Chapter 2: The Second Time
The warmth of her body against his was a shock, even though he’d braced for it. She settled her weight onto the backs of his thighs, the soft, slick heat of her cunt pressing against his skin as she leaned forward. Her hands, slippery with the clear, odorless Nuru gel, began spreading it over his shoulders.
Her touch was different this time. There was no initial tremor, no gasp of horror. It was deliberate, methodical. She moved as if programmed, her breasts sliding against his back as she worked the gel into his skin. The silence was dense, broken only by the wet, sliding sounds of their bodies and the low, ambient hum of the room.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” she said finally, her voice flat, close to his ear. It was Charlie’s voice, but the tone belonged to a much older woman.
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He had no honest answer. The shame was a cold, hard stone in his gut, but beneath it, a fever burned. The memory of her, the tight clasp of her body, the way her eyes had glazed over—it had invaded him like a virus. He’d sat through endless conference calls seeing the sweep of her hip, tasted his lunch and remembered the salt of her sweat.
“I booked Candy,” was all he could mutter into the face cradle.
A soft, bitter sound escaped her—not quite a laugh.“Right. Candy.”
She poured more gel directly onto his skin, then onto her own stomach, spreading it with quick, efficient strokes. The slide of her became fluid, continuous. She used her whole body now, gliding up and down his back, her nipples tracing paths along his spine, her stomach smooth and hot against his buttocks. It was a practiced, sensual dance, and it was working. He felt himself hardening against the table, a purely biological betrayal.
Her hands came around his sides, slick and seeking, sliding over his ribs, down the tense plane of his abdomen. Her body rode the small of his back, and he could feel the damp tangle of her pubic hair against his skin. One of her hands drifted lower, fingers trailing through the gel, heading inexorably toward his throbbing cock.
“Don’t,” he breathed, but it was weak, a protest for the record.
Her hand closed around him. The grip was firm, professional. She pumped him slowly, her body still moving against his back. “This is what you paid for,” she whispered, and the ‘Candy’ persona was back, a thin veneer over the wreckage. “Two-hour Nuru. Full release. You want my mouth, my hands, or me?”
The crude cataloguing of services, in her voice, broke something in him. It shattered the last pretense of accident, of mutual tragedy. This was a transaction. He was a john, and she was turning a trick. The simplicity of it was horrifying, and it freed the darkest part of him to speak.
“All of it,” he growled. “I want you.”
"You want to cum twice? There's time" Candy said quietly.
He just nodded stunned , in awe, his new obsession.
She reached between his thighs from behind and caressed his balls, making him harder. She toyed with his butt "Tantric?" she whispered in his ear..before he answered she had positioned him on all fours , one of her hands stroking his cock and balls tenderly, the other teasing his ass. She gelled her fingers again and stroked his cock, long slow strokes as she pushed a finger into his ass. "Oh Jesus Christ " he moaned .
She teased him and toyed with him for a while till he was shaking. She lay him on his back and said "You want oral now sir?" Candy asked. "Oh god yes" he grunted
"You want your best friends daughter to suck you till you cum in her mouth do you Mr Gillespie" Candy said , smiling now, feeling the power. "You want to defile your friends daughter Charlie, don't you?"
Paul was shocked , ashamed, but beyond control and just nodded. Mortified but could not help himself.
"Now make sure you keep looking at sweet Charlie as she sucks your big cock Mr Gillespie"
"Stop Charlie, I mean Candy, I paid for Candy"
"But you want Charlie to suck you off and to fuck her don't you?" She took his hardness into her hot mouth. All wet and so well practised .
His shame inflamed as much as his arousal at her words.
Her mouth was a wet, skillful hell. She took him deep, her throat working around him, and the slick heat was so absolute it short-circuited his thoughts. He watched, mesmerized, as her lips stretched around his girth, her eyes locked on his with a challenge that was pure Charlie, even as the act was Candy’s. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to his shaft when she pulled back, and she whispered, “You like watching your little Charlie gag on it, don’t you?”
He groaned, a sound torn from somewhere beneath his conscience. His hips lifted off the table involuntarily, seeking more of that punishing warmth. She allowed it for a moment, letting him fuck her mouth in shallow, desperate thrusts, before pulling away entirely, leaving him exposed and throbbing in the cool air.
“Not yet,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her breathing was uneven, but her gaze was steady. “You paid for two hours. You paid for all of me.”
She moved with a new, terrifying certainty. Pouring more of the clear gel into her palm, she slicked him thoroughly, her fist a tight, twisting prison. Then she turned, presenting herself on her hands and knees on the table, the curve of her back a profound and terrible invitation. The amber light glistened on the wet paths the gel had traced between her thighs.
“This is what you really came back for.” Her voice was muffled, pressed into the linen. “So take it. And don’t you dare be gentle.”
The permission was a condemnation. He moved behind her, his hands finding her hips, and the feel of her skin under his palms was a devastating truth. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her, and she pushed back with a crude, wet grind, forcing him inside in one brutal, seamless stroke.
She was tight, impossibly so, and so hot he saw white behind his eyes. A sharp, choked cry escaped her—whether from pain or something else, he couldn’t tell—and it echoed in the tiny room. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, trembling with the effort of not moving, with the sheer wrongness of the feeling.
“Fuck me, Paul.” She said his real name, and it was a curse. “Or I’ll tell my dad you couldn’t even get it up.”
He pistoned into her, a hard, driving rhythm that shoved the table against the wall with a rhythmic thud. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of flesh, the groan of the table’s legs, his own ragged grunts. He fucked her like he was trying to obliterate them both, to hammer the memory out of his own skull. She met every thrust, her body arching and yielding, a perfect, filthy counterpoint.
“You feel that?” she gasped, her face turned sideways on the table. “That’s your best friend’s little girl. You’re ruining her.”
He was. He knew it. With every plunge, he was shredding the last twenty years of backyard barbecues and casual trust. The image of Mark, her father, laughing over a beer, flashed behind his eyes and he fucked harder, as if to drive the ghost away. Charlie’s fingers clawed at the linen, her knuckles white, her body trembling not just from the impact.
Her internal muscles suddenly clenched around him, a vicious, rhythmic spasm that ripped a scream from her throat. It wasn’t performance. It was a raw, violent release that shuddered through her entire frame, milking him, pulling his own climax up from his balls. He roared, a sound of pure animal defeat, as he emptied himself deep inside her, pumping wave after wave of his guilt into the heart of the betrayal.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their shattered breathing. He slumped over her back, spent, the sweat cooling on his skin. The scent of sex and jasmine oil was choking.
She collapsed beneath him, and he withdrew, the sight of his own semen leaking from her making his stomach lurch. She didn’t move. He rolled to the side, staring at the ceiling’s smooth concrete, the void in his chest expanding.
“The second hour is for recovery,” she said flatly, still not looking at him. Her voice was hollow, scraped raw. “Then I’ll finish you with my hands. Protocol.”
She led him to the shower and as she had been trained washed and soaped them both clean. He couldn't look at her She was beyond shame , she was back in control as usual..back in charge She had the power.
After about ten minutes she had him hard again..he was stunned at how quickly he was. The taboo!
She led him back to the table and lay him on his back ..$100 in cash for the second cum...yes?" She was stroking his length knowing the answer but needing the confirmation of the extra payment.
He nodded ashamed. She again took him in her mouth and had him fully hard in moments. "Now you rest there Uncle Paul while little Charlie rides your big bad cock." He flinched ashamed.
She straddle him and used her own hands to toy with herself and smear some of the gel before positioning herself over his length. She pinned his arms above his head, her breasts falling on his face as she did so, sliding down as she pushed herself deep onto his tumescence. He groaned as she hilted. She spent ten minutes slowly moving herself up and down his cock. "Don't move Uncle Paul" she chided when he felt the need to thrust. "This is little Charlie fucking my daddies best friend" His shame knew no bounds but he was helpless to his lust, to her power. Ten more minutes and she now held his gaze. "Keep looking at me, Paul" she moaned as her own arousal begins to overpower her control. He is frantic but afraid to move/ Now she is plunging onto him lost in her own mind, taboo fucking her dad's friend.
Her rhythm broke into frantic, slapping impacts, her hips losing all finesse as she chased her own finish. “Look at me!” she screamed, her voice cracking, and he did—he saw her eyes wide and unfocused, her mouth slack, every particle of her being concentrated on the feeling of him stretching her open. Her orgasm ripped through her with a guttural, wounded noise, her cunt clamping down so hard on his cock that it bordered on pain, and that vise-like pulsation tore his own climax from him.
He came with a helpless shout, his back arching off the table, his fingers digging into her thighs hard enough to leave marks. He spurted deep inside her again, a hot, endless flood that felt like the last of his soul leaving his body. She collapsed forward onto his chest, her sweat-slick skin sticking to his, both of them heaving in the stifling air.
Silence pooled around them, thicker than the gel on the floor. The distant spa music was a mocking whisper. Slowly, her breathing began to even, and the weight of her felt different—lighter, emptied. She pushed herself up, avoiding his eyes, and swung her legs off the table. The sound of his semen dripping onto the polished concrete between her feet was deafening.
“The shower’s through there,” she said, her voice toneless. She walked away from him, her movements stiff, and began gathering her kimono from the floor.
He lay there, paralyzed, watching her. The furious, commanding Candy was gone. In her place was just a exhausted young woman wiping herself clean with a white towel, her movements small and private. The sight of the towel, stained with the proof of what they’d done, made his throat close.
“Charlie…” The name was a rasp.
“Don’t.” She didn’t turn around. She tied the kimono shut, the fabric hiding everything. “Just get cleaned up. Your time is almost up.”
He shuffled to the shower, a small, tiled stall. The water was scalding, but it couldn’t penetrate the cold numbness in his core. He scrubbed mechanically, watching the suds swirl down the drain, carrying the oil, the sweat, the scent of her. When he stepped out, a fresh towel was folded on a stool. His clothes were laid neatly beside it.
She was waiting by the door, professionally composed, her hair re-pinned. She held out a small mint. “For your breath.”
He took it, his fingers brushing hers. She flinched.
“The total for the Nuru session, with the additional release, is four eigthy” she stated, her eyes fixed on a point just past his shoulder. “Plus the hundred in cash. You can settle the rest at the front desk. See you tomorrow Uncle Paul?”
He nodded, unable to speak. He dressed in the quiet, each article of clothing feeling like a lie he was putting back on. The bespoke suit, the Rolex—the uniform of Paul Gillespie, husband, father, friend. It all felt like a sick costume.
She opened the door and the calm hallway of Annabel’s awaited, a world of soft lighting and whispered discretion. He followed her out, the plush carpet muffling his steps. At the front desk, a different woman smiled warmly. “I hope you enjoyed your session with Candy, sir.”
He handed over his credit card, the plastic feeling greasy in his hand. The machine chimed its approval. He didn’t look at Charlie, who had melted back into the shadowed corridor leading to the treatment rooms.
“Would you like to re-book Candy for your next visit to San Diego?” the receptionist asked, her pen poised.
His stomach turned. “Tomorrow same time please.”
He almost ran for the exit. The cool night air hit him like a slap. He fumbled for his phone, seeing the missed calls from his wife, the text from Mark about their golf game next week. He leaned against the side of the building, his legs watery.
Inside, behind the tinted glass doors, Charlie slid down the wall in the staff hallway, her knees pulled to her chest. She pressed her forehead against them, her body starting to shake. In her hand, she clutched five crumpled twenties—the extra hundred he’d left on the table, a silent, shameful tip. She needed it for textbooks. She needed it for rent. The reality of that need was the only thing holding the scream inside her throat. Down the hall, a manager called out, “Candy? Room three is prepped, sweetheart. Five-minute turnover.”
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, stood up, and smoothed her kimono.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, stood up, and smoothed her kimono. The five twenties from yesterday were already spent, gone to a past-due utility bill, the ghost of his touch converted into kilowatts and water. She walked toward room three, her body still humming from the violation, and thought only of the next hundred, the next client, the next performance.
Paul spent twenty-four hours in a fugue state of self-loathing. He sat through a business dinner, nodding at graphs, tasting nothing. He called his wife and lied about his tiredness. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the drip on the polished concrete floor, heard the wet slap of their collision. Shame was a cold, sickening slurry in his gut, but beneath it, a relentless engine turned. It wasn’t desire. It was a need to see it through, to prove he hadn’t been broken by the truth. The obsession had fossilized his conscience.
At 4:55 p.m. the next day, his knuckles were white on the steering wheel outside Annabel’s. He watched a well-dressed man exit, adjusting his cufflinks, and felt a surge of contempt that included himself. He got out. The receptionist remembered him. “Candy’s expecting you,” she said with a knowing smile that made his skin crawl. He nodded and was led back to the same room. The scent of jasmine threatened to make him gag.
Charlie was already there. She stood by the massage table, not in her kimono, but in a simple black lace bra and thong. Her hair was down this time. On the small shelf by the oils lay a blue pill and a bottle of water. “Three hours,” she said. Her voice was calm, devoid of yesterday’s hollow tremor. It was a statement, not a question. “Change the booking at the desk on your way out.Take that. Now.”
He stared at the Viagra. It was a declaration of war, a clinical escalation. “Charlie…”
“It’s Candy for three hours,” she interrupted, picking up the pill and holding it out. Her eyes were hard, polished stones. “You came back. This is what you came back for. So be capable of it.” The challenge was absolute. He took the pill, dry-swallowed it, the chalky taste another layer of degradation. She watched his throat work. “Good. Now get undressed. Face up this time.”
He obeyed, his fingers clumsy on his buttons. The air was cool on his skin. He lay back on the table, his already-stirring cock a grotesque testament to the drug’s swiftness and his own sickness. She didn’t approach immediately. Instead, she walked to the door, locked it with a definitive click, then turned off the overhead lights, leaving only a single amber lamp by the table. The room shrank to a pool of intimacy around them.
She approached, her movements deliberate. She didn’t pour gel. She simply climbed onto the table, straddling his hips, her lace-covered cunt hovering inches above his rigid shaft. She leaned forward, her breasts level with his face. “You can touch,” she whispered. “But you don’t get to decide a goddamn thing.”
Her permission was a cage. He reached up, hands trembling, and cupped her breasts through the lace. They were heavy, real. He thumbed her nipples, feeling them peak instantly. A sharp intake of breath hissed through her teeth. He looked up and her eyes were locked on his, commanding his gaze, just as they had during the blowjob. This was the rule now: he had to watch her watch him defile her.
She arched her back, offering herself to his hands and mouth. He pulled the lace aside, took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue circling the stiff peak. She ground down against him, the heat of her through the thin fabric of her thong maddening. “You like that, uncle?” she moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling. “You like having my tits in your mouth?”
He groaned, his hips bucking, seeking friction. She denied him, lifting herself away. “Not yet.” She shifted down his body, her mouth leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down his sternum, over his abdomen. She licked a stripe up the underside of his cock, then took him deep, her throat working. He cried out, his hands fisting in the linen. She pulled off with a pop. “I want you to fuck me,” she said, her voice ragged. “I want you to fuck me until I can’t remember my own name.”
She hooked her thumbs into her thong, peeled it down her legs, and kicked it aside. Then she rose above him, one hand guiding him, the other braced on his chest. She sank down slowly, an exquisite, burning inch at a time, her eyes never leaving his. He watched her flinch, saw her jaw tighten as she took him all, the full, impossible length until their bodies were welded together. She was so tight he saw stars, a slick, clenching heat that threatened to end him immediately.
“Now,” she breathed, and began to move.
It wasn’t the frantic, angry piston of yesterday. This was a deep, rolling grind, a claiming. She used her thighs to lift and drop, controlling every fraction of penetration. He gripped her hips, trying to guide the rhythm, but she slapped his hands away. “Mine,” she snarled. So he just watched, transfixed, as she rode him, her head thrown back, her breasts swaying, her body a masterpiece of lewd mechanics. The wet sound of their joining filled the room, a rhythmic, obscene applause.
The pill worked a cruel magic. Time dissolved into a sweat-smeared continuum of sensation. He rolled her over, pressing her into the table, driving into her from behind, his hands gripping the meat of her ass, spreading her wide. She screamed into the linen, a muffled, broken sound. Then she was on top again, facing him, one of her hands snaking between them to rub furious circles on her clit as she bounced. Her face was a mask of ferocious concentration, then utter abandonment.
“Paul… fucking… Paul!” Her chant became a shriek as an orgasm detonated inside her. Her inner muscles spasmed around his cock in a violent, rhythmic clutch, and her eyes, wide and wild, demanded he witness it. He did, feeling his own release gather like a storm, held back only by the chemical tyranny in his blood.
They moved to the floor, gel slicking their bodies, allowing every slide, every obscene configuration. He licked her cunt until she came again, shuddering, her heels drumming on the polished concrete. She knelt before him, took him back into her mouth, swallowed him to the root until he gagged her, then mounted him again in a single, savage impalement. They were animals in a beautiful, filthy zoo of their own making, learning the map of each other’s responses: the spot behind her ear that made her gasp, the angle that made his vision blur.
He was inside her, on his back, her knees pinning his arms, when he felt the pressure become unbearable. His balls were drawn up tight, a painful ache. She saw it in his face, felt the erratic pulse in his cock. She leaned down, her sweat dripping onto his lips. “Cum in me,” she commanded, her voice raw. “Fill up your little Charlie one last time.”
The permission shattered him. With a roar that tore his throat, he erupted, a seemingly endless geyser of release pumping into her depths. She collapsed atop him, her own second—or third, or fourth—orgasm ripping through her simultaneously, a wordless, keening cry against his neck. Their bodies convulsed together in a final, messy synchronicity.
For a long time, there was only the rasp of their breathing and the cooling stickiness between them. The chemical engine was finally spent. Reality seeped back in with the cold of the floor against his back. He was ruinously empty. She pushed herself off him, her movements slow, spent. She didn't look at him as she found a towel, began cleaning herself.
“Three-hour booking means you have forty-five minutes of recovery time,” she said, her voice flat, professional. The monster they’d fed was gone, leaving only the wreckage. “Shower’s there. I’ll have your clothes.”
He stumbled to the shower. The water couldn’t wash away the knowledge. They had crossed into a place with no metaphor, no polite fiction. He had fucked his best friend’s daughter into a state beyond speech, and she had orchestrated it. Dressed again, he looked at her. She was in her kimono, hair tied back up, the perfect employee.
“My trip ends tomorrow,” he said, the words ash in his mouth.
“I know.” She didn’t meet his eye. “Front desk will settle the three hours. Have a safe flight, Mr. Gillespie.”
He left. In the serene hallway, he understood this was the last time. For this trip. The unspoken “for now” hung in the fragrant air, a promise as terrifying as any sin already committed. Back in the staff area, Charlie leaned against the wall, the phantom pulses of her own body a relentless accusation. She counted the hours until her shift ended, and the money was hers, and the memory could be temporarily boxed away. The phone in her pocket buzzed—a text from her dad, Mark: Dinner Sunday? Paul’s coming over! She stared at the screen, the letters swimming, and a cold, clear understanding settled in her gut. This was her life now. This was the price.