A Normal Conversation
The bathroom door swung open with a soft squeak, releasing a puff of steam into the living room.
The young woman stepped out barefoot, her hair still damp and clinging gently to her neck. She was wrapped in nothing but a white bath towel—tucked tight under her arms and barely reaching mid-thigh. Her walk had a slight limp to it, each step uneven, like her hips and thighs were still sore from a long, exhausting workout. But it wasn’t the gym she went to last night.
Beneath that towel, her body was a masterpiece. Her curves flowed in all the right places—tight waist, full hips, smooth thighs. The outline of her figure beneath the damp fabric left little to the imagination. If the towel slipped just an inch, the whole apartment complex might’ve gone silent.
She plopped down on the couch next to her mom, who sat comfortably in pajamas, half-watching TV while peeling an orange.
The girl sighed. “I quit.”
Her mom didn’t look away from the screen. “The job?”
“Yeah. I quit being a professional prostitute.”
Her mom finally turned her head a little, but only to glance briefly at her daughter’s legs before nodding with calm acceptance—like she’d just heard the most normal thing in the world.
“That fast?”
“Mm-hmm. One shift.”
Her mom pulled another slice of orange, then paused. “Are you sure? You know how hard it is to land something like that? Those interviews aren’t easy. That’s a competitive position. You passed.”
The girl gave a tired little laugh. “Thanks, I guess.”
She pulled the towel tighter around her chest and leaned back into the couch, legs curled up beneath her.
“I thought it’d be easy money. Thirty, forty grand a month? But after one night, I was done. It’s way more tiring than I expected. And… something just felt off.”
Her mom nodded again. “Then don’t go back.”
She offered her daughter a slice of orange. “You’re young. Try stuff. Quit fast. That’s what this phase is for. Just don’t stick with anything that drags you down.”
The girl smiled faintly. “Yeah.”
She paused, then added quietly,
“I mean… I did get my master’s degree in accounting. Maybe I should just start applying for some low-paid desk jobs, like everyone else.”
Her mom let out a soft sigh and said plainly,
“That’d be a waste of your beauty.”
She gave a small, fake smile
Then her mom asked, almost offhandedly, “So what happened last night?”
The smile faded.
The girl stared ahead, eyes slowly losing focus.
Outside, thunder rolled in the distance.
And the scene began to dissolve—
Back to the storm.
Back to that night.
Premium Sex Service Only
It was a stormy, thunderous night.
Inside the massage parlor, everything was still.
Rain slammed the windows like fists. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the empty street in split-second bursts. The young woman stood near the window, wrapped in a thin robe, silently watching the storm.
There wasn’t a single person outside.
The rain had chased everyone off the street. No cars, no footsteps, just wind and water. It looked like the world had emptied itself out.
And then—
A man came flying across the street, skidding full-length across the soaked asphalt.
He hit a wide puddle, and water exploded outward in both directions—just like a car tire slashing through it. The splash arced up and crashed against both sides of the curb.
He only stopped when his back slammed against a utility pole with a dull, wet thump.
It was Chief Grayson.
He wore a drenched police uniform, half-slumped against the pole, dazed. His infamous combover had been destroyed by the rain—long strands of hair from the left side now dangled down like dead seaweed across his face.
Less than a second later, a second figure walked into frame.
Calm. Steady.
White button-up shirt.
Golden-rimmed glasses.
His fist was still clenched.
It was Michael.
Grayson threw up both hands, panicked. “Please! Please don’t hurt me!”
Michael stepped forward, voice cold and quiet.
“How dare you try to enjoy a premium sex service without paying? You’re not broke.”
He adjusted his glasses.
“The fee is $150. Plus a $150 penalty for wasting my time. Total: $300.”
Grayson stammered. “Isn’t that a bit much?!”
Michael didn’t answer.
He gestured to the body lying face-down nearby, headless.
“That guy owed me only $70.”
Then he turned back, calm as ever.
“You’re lucky you’re the police chief. That’s the only reason I’m going a little easy on you.”
He reached down and grabbed the long strand of Grayson’s combover, yanking him upright like wet laundry.
“That’s why your head’s still attached.”
“AAAH—wait! Careful with my hair!” Grayson yelped. “I only have two sides left!”
Michael stared blankly.
Grayson, shaking, dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of rain-soaked cash. He handed over the $300 with both hands.
Whether or not he pissed himself in fear—
Well, in weather like this, there was no way to tell.
The First Time for Both
The storm outside hadn’t let up. Rain crashed down in sheets, soaking everything. The street below was empty—completely deserted. Not a soul in sight.
A man stood outside the massage parlor, holding a small black umbrella.
His outfit was stiff and old-fashioned: dark pants, an outdated suit jacket, and a white shirt buttoned all the way to the top. His hair was neatly parted and combed flat like he hadn’t updated his look in twenty years.
His name was Marvel.
The same man who snapped another guy’s forearm clean just a few days ago.
But now, standing in front of this building, he looked hesitant—almost anxious. He wasn’t here to fight.
He was here because he was a virgin.
And tonight, he was thinking about doing something he’d never done before.
His plan, at first, was simple: sneak in, get the service, and slip out without paying. Dash it and dash.
But just as he was working up the nerve to go inside…
he saw something that changed everything.
Across the street, a police officer went flying, skidding across the wet road and crashing into a pole. Then, a man in a soaked white button-up shirt and golden-rimmed glasses stepped into view. Michael.
Marvel saw him calmly speak to the officer, gesture toward a headless body nearby, then pull cash from the terrified man’s pocket.
Marvel didn’t stick around.
He turned around and disappeared into the storm.
—
Thirty minutes later, he returned.
Still holding his umbrella, but now with a white envelope in hand.
He climbed the stairs slowly, face blank, mind steady. He had gone to the bank. He had made up his mind.
At the top of the stairs, the young woman greeted him gently.
She was wrapped in a soft robe. Her face was fresh, calm, a little curious.
“Good evening,” she said.
Marvel gave a small nod. “I… I’m interested in the premium sex service.”
She looked at him—his stiff posture, the way his shirt was buttoned to the very top, and the tension clinging to his fingers.
Without thinking, she muttered aloud, almost to herself:
“…Oh. He must be a virgin.”
The words slipped out before she realized.
She blinked. “Ah—sorry! That just came out. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
Marvel flinched.
His eyes widened, and he took a step back like someone had just seen through his clothes.
“Y-yeah…” he stammered. “How… how did you know?”
She smiled nervously. “I didn’t. I was just thinking out loud. Sorry.”
He looked away, clearly rattled.
Then he cleared his throat. “…How much is it?”
“$150.”
Marvel hesitated. His hand went into the envelope and gently touched the folded bills.
“I’m really tight on money lately,” he said. “Could you maybe… lower it a bit?”
She paused.
She didn’t want to lose her first customer.
But she also didn’t want to start her first day by lowering her price.
Still, she gave in.
“I’ll do 30% off,” she said quietly.
“…So that’s $100?”
She nodded. “Yeah. That works.”
Marvel pulled the cash from his envelope and handed it over with both hands.
She accepted it gently, then reached out and took his hand—slow, careful, warm.
“Come on in.”
She led him into the massage room, fingers lightly wrapped around his.
Marvel followed, his heart pounding.
Her hand felt soft. Softer than he imagined.
And for a moment… he felt genuinely happy.
A Gentle Start
The room was dimly lit, soaked in a soft red glow. The lights hummed faintly overhead, casting a romantic haze across the walls. It was quiet inside—only the muffled sound of rain tapping against the windows broke the stillness.
Marvel sat stiffly on the edge of the massage bed. His hands were planted on his knees, posture locked, and his eyes darted everywhere except forward. He looked like someone waiting for a surprise exam—nervous, frozen, and trying not to breathe too loud.
The young woman stepped in from the side and slowly approached him. Her robe hung loosely around her figure, tied casually at the waist. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid way he held his back, the sweat starting to form just above his collarbone.
“Don’t be nervous,” she said softly, her voice like warm water.
Marvel gave a slight nod, swallowing hard.
Without another word, she untied the sash at her waist.
The robe parted and slid off her shoulders, letting gravity do the rest. It slipped down her body and pooled softly at her feet.
She stood fully nude under the red light, skin still glistening from the shower. Her breasts were pointy and perky, and with each step forward, they bounced softly—subtle and natural. Her whole body moved with quiet confidence, graceful and unashamed.
She smiled at Marvel gently, and then leaned in to press a light kiss to his forehead.
Marvel froze. His entire body began to tremble.
He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. It was as if his mind had stalled—but his body hadn’t. A rush surged through him, hot and uncontrollable.
His adrenaline exploded.
In that moment, something inside him snapped. His breath caught. His pants bulged sharply as his junk grew stiff and steep, pressing hard against the fabric—until it punched through and stuck out in public like a long rod.
He didn’t bother taking his clothes off.
His humanity faded in an instant, swallowed by raw instinct. He morphed into a beast.
He lunged.
The bed cracked as he landed on her. It rocked back and forth in rhythm.
Clunk…
Then again.
Clunk… clunk…
Their motion started slow, like a train pulling out of a quiet station—hesitant, uneven.
Then the tempo picked up. The bed frame echoed louder, sharper, like wheels clacking over track plates in perfect rhythm.
She smiled, and for a moment, they just looked at each other.
Marvel reached out and gently caressed her breasts. She let out a soft gasp.
Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in close.
Marvel lowered his head and kissed her—fast, messy, desperate.
His tongue pushed into her mouth, spinning wildly like a jet engine.
Without warning, he slipped down to her cheek, licking all the way across.
Then, his tongue circled gently around her areola, slow and focused—for a good ten seconds.
Suddenly, he shouted:
“MACHINE GUN LICK!”
He flicked his tongue across her nipple—quick, light, like a snake—
while one hand squeezed her other breast with reckless enthusiasm.
Her gasps grew louder with each movement—but it didn’t matter. The storm outside was loud. No one could hear. As the heat built, a splash of warm lubricant hit Marvel’s face.
A deep, content feeling spread through her as she moved her thighs in rhythm beneath him.
The Strongest Discount
Though he had no real combat experience, Marvel moved like he’d trained for years.
He had learned every move from porn, and practiced them obsessively in his mind.
Sitting. Climbing. Squatting. Standing. Holding.
He circled through all the sets—again and again, non-stop…
She didn’t expect it at first.
But it happened—once… then again…
And again.
Her legs twitched, her fingers curled, and her voice let out loud gasps each time. She wasn’t counting, but by the fifth orgasm, she started to panic a little.
This isn’t normal, she thought. This guy’s not human.
It wasn’t even pleasure anymore—it was too much pleasure.
Like being tickled past the point of laughter, or forced to laugh when your stomach already hurts.
Then came the dryness.
Totally depleted of lubrication.
Her body had stopped responding—no more warmth, no more flow.
It was just raw skin, grinding.
Every thrust rubbed against the sore spots like sandpaper on a burn.
She clenched her teeth. She shifted her hips, trying to adjust, to make it bearable—but nothing helped.
And still, Marvel kept going.
At one point, his rhythm turned unnatural.
His hips began snapping forward at high speed—sharp, relentless, almost mechanical.
Tap tap tap tap tap—
His thrusts moved like a woodpecker on crack.
Each thrust landed with mechanical precision, the kind of ridiculous speed that shouldn’t be possible outside of anime or malfunctioning robots.
Then he yelled it—
“MACHINE GUN FUCK!!”
It wasn’t a joke.
It was his final form.
His hips went wild, vibrating like a jackhammer.
She winced.
Her hands clutched the edge of the massage bed—until the pain in her lower body grew sharp, piercing, unmistakably real.
It was no longer sex. It was survival.
Please, she thought. Please finish.
But she said nothing.
Not a word of protest.
Because she was a professional.
Even as her expression twisted from fatigue, even as her eyes watered from the sting, she forced a weak smile—just to keep the mood alive.
Just to help him finish.
Because this was her job.
And in her mind, she whispered:
I will never offer a discount again.
—
Time slipped by—five hours, then six.
Her body had long gone numb. Muscles drained, nerves dulled, she simply gripped the sheets tighter and endured. No more sounds came from her lips. Not out of peace—but because the sensations had crossed into something she couldn’t even describe anymore.
Then—
Crack.
One of the massage bed’s legs snapped clean off.
The frame tipped and tilted.
Slow at first.
Then it suddenly shifted — and dropped fast.
As they slid off, the girl instinctively clung to Marvel. Her body pressed tightly against his—urgent, automatic. Her chest slammed into his, and her breasts, like two soft, elastic rubber balls, mashed hard against him.
The sheer pressure and tension from the contact sent his arousal surging past its limit.
In that exact moment, Marvel lost control.
A sharp jolt fired through his body. His thighs clenched.
And mid-fall, a powerful release erupted from deep within—like a shockwave tearing through him.
A silent blast. A full-body tremor.
Like a Kamehameha blast shooting out—unstoppable, raw, and tearing through the condom before landing deep inside her uterus. She felt a warm rush deep inside her, filling her to the core, like something was being claimed—unseen but undeniable.
Marvel let out a wild beast’s roar.
And then, at last…
The storm cleared.
Marvel had long gone.
She still lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Her legs remained wide apart—couldn’t close, her lower half completely spent, with thick white semen slowly leaking out from between her parted lips.
The Day After
The next morning, Marvel sat at his small desk, a soft ray of sunlight brushing over his notebook. He held a black pen between his fingers, writing carefully—each stroke slow, thoughtful, like he didn’t want to forget a single detail.
“Yesterday was the happiest day of my life,” he wrote. “I feel like I’ve entered a new phase of adulthood. My virginity is gone, and I’m glad it happened with someone so kind… so beautiful… and not to mention, that body—wow. Those eight hours felt like eternity.”
He smiled to himself as he paused, tapping the pen on the edge of the desk. His heart was light.
But in another part of the city, at that same hour, a girl slowly rose beside a broken massage bed.
She moved carefully—aching, drained. Her robe barely hung on as she wrapped it around her sore body. Her eyes were tired, not just from lack of sleep, but from the weight of disappointment.
She thought back to last night… to the man with his shirt buttoned all the way up, who had looked so shy and polite.
“There’s no way that guy was a virgin,” she muttered to herself, bitterness thick in her voice. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”
She limped to the sink, splashing water on her face, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked worn down—physically and emotionally.
“I could’ve endured the pain. But being lied to…”
She shook her head. That was what stung the most.
More than the soreness, more than the exhaustion—she hated being lied to.
After a long pause, she took a breath and said aloud, with quiet finality:
“I’m withdrawing from this industry. Indefinitely.”