Chapter 2: The Knock That Wasn't Digital
The three dots vanished.
Then came three sharp knocks.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Solid. Authoritative. Not on the hotel room door, but on the thin wall beside it, from the adjacent room. The sound was shockingly close. Viewy jumped, a full-body flinch that sent a painful jolt through his ankle in the high heel. He caught himself on the edge of the desk, his breath trapped in his throat.
His phone screen lit up again.
Mark: Door’s open. Come next door. 409.
The message was an ice-water drip down his spine. Open? He hadn’t heard a door. Had Mark been there the whole time, waiting in the next room, listening to the shower run, the stumble of his footsteps in heels? The proximity was a violation he hadn’t calculated.
He stared at the numbers on his screen. 409. Four steps to his right. He looked at his reflection—the smudged eyes, the absurd wig, the foreign silhouette. This was the point of no return. To step out into that hallway dressed like this was to burn the version of himself that walked in here an hour ago.
The knocks came again, same pattern. Impatient.
His hand moved before his mind could fully protest. He unlocked his own door, the click echoing in the silent room. He pulled it open just a crack, just enough to peer into the dim corridor. The door to 409 was, indeed, slightly ajar. A sliver of yellowish light spilled onto the worn carpet.
He slipped out, the click of his heels impossibly loud. Four steps. Each one a lifetime. The carpet was sticky in places. He pushed the door open.
The room was a mirror image of his own, but the air was different. It smelled of cheap cologne and something else, sharp and chemical. A man was standing by the window, backlit by the flickering neon sign outside. He was taller than his Tinder picture suggested, broader. He turned, and the light caught his face. It was the same smile, but in person it didn’t look easy. It looked like a tool.
“Hey,” Mark said. His voice was lower than Viewy expected, slightly accented. Australian, maybe. “Look at you.”
Viewy stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the knob. He felt like a specimen under a light. Mark’s eyes traveled down his body, slow, appraising. There was no warmth in it. It was an inventory.
“You cleaned up,” Mark said, a statement, not a question. He gestured with his chin toward the en suite bathroom. “Good.”
Viewy couldn’t speak. He just nodded, a tiny, brittle motion.
“Come in. Shut the door.”
The command broke his paralysis. He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft, final thud. The room felt smaller with both of them in it.
Mark stepped closer. Viewy could smell the cologne more strongly now, mixed with the faint scent of beer. Mark reached out, not touching him, but hooking a finger under the strap of the garter belt. He gave it a little snap against Viewy’s thigh.
“Nice,” he said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “A little big on you, but it works.” He let go of the strap and instead picked up a lock of the black wig, rubbing the synthetic fibers between his thumb and forefinger. “Should’ve sprung for real hair.”
He dropped the hair and finally looked Viewy in the face. “You nervous?”
Viewy found his voice, a thin thread of sound. “Yes.”
“First time?”
Another nod.
Mark’s smile widened, showing teeth. “Relax. It’s just sex.” He put a heavy hand on Viewy’s shoulder, steering him toward the bed. The touch was firm, possessive. “You got the money, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re good. You did what I asked. Now I do what I want.” His tone was conversational, as if discussing a trade.
Viewy sat on the edge of the bed, the stiff cover crunching beneath him. Mark stood over him, looking down. He unbuttoned his own shirt, not taking his eyes off Viewy. He wasn’t hurried. It was methodical. He dropped the shirt on a chair, revealing a torso that was muscular in a hard, utilitarian way. There was a faded tattoo across his ribs, something blurred and unreadable.
“Lie back,” Mark said.
Viewy obeyed, lowering himself onto the pillows. The wig shifted, a curtain falling over part of his vision. The ceiling had a water stain, a brownish-yellow shape like a forgotten continent.
Mark undid his belt, the sound of leather sliding through loops loud in the quiet room. He didn’t bother with the rest of the lingerie. He pushed the lace underwear aside, a rough, efficient motion. Viewy squeezed his eyes shut. He heard the tear of a foil packet.
“Look at me,” Mark said.
you are going to take 8 inches of cock up your ass like a bitch. tell me you want it