Chapter 5

Jalen’s POV

“Jalen, you’ve been booked for a private session,” the receptionist said as I was slipping my phone into my locker. 

“Client paid in advance and requested you by name.”

I paused. That alone was unusual.

“Who is it?” I asked.

There was a brief pause on the line, “Mr. Kristofer Hayes.”

For a second, my body reacted before my mind caught up. Heat, confusion, something like irritation. 

I told myself it must be someone else's name. I told myself a lot of things that morning.

When I walked into the room and saw him, I forgot every one of them.

He was already there, seated and ready for the massage session. 

He looked exactly like he had that night and nothing like he should have in my workplace.

“What are you doing here?” I asked before I could stop myself, I was scared. 

He looked up calmly. “Getting a massage.”

I scoffed. “I understand that, but you booked a private session.”

“Yes.”

“With me.”

“Yes.”

“The fuck is with all this yesses, that’s not normal.”

He studied my face like I’d said something mildly interesting. 

“You’re asking too many questions.”

Then he lay down.

That was it. No one said anything about the night, I had a feeling he came to taunt me or something, but it didn't seem like that anymore.

Just his body positioned like this was routine, like he hadn’t been inside me just two days ago.

My hands hesitated before touching him. I forced myself to be professional, neutral and controlled.

The silence was loud. I worked quickly, pretending the memory wasn’t pressing at the back of my skull. 

The hotel. The way he’d watched me. The way I hadn’t felt useless even once. I had flashbacks of just how great the sex was. 

“You’re rushing,” he said.

“I have a schedule.”

“You set the pace,” he replied. “Use it.”

I didn’t respond.

When the session ended, I stepped back immediately. He stood, unbothered, and reached into his wallet.

He handed me the tip without comment.

Two thousand dollars.

I stared at it. “This is too much.”

“Nothing is too much for you,” he said, already slipping his jacket back on. “No.”

Then he left.

No goodbye. No explanation.

He came back two days later. Then again. Then again.

Always private. Always prepaid, and the worst part was that it was always me. 

It stopped feeling like coincidence and started feeling like structure.

The sessions were always professional. He spoke only when necessary. He controlled the silence, the timing, the end. 

I felt observed, not in a way that stripped me, but in a way that measured me.

Each visit, the tip increased.

Each visit, my unease grew alongside something darker. Something that didn’t feel like fear.

We never spoke about that night. Not once. The omission felt deliberate, like a rule I hadn’t agreed to but was expected to follow.

The power imbalance sat between us, heavy and undeniable. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t cross lines.

Which somehow made it worse. Johnny noticed the frequent private sessions between me and Kristofer. 

“Your rich sugar daddy is back,” he said one afternoon, leaning against the counter with forced casualness.

“He’s a client.”

“Yeah. A devoted one. Devoted to Jalen.”

I ignored the tone. Johnny didn’t press, but he lingered more. Found excuses to brush past me. To touch my arm. My waist. Like he needed proof I was still there.

The sarcasm turned into silence. The silence turned into distance.

That evening as I was rounding up, Natalia texted me.

‘Amusement park? I miss you.’

I typed sure before I could think too hard about how little enthusiasm I felt.

When we met up, I bought her cotton candy and we ate it while strolling around the park. 

I tried to be present in the conversation, but something about it just felt overwhelming, and she noticed it. 

“You’re not here,” she said gently as we walked. “You’ve been… gone.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

I didn’t know how to explain that I was splitting at the seams. That every version of myself wanted something different.

I changed the subject. She let me.

When I walked her home, she hugged me longer than usual. Like she was memorizing something, and the kiss was better than the usual ones I got from her. 

I got back to my place and kicked off my shoes.

The doorbell rang. I wasn't expecting anyone. 

I frowned and opened it.

Johnny stood there.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. “You could’ve told me you were coming.”

He stepped inside without waiting. “I need permission to visit my boyfriend?”

“No.”

The word landed heavier than I intended.

He turned, eyes sharp. “We haven't spent time together in a while, so I decided to stop by.”

“oh, great, I think I have what I prepared in the morning in the fridge, I'll just heat it up.” I said. 

“Nah, no need to stress yourself.” 

An awkward silence befell us at that moment, he proceeded to hug me. “I love you so much Jalen. I don't want to lose you….” 

But before he could say any other word, his mouth found mine, rushed, sloppy, no buildup, no romance.

Just need. I kissed back because that’s what we did, but it felt like going through motions. His hands were already under my shirt, shoving it up, palms rough against my skin.

We didn’t make it to the bedroom. He pushed me back until my ass hit the arm of the couch, then turned me so I was half-bent over it, facing the blank TV.

I braced my hands on the cushions. He dropped to his knees behind me, no preamble, no eye contact, and yanked my jeans and boxers down in one impatient tug.

His mouth was on my dick before I could process it. Hot, wet, no teasing. 

He took me in deep right away, sucking hard, tongue flat and insistent along the underside. 

I hardened in his mouth out of pure reflex, hips twitching forward despite myself. It felt good, physically, sure, but distant. 

Like my body was responding to a script while the rest of me watched from across the room. He didn’t look up. 

Didn’t hum or moan or make it personal. Just worked me efficiently, spit slicking down my shaft, one hand braced on my thigh, the other cupping my balls and rolling them like he was checking off boxes.

I stared at the wall, breath shallow. Didn’t thread my fingers in his hair. Didn’t whisper anything. Just let him do it until my cock was leaking and throbbing, until he pulled off with a wet pop and stood up.

He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, then lined up. One steady push and he was inside, no warning beyond the spit, the stretch burning sharp for a second before it dulled into fullness. 

He fucked me fast, hips snapping, the couch creaking under us. 

No words. Just his grunts, the slap of skin, my own quiet exhales. I didn’t rock back. Didn’t meet him. 

Just took it, body loose, mind numb. My dick stayed half-hard between my legs, untouched now, bobbing uselessly with every thrust. 

I didn’t reach for it. Didn’t care enough to chase anything. He came quick, maybe two minutes in, burying deep with a low groan, hips stuttering as he spilled inside me.

I felt the warmth spread, the pulse of him, then nothing. 

He pulled out almost immediately, softening already, a trickle of his cum leaking out and down my thigh. 

He wiped himself on the edge of his shirt without a second thought, then the rustle: underwear up, jeans zipped, shirt smoothed. 

He didn’t even sit down to tie his shoes properly, just bent, laced them fast.

I stayed bent over the couch arm, pants around my thighs, ass still slick and open, cooling in the air, his release slowly dripping. 

I didn't move nor speak. I felt emptiness settle deeper than before, not just physically, I felt used. 

Convenient. Like I was the nearest place to unload whatever itch he’d carried in tonight.

He finally looked at me, expression blank, already halfway to the door.

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” The lock clicked behind him. I straightened slowly, pulled my clothes back up over the mess he’d left, and sat on the couch where we’d just fucked.