mira leaves her alone to try and collect herself, crossing the room to the small table and setting down her bag. She doesn’t open it immediately, first making a beeline for the bathroom; the mirror over the sink is fogged, the shower wet and recently used. Good.
“I showered and put on deodorant,” Rumi says quickly. “Like you asked.”
“Thank you,” Mira says, turning back to her. “I know it should go without saying, but that hasn’t exactly been my experience.”
Rumi grimaces. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologise. You’re fine.”
“Okay. Sorry. I mean—” Rumi puts her face in her hands. “I’ll just shut up.”
Taking advantage of Rumi having her head down and thus not looking at her, Mira pinches the bridge of her nose. Granted, it can be a little tense with new clients, before they get started, but none of them have been… anything like this. Her typical first-timers are all bark and no bite, their emails filled with vivid, illicit details of exactly what they want her to do to them and for exactly how long, only to make a mess of themselves thirty seconds after starting. This is a different mess entirely.
Still, money is money. Mira moves to unpack her bag and decides to address the purple-haired elephant in the room. “First time, then?”
“Um. Yeah. I mean, I just—I’ll be twenty six soon, and I’ve never…” Rumi trails off with a sigh. “I just don’t think it’s going to happen for me, so.”
Mira pauses in the act of pulling out her kit. An actual virgin on top of everything. Fantastic. “I meant if this is your first time paying for sex,” she says. “But I guess that answers my question.”
“Oh. Right. Well… yes, that too.”
No need to linger on that; Mira resumes unpacking and continues talking. “So what do you do?”
“Um.” Rumi shifts on the bed uncomfortably. “Do you really want to know?”
“I know my rates aren’t cheap,” Mira says. “Neither is this hotel. I’m just curious.”
“I’m a doctor. Sort of. I’m doing my residency.”
Mira blinks in surprise. “No offence, but you still seem a bit young for that.”
“Yeah, I—I get that a lot. I skipped a few grades and started university early. I just... studied a lot, that’s all.”
Well. That partially explains the virgin thing, but Mira doesn’t feel the need to point it out. She finishes unpacking her bag, gear and products arranged neatly across the table: latex and non-latex condoms and gloves, water and oil-based lubricant, a kit full of dildos of various sizes and a couple of different harnesses to fit them. She’d only brought the basics with her, but leaves her other instruments—riding crop, ball gag, nipple clamps, handcuffs, et al—in her bag. She has a strong feeling she won’t be needing them.
Mira turns back to face the bed. “That’s really impressive. You should be proud of yourself.”
“Oh.” Rumi looks at her blankly. “Thanks. What about you, what do you do?”
Mira raises a delicate eyebrow.
Rumi’s face goes right back to flaming again, crumpling. “Right. Sorry.”
“I don’t do this full-time, if that’s what you mean,” Mira says. “I hope you understand why I can’t elaborate.”
“Yes, of course. That’s fine. Sorry.”
Breezing right past that fumble and straight back to business, Mira reaches to remove her coat. “So you’ve never had sex with another person before?”
Rumi’s eyes are wide and fixed on Mira's hands as they move over the buttons. “No.”
“How about with yourself? Do you know what you like?”
Rumi’s overall nervous demeanour switches to full-blown deer-in-headlights as soon as the coat comes off. Mira’s boots reach her mid-thigh, a couple of inches of skin visible beneath the hemline of her dress, the black lace of her lingerie just peeking over the low neckline. Mira is perfectly aware of what she looks like, but Rumi’s brain seems to have completely shut down. “I don’t—I don’t know.”
Mira drapes the coat over the back of a chair and tries not to sigh. She's had first-time clients chicken out before. When faced with the reality of the fantasy they've only played out in their heads, they discover that they don't actually want it in practice. And that's fine, but that's not what this is. This is a clearly undersocialised twenty five year-old who just wants to lose her virginity and be fucked by a woman without judgement. Mira can make it happen—and, more than that, make sure that it's good—and it seems like Rumi has no intention of running. The only problem is, at the rate this is going, they're going to run out of time.
“Listen,” she says, as gently as she can muster. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. I’m a professional. I want you to have a good experience, and that means communicating your preferences and needs with me. I’m not going to judge you. You also have to keep in mind that we're on a time limit. Okay?”
Rumi gives a hesitant nod. “Okay.”
“So,” Mira says, “simple questions. Yes or no answers. Do you have a vagina?”
Another nod. “Yes.”
“Okay. Didn’t want to assume. Do you like clitoral stimulation?”
Rumi’s lower lip briefly disappears into her mouth. “Yes.”
“Do you like penetration? Fingers, toys?”
“Yes,” Rumi says. “For—for fingers, I mean. I’ve never tried toys.”
“Would you like to try one?”
“Um.” Rumi stares down at her lap. “Yes, I—your website said you specialise with them, so, that’s why—yes.”
“Good. That’s a start.” Mira turns back to the table. “I’m going to get some things together. How about you get undressed?”
“I’m—okay, yes, but I’m going to keep my shirt on.”
“That’s fine.” She’s not the first and she won’t be the last; Mira has more pressing concerns. “Any issues with latex?”
“No.”
Mira smoothly snags a condom and plucks two black latex gloves out of their box. “Do you want to pick the toy yourself?”
“Um, anything is fine, I think.”
Mira smirks. “Anything?”
She reaches into her bag to pull out her largest piece. It’s ten inches long and has a ten-inch circumference—girthy enough that Mira isn’t even close to getting her full hand around it. She holds it up to Rumi with her eyebrows raised.
Rumi, standing up, in the process of undoing the knot on her pants, pales at the sight of it. “Okay, maybe—definitely not that.” She eyes the black silicone warily. “Do people actually…?”
“You’d be surprised.” Mira puts it down again, suctioning the base to the surface of the table. It wobbles somewhat menacingly. “Most of my clients are men.”
“... oh.”
Mira turns her attention back to her kit. Most of her other pieces are far less intimidating, and nothing fancy—all smooth, black silicone for easy hygiene practices as opposed to bells and whistles. She selects a harness and different dildo—much smaller, appropriate for a first-timer, but thick enough to offer a satisfying stretch. It says something about Mira's client base that it hasn’t been used in a while, though she had cleaned it meticulously just this morning; regardless, she pulls out a packet of disinfectant wipes and gives it a thorough once-over. She grabs a water-based lube, detours to the bathroom to take a clean towel, and returns to the bed.
Rumi is sitting on the end of the mattress again—still in her hoodie but nude from the waist down, legs pressed together all the way to her ankles and wringing her hands in her lap. Her pants have been neatly folded and placed on a nearby chaise, next to an overnight bag and a set of what must be pyjamas, patterned with teddy bears and trains. Mira actually does a double-take when she sees them.
Jesus. She can’t believe she’s about to deflower this girl.
Mira approaches Rumi slowly—not sultry, just carefully, like if she moves too quickly she might scare her away. She doesn’t touch Rumi yet, just places the towel and her collection of gear and products on the comforter beside her, and reaches for the tie on her dress.
“Want me to dance for you?” she asks as she unwraps herself.
Rumi’s eyes go impossibly wider. “Do you do that?”
“Only on special occasions.”
Mira peels off the dress and allows it to fall to the floor. She’d chosen a black lace bodysuit for the evening—practical, almost, so that the harness won’t rub where the straps sit on her hips—and Rumi’s pupils actually dilate as she stares up at her. “Wow. You—” she flushes and looks away again. “Sorry. I don’t—” she gestures vaguely. “I don’t know how to do any of this.”
“Hey,” Mira says patiently. “Look at me.”
Rumi does. Her face is pink, lower lip even pinker from where she’s been chewing it nervously. Her eyes are big and brown, framed by long, dark eyelashes, features enhanced by simple makeup. She really is very pretty. Academic endeavours aside, Mira almost can’t believe that she’s this inexperienced, but then she replays their entire interaction back in her head and, yeah—maybe it’s not that surprising.
Mira reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind Rumi’s ear, then delicately cradles her jaw, smoothing her thumb over Rumi’s cheekbone. “It’s fine. You’re fine. I’m going to take care of you.”
It’s the first time they’ve touched, other than the handshake, and Rumi’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, leaning into Mira’s palm.
Mira doesn’t want to read too much into that. “Lie back for me, baby.”
Of course, Rumi’s face blooms even redder, but she shuffles further back onto the bed and lays down as instructed. Mira rids herself of her boots and follows her onto the mattress, kneeling at Rumi’s feet. The poor thing is shaking like a leaf, which is wholly unsurprising, and flinches when Mira rests her hands on her ankles, knees bent but legs still pressed together.
Mira reaches for the lube first, putting the bottle between her thighs to warm it a little. She runs her hand up the back of Rumi’s calf, and bites the inside of her cheek to stop her smirk when she trembles even harder.
“Open up for me,” Mira says gently. “I can’t do my job if you don’t show me what I’m working with.”
Rumi throws her forearm over her face, and Mira hears her huff out an embarrassed sound as she spreads her legs without further coaxing. She isn’t wet yet—again, unsurprising—but she’s all pink and bare and lovely to look at.
“Very pretty,” Mira observes. “Are you always waxed, or is this just for me?”
Rumi mumbles, slightly muffled, “Just thought it’d be polite.”
Mira smiles despite herself.
She loops her hands around the backs of Rumi’s thighs to pull her towards her a little. Rumi reacts immediately—whole body tensing, breath stuttering. Mira... really isn’t used to this. She’s usually paid to be mean—to punish and degrade, offering pleasure through pain—so going slow, being soft, feels alien. Even with the scant people she sleeps with recreationally, she’s usually not this gentle. She supposes this is a first time for both of them.
With that thought, and their time limit in mind, Mira delicately drags her fingernails up Rumi’s skin, towards the inside of her legs. Rumi actually clenches. Even without touching her, Mira can see the movement of her pelvic floor muscles. She’s going to be tight; foreplay is non-negotiable. Mira reaches for her gloves.
“Okay. I’m probably not going to do anything that necessitates a safeword, but we’re going to use the colour system anyway.” She pulls on one glove, on her right hand, flexing her fingers to ensure it fits snugly, then takes up the lube. “Green we keep going, yellow we slow down or change things up, red we stop immediately, no questions asked. I’ll check in if I feel the need to. I’m gonna use a bit of lube and touch you with just my fingers first. Can you give me your colour now?”
“... green.”
Mira distributes a small amount of warmed lube into her gloved palm, working her fingers through it until they’re well-coated. With her left hand, she curls her fingers over Rumi’s hip, tracing small circles into the juncture of her thigh with her thumb in a way she hopes comes across as soothing. “Remember to breathe for me.”
Rumi shudders at the first stroke of Mira’s fingers against her, sinking her lower back into the bed.
“I’ve got you,” Mira says. Rumi’s still covering her face with her sleeve, but Mira watches her body carefully for her reactions at the different kinds of touch: how her stomach tenses as Mira circles her, how her thighs twitch involuntarily when Mira drags her fingers down to tease. How she’s still breathing shallowly, trembling with nerves.
“I’m going to move on top of you, okay?” Mira warns. “You let me know if it’s too much.”
She waits for Rumi’s nod before shifting herself, throwing one leg over Rumi’s thigh in a straddle. She’s careful not to put too much weight on her, releasing Rumi’s hip to brace her hand on the mattress beside them. Rumi’s hand automatically reaches for Mira’s, before she apparently thinks better of it, grasping the sheets instead. Mira bites back the instinct to say it’s okay, to encourage Rumi to touch her. It's probably best if she doesn’t. Hand-holding is not in her job description.
It’s a much better angle like this: Mira cups Rumi fully at the apex of her legs, hand now sliding easily with the lube, grinding down a little with the heel of her palm where appropriate. Rumi’s still shaking, still stifling herself with her forearm, far too quiet for Mira’s liking. Dirty talk had been one of Rumi's selections on the questionnaire, and while they hadn’t discussed it, Mira’s pretty good at reading people; she can take a good guess at what Rumi wants to be told.
“You’re doing so well,” she murmurs, fingers circling with more purpose now. “Gonna get you nice and wet before I fuck you.”
At Rumi’s muffled groan, Mira considers it safe to continue. “Gonna take my time with you. Nobody’s ever touched you like this before, have they?”
Rumi keens, then—a high, desperate sound. She’s pushing minutely against Mira’s fingers, in tiny, flinching movements of her hips, but still appears to be holding herself back. That won’t do.
“Have you been waiting for me?” Mira whispers, goading. “Waiting for my fingers? Waiting for my—”
“God,” Rumi says finally, rolling up against Mira’s hand. “Just—inside me, please.”
There we go.
Mira obligingly slides one finger inside her, meeting zero resistance all the way to the third knuckle, and notes Rumi's resulting whine. She can practically feel Rumi’s pulse, can feel the heat radiating from within her body, even muted through the latex. Mira unfailingly wears gloves when dealing with clients’ bodily fluids, but in this instance, she almost wishes she didn’t need the barrier—that this didn’t have to be so clinical.
Before Mira can even check her colour, Rumi whimpers, “Green, green—more.”
Mira adds a second finger, and Rumi chokes on a breath.
“Oh my god.” Her voice is clear and loud now, face free of her arm, both hands fisted in the sheets. “Please, yes—please.”
Mira is used to being begged, but she usually doesn’t acquiesce quite so quickly. She pushes in further, knuckles snug against Rumi’s body, curling her fingers just so—
Rumi lets out a moan that’s so soft and musical it takes Mira by surprise. Hand still braced on the mattress, Mira leans over Rumi’s body, long hair falling around them like a curtain. She rocks her hand into Rumi again, keeping her fingers pressed against the same spot, and Rumi gasps and pushes back as her legs spread even wider, whispering moremoremore on the same breath. Mira doubles down on the pressure, using momentum from her shoulder to fuck Rumi in earnest, to coax more sweet noises out of her, soft cries and mewls filling the space between them.
“Please,” Rumi gasps again.
She’s unraveling quickly, Mira can tell. Can tell from the noises she’s making, the cadence of her breaths, the way she bucks into Mira’s hand and the slick sounds Mira’s fingers make every time they push inside her. It’s not surprising how fast it happens—she’s an expert at this, after all—but what's strange is how much Mira realises she wants it: to see this girl happy and satisfied after she falls apart, all soft and pink beneath her.
“Let me hear you, baby,” Mira says, the heel of her palm working against Rumi in a wet, delicious slide. “Tell me your colour—you’re so close, I can feel it.”
“Yes—green,” Rumi chokes. Her whole body is shaking now, pushing back against Mira’s hand with her hips in a desperate grind, face flushed and eyes tightly closed, losing herself to the rhythm that Mira lays into her. “Gonna come—gonna come—”
Mira says, “Show me.”
Rumi comes with a quiet cry that sounds like something close to anguish, clenching tight and hot around Mira’s fingers as her back arches clean off the bed. She releases the sheets and grasps Mira’s wrist with both hands like a vise, nails biting into the skin to keep her there so she can ride out her orgasm against Mira’s palm, and Mira watches with abject fascination as it rises and ebbs, until Rumi lets out a shuddering gasp and sinks listlessly against the the mattress—breaths hard and heavy, eyes open but unseeing—trembling, glowing, spent.
Mira exhales a long breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. She waits for Rumi’s ragged breathing to soften, muscles still fluttering around her fingers, then shifts her weight off the hand that’s still braced on the bed so she can ease Rumi’s grip off her wrist and withdraw.
“There you go,” Mira says. Rumi has turned her face away from her, wiping at her eyes with one of her sleeves. With her clean, ungloved hand, Mira smooths her palm over Rumi’s hip reassuringly, thumb sweeping across the soft skin of her lower belly. “Well done. I’ll give you a minute.”
Mira climbs off the bed to stretch her back and rotate her shoulder, then carefully pulls off the glove and deposits it, inside-out, in the wastebasket in the bathroom. By the time she’s washed her hands and returned to the room, Rumi has come back to herself and is sitting up—pink-faced, braid mussed, looking anxious again.
Mira wordlessly moves to the nightstand to pour Rumi a glass of water.
“Thank you,” Rumi says, a little hoarse, as she takes it. “And sorry, for—for grabbing you.”
“It’s okay,” Mira replies. “It’s good. You did good.”
Mira sits silently on the edge of the bed as Rumi rehydrates. She’s staring off into the middle distance, free hand worrying the bedsheet between her index finger and thumb. Mira takes the glass from her only once it’s empty.
“We still have time left,” Mira says, glancing at the clock as she returns the glass to the bedside. “Did you want to keep going or call it a night?”
Rumi’s gaze falls to the harness, still resting on the towel near the end of the bed. “I’d like to keep going.”
“Do you need another moment to catch your breath?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Okay. I’d like you on your back again, since it’s your first time.” Mira stands up and reaches for the harness. “I need to watch your face.”
Rumi’s eyes go big as they meet Mira’s again. “Will it hurt?”
“No,” Mira says firmly. “If I catch any hint that you’re in pain, we’re stopping. Period. I have zero interest in hurting you.”
It occurs to Mira that she has literally never said that to a client before. Frankly, she usually tells them the exact opposite. Rather than lingering on that thought, she busies herself with getting the harness on.
She shows Rumi the toy as she gets strapped in, encouraging her to feel the weight of it and test the circumference against her fingers. “There’s no shame in going smaller.”
Rumi hands it back quickly, embarrassed or just eager to get started. Probably both. “It’s fine.”
Fine isn’t quite good enough for Mira. “Colour?”
Rumi lets out a slow breath. Then, “Green.”
Mira slots the toy in place, adjusting the harness around it. “I cleaned all my gear with disinfectant this morning, and wiped this piece down before we started. I’m also going to use a condom as a precaution. Okay?”
Rumi nods, frowning. “Thank you,” she says distantly. “For being so thorough, I mean. At work I have to think about hygiene all the time, obviously, but…”
“It’s easy to forget,” Mira says. “But one of us has to be responsible.”
Rumi actually smiles at that—for the first time all night—small, but genuine and crooked and bright.
Mira can’t help but smile back. “All right. Lie back.”
With Rumi lying down again, Mira takes the opportunity to really look at her properly. Even still half-dressed, her body is impressive—long legs, slender waist, stomach muscles taut beneath creamy, flawless skin. Mira has seen so many naked bodies that she has developed a kind of indifference, so it’s a nice change to be able to properly appreciate a pretty girl in her bed. Mira arranges Rumi’s legs again so she can kneel between them, and notes with some satisfaction how she no longer flinches at the contact. Incredible, really, what an orgasm can do.
Mira reaches for the headboard to snag a pillow. In doing so, she unthinkingly leans over Rumi’s body without warning her first, and Rumi lets out a shuddering exhale as the blunt tip of the strap slides against her stomach. Mira feels that breath against her neck—the heat of it, the sound of it as it leaves Rumi’s throat—and, for some reason, feels her heart kick in her chest.
“Easy,” Mira murmurs. She grabs the pillow as intended and fights the desire to tuck Rumi’s hair behind her ear again. “I’m not going to surprise you with anything, I promise.”
“I know,” Rumi says, face pinking as she gazes up at her. “I trust you.”
There’s something… forlorn and lost in Rumi’s expression, and the comment is so unguarded, so earnest, that Mira has half a mind to end the session right there.
But Mira is a professional; she’s going to see this through. She taps Rumi’s thigh. “Lift up a little for me.”
She's comfortable leaving gloves off for this; Mira lays the towel down and arranges the pillow beneath Rumi’s tailbone, so that her hips are slightly raised off the bed. The lube has cooled again, so Mira squirts some into her palm and holds it there to warm it as she opens the condom carefully with her teeth, then rolls it onto the toy one-handed.
Once she’s adequately lubed up, Mira wipes off her hand on the towel. Rumi’s still wet, pink and swollen from being aroused. Mira has the abrupt, inexplicable urge to lean down and kiss her there, but she doesn’t. Mira doesn't do that with clients.
“We’re going to go slow,” Mira tells her, “until you tell me not to.” Holding the strap by the base, she rubs the head up against Rumi again, noting how it slides easily and how Rumi spreads her legs wider at the contact. Good. “Remember your colours?”
Rumi swallows thickly, gaze now fixed at the ceiling. “Green.”
“Thank you.” Mira lays her palm flat against Rumi’s inner thigh. “Breathe for me.”
Rumi does just that—inhaling deeply as Mira begins easing inside her. Her hands are fisted in the sheets by her sides, eyes wide at the unfamiliar sensation. Mira gives her a slow inch or two, then pauses to check in. “Colour?”
“Green.”
Mira keeps going, still careful and slow, watching Rumi’s face intently for any sign of pain. Her jaw remains slack, mouth open, breath hitching as she takes Mira inch by inch, until Mira bottoms out inside her, hips and harness flush against Rumi’s body, feeling her tremble beneath her.
“Well done.” Mira smooths both hands over Rumi’s hips reassuringly. “How does that feel?”
“Good,” Rumi breathes. “It’s—it’s good.”
“Can I start moving?”
“Yes.”
Mira shifts back only incrementally before carefully pushing back in, pausing again at Rumi’s strangled sound. “Okay?”
“Yes.”
Mira keeps her hands on her hips and starts rocking into Rumi gently—just small, shallow thrusts, to ease her into the movement. She’s still tense, trembling and gasping with every inch that fills her, but her body takes it, welcomes it, legs spreading wider to accommodate Mira between them. There’s heat radiating off of her, a light sheen of sweat beginning to appear on her stomach and brow, and Mira can only imagine what it would truly feel like to be inside her—how warm, how wet, how tight.
“More,” Rumi whimpers. “Please.”
Mira keeps rocking steadily. “Harder or deeper?”
“Yes, just—yes.”
Fair enough. Mira has to let go of her and lean over her to do it, bracing her hands on the bed, but as soon as her hips push hard against Rumi’s body she lets out a delicate cry. It’s a very promising sound, so Mira does it again—and again, and again, pulling out further every time, until Rumi is breathless from it, toes curling, hands scrambling in the sheets for purchase.
“You’re taking me so well,” Mira purrs. “How does it feel, having me inside you?”
Rumi keens helplessly, turning her red face against her shoulder. “G-good, it’s so good.”
“Do you like it when I talk to you?” Mira keeps her voice even despite the brusque pace with which she keeps thrusting into her. “Do you like being told how good you are?”
The noise Rumi makes next is close to a sob. “Please—please, more.”
Mira shifts her weight to one hand so she can take Rumi’s thigh with the other, drawing her leg higher over her hip, the angle allowing her deeper still. Rumi moans brokenly at the adjustment, moans louder with every thrust that follows, bucking up against Mira, her movements frantic, eager, wanting. She’s close—breaths heavy but erratic, core muscles tensed, thighs trembling with exertion. Mira keeps her pace steady and glances at the clock.
They’re running out of time.
Mira grips Rumi’s thigh. “Do you need me to touch you?”
“No, I can—” Rumi reaches down herself, kneading between her legs with clumsy fingers as Mira continues to fuck her. “I can—” she keens on her next breath. “Oh god—I can’t—”
“Tell me what you want,” Mira says.
Rumi chokes, “Faster.”
Mira complies.
She pleads, “Don’t stop.”
Mira doesn’t.
“F-fuck.” Rumi abruptly ceases touching herself and reaches for Mira, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her in, pushing herself against the very base of the strap in a desperate grind. Her legs lock around Mira’s waist, dragging her in impossibly closer, so they're practically chest-to-chest—so close Mira can feel Rumi's breath and see every tear that clings to her eyelashes. This needs to end quickly, and Mira thinks she knows how to finish it.
She says, “Are you going to come for me again, pretty girl?”
Rumi cries, head falling back. “Oh god—oh my god—”
When Rumi’s voice breaks on her orgasm, there’s no sound in the room. She arches her spine, head tipped against the mattress, pushing herself all the way onto the strap. Mira doesn’t move, just holds it, holds her, pressing in deep—feeling Rumi’s body pulse and rock beneath her with the dips and crests of her climax, until she gives a final, mindless shudder and collapses against the sheets.
Ideally Mira would stick around while Rumi comes down, but their time is up and she really needs to get to cleaning before the lube starts to go tacky. “I’m pulling out,” she warns, and Rumi’s legs slip from her waist loosely, still boneless on the bed—but as Mira withdraws, her hips cant up, like she’s unwilling to let her go.
Rumi lets out a wet sob.
It’s not unusual, but Mira swallows around the unfamiliar tightness in her chest. She lays a soothing palm across Rumi’s stomach. “You’re okay. It can be a lot. Do you want me to sit with you or do you need a moment alone?”
Rumi puts her face in her hands and rolls onto her side, knees drawing up as she curls in on herself, so Mira assumes the latter. She moves off the bed and into the bathroom, legs just a little wobbly, but that’s normal. Using a handful of toilet paper, she carefully removes and discards the condom in the wastebasket, then dislodges the strap from the harness and drops it in the sink, turning the faucet on hot. She removes the harness and goes about cleaning what she can—hand soap will be fine until she gets home and can disinfect it properly.
It’s only once she fumbles with the soap that she realises that her hands are shaking.
Not just her hands—Mira’s shaking all over, to the point that she needs to steady herself against the sink and take some deep breaths. She’s hot. Flushed and sweating, warmth curled insistently in her lower belly and down between her thighs. When she looks up at herself in the mirror, she notices her pupils are blown. Her nipples are hard.
... what the fuck?
A client can't see her like this, and so Mira collects herself. Cleans the toy, washes her hands, and has the presence of mind to wet a washcloth with warm water. When she leaves the bathroom, Rumi is sitting up again, sheets now wrapped around her bottom half, hair positively disheveled and eyes rather red.
Mira hands her the washcloth. “Here.”
Rumi takes it wordlessly, eyes downcast at nothing at all. Mira leaves her to it, picking up her dress on her way back to the table so she can wrap up the toy and harness in a plastic bag. She tries to be conversational, professional, as she packs up her gear and pulls on her dress.
“You’ll likely be a bit sore in the morning, but that’s normal. And you should probably urinate as soon as you can—you don’t want a UTI. But I guess you know all of that already.”
Rumi hums in acknowledgement. “Mhm.”
Bag packed, Mira carries it and her coat back to the bed and sets it down, sitting at the edge of the mattress to pull on her boots. The atmosphere in the room always feels different after, no longer heady and hot from sweat and sex, but the air now seems particularly empty. Rumi is silent, but at least she’s not crying anymore.
Mira stands. Rumi still doesn’t look at her, hands twisting the washcloth in her lap. She’s staring at the unused glove still laying on the bed—a dark blot amongst the white sheets—and she looks so despondent that Mira has the sudden, painful urge to wrap her up in a hug.
Instead she says, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Rumi says distantly. “I’m good.”
She doesn’t look good. She looks about as wrecked as Mira inexplicably feels. “You sure?”
Rumi actually looks up at her then. A small smile appears on her face. “Yeah. I’m fine. Sorry about—” she waves a hand vaguely “—you know, me.”
“You need to stop apologising,” Mira chides gently. “You did really well.”
“Okay.” Rumi takes in a breath. Then she says, exalted, “It was really good.”
Mira smiles. “I’m glad.”
She’s surprised to find she means it.
“Thank you,” Rumi says. “For everything.”
“Thank you for the trust,” Mira replies, smooth, automatic—but it feels a little too honest. She pulls her bag onto her shoulder, coat draped over her arm. “I really need to get going.”
Rumi pauses. There’s a look in her eyes that Mira recognises—and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, Mira thinks she’s going to ask her to stay. For a moment, she’s actually not sure what her answer would be.
Then Rumi nods. “Okay. Get home safe. Thank you again, Mimi.”
Mira opens her mouth, almost corrects her, before she remembers herself. “Have a good night.”
She leaves the room without looking back.
In the elevator, Mira checks her appearance again. Makeup still flawless, hair still neat. She looks exactly the same as she did when she first came up to the room, but she feels like she shouldn't.
True to her word, Zoey is still at the front desk when Mira reaches the lobby. There’s a textbook open in front of her, and she stows it away quickly as Mira approaches. “Leaving already?”
Mira just shrugs as she holds out her keycard. There’s nothing she can say that won’t incriminate herself.
Zoey eyes her cautiously. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“You sure?”
It’s painfully reminiscent of the conversation she just had upstairs. “I’m fine.”
Zoey blinks at her tone, and Mira almost feels bad. Whatever. She’ll probably never come back here, anyway.
“Okay,” Zoey says slowly. She takes the keycard, fingers brushing Mira’s. “Need me to call you a car?”
“No. I drove.” As an afterthought, she adds, “Thank you, though.”
“Sure.” Zoey gives her a tight smile. “Drive safe.”
Mira turns away and heads to the doors. Head bowed, the thud of her heeled boots echoing too-loud against the marble floor. Her back is starting to ache from what just went down in the room, but Mira tries to ignore it. Just like she tries to ignore the warmth that lingers between her legs.
She walks out into the night and takes in a lungful of air.