So Strange and Wild Ch. 01: The Magician

"Oh yeah?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

"Mr. Rocchi," she chided, "please be respectful."

Stepping lightly to the head of the table, she faced down the length of my body. I found myself looking up at the loose curve of her tee and her head above me, bowed in seeming concentration.

As I watched her cautiously, her gaze flicked to my face. "Most people close their eyes for this," she said, amused.

"I'm sure."

For some reason, she giggled at that, and I was happy to learn Ayame's laugh had a goofy, burbling quality. It helped temper her sharp tongue, her sadness.

She held her hands in the air for a moment, like a conductor readying her orchestra. Then her fingers dug into my scalp, and the room fell away. Tingles shot down my spine to my toes, and calm washed in like the tide. True calm. Not the blank affect I deployed like a weapon. Not the peace I was hunting in my heart. Just a temporary stillness, brought forth by Ayame's questing thumbs and fingers.

The girl was talented.

"Christ," I said aloud.

"Told you, fucker," she grunted.

The minutes dripped away as she thrummed my skull and neck and shoulders, working steadily down and outward. She sometimes reached for oil from her holster, but she used it sparingly--just enough to keep her hands gliding across my flesh, seamless, as if we were subtly joined at her fingertips. Her thumbs brushed over my collar bone--and kept going. Then her nails grazed my nipples, which drew a gasp from me and a delighted croon from her.

"There he is," she said. "Hi! You enjoying yourself?"

It could have been an innocent question--a massage therapist checking on her client's comfort--but I knew she had meant it to thrill. The flooding tingles began to pool at my crotch, and I felt my cock hum faintly with excitement, lifting free of my balls.

Ayame gave my nipples a teasing pinch, pleased with herself. Then she picked up my right arm, the injured one, and began methodically working the joints. Her thumb dipped into my armpit for a moment, tugging gently on the dark hairs, smoothing them. It was a strangely intimate gesture, and she repeated it with my left arm, then worked her slick hands down my sides. When she drew her hands back up, she dragged her nails across my ribs, sending shivers all over my torso.

"You love that, don't you?" she asked, observing me. Enjoying all the ways she could make me tremble under her touch.

"I think I'm just a little cold," I said.

"Oh, you're definitely that, Mr. Rocchi," she replied, pumping a pool of oil into her hands and holding it there, heating it. "But I bet I can help. How's this?"

She opened her hands to drizzle the oil across my stomach, then flicked her fingers to shake off the last warm, silken droplets. A little of it splashed on my chest and chin, and God help me, my hips twitched. My cock skipped up my thigh, making an immodest tent in the towel.

"Familiar sensation?" Ayame asked softly, using one fingertip to trace lines in the spilt oil. Swirling it around my bellybutton.

"No," I croaked. "This is all ... very new to me."

"I could ask about your work, if you like? Your life? Some clients want that shit, but I'm guessing you"--she drove her thumbs the length of my breastbone--"would prefer I didn't pry."

"No questions," I agreed. "Unless you want to answer more of mine?"

She gave me the same scowl she had worn when we met. "I thought we were past that."

"You've got a knack for this. Jax knew that. Knew it ... firsthand." I had to gasp my way through that last sentence; Ayame had taken the cue to dip her fingertips under the hem of the towel and inch it down, revealing the fringes of my pubic hair. Meanwhile, my cock was straining hard against a fold in the cotton, begging to be freed.

"So?" she whispered.

"So he saw your potential. You were making steady money, but he had bigger ideas. Right? He knew the 'scene,' as you called it. The world available to a pretty girl with skillful hands."

Ayame's scowl deepened. "It wasn't that simple. Jax loved me."

"I bet he did, Ayame. You seem easy to love."

She shot me a suspicious glare. Then shook herself off and repositioned at the table's middle. Laying both palms flat on my stomach, she began making small, vague circles over the skin. Gentle. Like she was soothing a wounded animal.

"I can't figure you out, detective," she said. "One second you look at me like I'm furniture, or housework. A thing sitting in your way. The next?" She ran the heels of her hands along the hem of the towel. "I can feel you eyefuck me into the carpet."

Then she shifted her stance and casually let the underside of her wrist run the length of my cock. Even through the cotton, we could feel each other's heat. She turned to look at me with an eyebrow arched, awaiting my response.

I kept it simple: "You're very good at your job."

She shrugged and lifted her wrist, letting my dick spring fully erect. The gleaming helmet swung out from under the towel, and Ayame stared down at it with a look of satisfaction. She had exposed my lust--furious and real.

"The job pays the bills," she murmured, working the pump at her head again, her eyes never leaving my cock. "And it's fun learning someone else's body. What brings them relief." She wove her fingers together, spreading the oil, and produced a series of loud, vulgar squelches. "It can feel so good to earn that ... tip."

I pressed onward: "Why'd you go to Fourteen that one time? Who did Jax want you to meet?"

Shaking her head, she curled the fingers of her right hand around my head, cradling my cock in one dripping fist. I could feel the ridge and glide of each finger, the subtle adjustments she made to enfold me with carnal precision.

"No more questions, detective." She twisted her grip a mere quarter-inch, and my hips bucked clear off the table. The grunt that escaped me was feral. "Just let me take care of this."

The words echoed through my skull. Let her ... take care of me? No. I couldn't.

I tried to sit up, to reassert myself, but Ayame jammed my ribs with her left elbow and eased me down again, using most of her strength. She leaned in close to my face, her hair tickling the skin of my shoulder. Dark eyes and dark mouth, smirking. "You sure you don't want this, Mr. Rocchi? I promise I'm fucking gifted at it."

She straightened cautiously, watching to see if I'd struggle upright. When she was satisfied I wouldn't move again, she used her left hand to send the towel floorward, leaving me naked and all but writing on the table. My manhood clasped in her elegant, glistening fingers.

Through gritted teeth, I asked, "Why did Jax take you to Fourteen?"

"To do this," she said calmly, swirling her fingers around my pulsing head, "for a very special client."

Her cheeks were flushed, but I couldn't tell if the cause was shame, arousal--or both. She slid her fist down my length, appraising it. My veins surged under the pressure, gleaming with oil and hardness, and Ayame offered an almost imperceptible nod. She approved.

"Who was the client?"

To shut me up, she tried some long, complete strokes, base to tip. That left me clinging feverishly to the fake leather, as if my whole body might spring from the table in pursuit of her touch.

"Who, Ayame?" I managed.

She transferred my cock to her left hand and a fresh set of sensations, the pleasure of an unfamiliar angle. With her right, she cupped and polished my balls, drenching them with oil. All of me was flashing between her fingers now, full and proud and aching. The sounds were obscene.

"Listen, you can play with me later," I moaned, betraying myself. "I need to know wh--"

Her scowl deepened, and she redoubled her efforts: her left hand flipped over, forming a tight fist to meet my needy thrusts; and her right hand roved lower, to my perineum, till her nails were trailing toward the most hidden part of me.

"I said no more questions," she hissed, as her middle finger sought my asshole.

I knew that if she reached it, I might spurt helplessly into her fist. So I did the only thing I could think of to distract myself; I clapped my right palm to Ayame's ass and pawed at her bike shorts. Trying to claw back some control.

"No touching," she said blandly, but she didn't move to stop me. She let me tug at the material, peeling it down her broad, brown flank. I vainly clutched at the flesh of her ass while she tended to my cock. And probed my depths. "You're so bad," she added cheerfully. "So fucking demanding."

"Ayame, I need to know what went wrong. With Jax, Fourteen. I need--"

"You need this," she whispered, and her finger slipped into my ass, driving slickly toward my heart.

I spasmed into her touch, all of me. Saw stars, a blank heaven. My back arched off the leather, and for a terrifying instant the cum surged up my shaft, threatening to leave me. Instead, I slapped Ayame's hands away, grabbed at them, wrapped them both in mine and swung her clear of the table.

She yelped--"The fuck, dude?"--but I was already free of the leather, yanking her with me, dragging her down to the floor. We fell in a heap on the carpet, and the table nearly came after us; Ayame squirmed against my weight, indignant, but we both knew she wasn't trying hard enough. No knees or nails, no teeth. No yelling. If she'd wanted to slow me down, she could have.

"No touching," she grunted, the air knocked out of her. "Stupid fucking pig."

"If you want me to stop, say so," I hissed, my hand busy between her legs--rolling down her shorts, tearing them away. "Otherwise, shut the fuck up."

"You think this is what I want?"

"Tell me it isn't, Ayame. Right now. Say it." My hand hovered over her exposed vulva, poised to strike. I could feel the warmth wafting from her.

Silence. She had gone still, stopped struggling. But her breaths were rapid, and her scent was everywhere. Her face was the picture of desire.

"If you don't want this, say so," I said, more gently. "Otherwise, I'm going to take it. OK?"

I waited for her assent--a brief, breathless nod. Then I plunged two fingers into her cunt.

Ayame was sopping wet. Molten. A mess. There was no need to ease into this, no time spent tracing and teasing her luscious folds. She purred as my fingers sank to the knuckles, and as I began to fuck her pussy with strong, thick fingers, she let out one of those burbling, giddy chuckles--as if she couldn't believe she was letting me do this. Then I placed my thumb gently on her hood, and she started up a steady stream of expletives. I somehow knew she wouldn't stop till I was done.

"Fucking fuck, fuck, fuuuck you. Fuck, that feels so fucking--"

I let her babble excitedly, urging me on. I tangled my left hand in her hair and turned her head to look at me. She was doe-eyed again and quaking, lost in my headlights. With one fist in her hair and the other at her crotch, I worked her over with slow, vengeful strokes, my fingers curling upward. Coaxing her nectar into my palm. Meanwhile, my thumb brushed past her clit, again and again, till her ass jumped off the floor.

"Fuck you, detective. Fuck your long fingers and your dumb fucking cock and your haggard face. Old fucking man and his pretty fucking eyes that won't stop fucking me--"

"Tell me how you really feel," I snickered, adding a little more pressure with my thumb. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ayame's hand snaking toward my manhood, craving its heft and heat. I knelt on her arm to cut her off, then leaned in close, just as she'd done to me. "Or just tell me to stop. Is that what you want, Ayame? You want me to stop?"

She made a strangled noise of contempt. "If you stop now, detective, I'll fucking scream."

"Scream anyway," I grunted. "Scream your pretty little head off."

Turned out she was more than ready. Her swearing turned staccato, then guttural, then rose to a long, ragged squeal. By the end, she was laughing at her own noises, her eyelashes wet with joy. I stopped moving my fingers, but I kept my hand clamped between her legs, and she continued to gratefully rock her mound against my palm. I waited out the motion, holding her neck and crotch in my hands. When I finally released her, I found the carpet between her legs was soaked.

"Ayame," I murmured, calling her back from a temporary bliss.

"Yes, detective?"

"Tell me what you know about Fourteen."

She sighed and rolled away from me, facing the rattan wardrobe instead. I didn't push it. Just let her draw three shaking breaths. At last, she raised a limp arm and pointed at the gap beneath furniture and the carpet.

"Cops didn't take everything," she said sadly.

I scooched toward the wardrobe--naked and erect, not caring--and slid my hand underneath it. There was a sheaf of paper there, tacky to the touch. When I pulled it out, I realized I was holding a set of printed photographs. Flipping through them, I saw Ayame and Jax, their relationship in sequence. Smiling, laughing, posing for the camera, or caught unawares, one snapping the other candidly. The backdrops were fairgrounds, bars, bedrooms. A forest at twilight. Fireworks over the parking lot. Jax looked every bit the Republican failson: blond and confident, gone to seed. He sported greaser denim and hollow cheeks, a motley set of stick-and-poke tattoos. No wonder his portrait had carried the news. Next to him, Ayame looked the same, just happier; her smile was wide and toothy, and very nearly unafraid. That was over now, behind her. Lost to the past.

The last photo was a foursome: Ayame and Jax on the left, another couple--older--on the right. All of them beaming for the camera. There were bottles on the table in front of them, a smear of lightless, velvet cavern behind: a nightclub booth.

"Club Fourteen," I said aloud, as Ayame got to her feet.

"Congrats, you cracked the case," she sighed, hugging herself. She was naked except for her band T-shirt, which wasn't quite long enough to hide her dark thatch of pubic hair. But she didn't make a move to retrieve her shorts. Just watched me silently, waiting for the inevitable question.

"Who's this?" I asked, tapping the first stranger in the photograph. Not the flowy, abundant blonde woman, but her date--a husband? The man had a bad goatee and no neck. Wide mustard lapels under a brown jacket. And he was the only one of the four not smiling.

Ayame stepped close to me, smelling of her sex. "Floyd Weyman," she said, looking at the man with veiled disgust. "And his wife, Marlena. She's nice. You might have seen her on YouTube."

"Why? What's her deal?"

"I can't do all your fucking homework," Ayame said, trying and failing to smile; her eyes were fixed on Weyman. "But search for 'Marlena ASMR.' That's her handle. And Floyd's her 'agent,' whatever the fuck that means. Also a 'serial entrepreneur,' 'founder,' and 'digital consultant.'" She made a jerkoff motion in the air with one hand, and my softening cock perked up again, recalling her touch.

"I'm guessing Jax was looking for pointers?" I said, laying the pictures on the nearby window sill. I did it carefully, knowing what they meant to her.

"Right. His big idea was to start filming my sessions. Most would be for YouTube and Patreon. 'Relaxation' stuff, tingles, me whispering and tapping my nails. Then longer, paywalled cuts. OnlyFans shit."

That sent me glancing around for hidden cameras, and Ayame giggled. "Your likeness is safe, don't worry. We never did it. This was taken right before he ... I don't know. Whatever happened." To take her mind off Jax's disappearance, she ran a hand down my side, still damp with oil, and calmly clamped it to the base of my dick. "I showed Floyd exactly what we'd be selling. In person. Then I left. And I never saw Jax--or the Weymans--again."

She was vaguely playing with me now, almost for herself. "Ayame ..." I said, sounding a warning note.

Her hand slid upward, found my frenulum. "Just please let me finish what I started."

I saw she had begun crying silently, so I took her in my arms and held her tight. The embrace was undercut by my hard cock raging against her, yet she planted a kiss on my bare shoulder. Just once--a peck. The top of her head smelled like roses.

"You still miss him," I murmured. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," she replied. "And you miss her. That woman--Iris?"

I nodded, conceding the point, and Ayame gave my cock a comforting squeeze. "Fucking sucks," she said into my chest. Then she resumed stroking me--one-handed at first, then with all her fingers, sculpting my dick to a pillar in her fists. Till my head was shining and perfect.

Once that was done, she pursed her lips and drooled on my length, mingling her spit with what remained of the oil. She managed to seem ladylike as she did it, though her eyes glittered with mischief--and fading tears. Her hands flowed over me like an endless waterfall, each stroke sliding into the next. With an expert's touch, she led me down a dark tunnel of pleasure. She spat on me and jacked harder. Spat again, jacked faster. Yet even as my clock sloshed through her hands and my balls grew taut, I wasn't approaching the edge.

"You're a tough customer," Ayame observed, dabbing her lower lip with her tongue.

"If it's any consolation," I replied, in fits and starts, "this is at least ... the third-best handjob ... I've ever had."

She gave me one last wiggle of her mouth, but I recognized the gesture now, knew exactly what it meant: I amused her, and she didn't want to admit it.

"You said thirty minutes, Mr. Rocchi," she whispered. "Remember?"

We both knew she'd have let me stay all afternoon, if could have brought myself to ask. Maybe I'd have spent the night, or a week. Perhaps there was a universe in which we both gave up on our missing people and found peace with a stranger. Or failing that, a friendship.

But it wasn't this universe.

"Bring me the vibrator," I groaned.

Ayame gave me a quizzical look, but she went to do it. Free of her hands, my cock felt hollow, incomplete, but I stood and waited patiently while she fetched the toy and lubed its tip. On her way back, she pulled off her T-shirt to reveal dainty, high-seated tits. In the dim light, her nipples were just a few shades lighter than black. The same color as her eyes, her bob. The curls at her snatch.

"Does that help?" she asked.

"Come here."

She did so, handing me the wand. I twisted it to low and tugged her close. Guided the thing down to her hips so she could feel it skip and whirr against her skin. "Both hands," I murmured. And the moment her fingers closed over my cock, I moved the wand to her cunt and held it there.

She resisted for a moment--stunned by sudden, overwhelming pleasure--but I wasn't about to let her escape. When she tried to back off, I pinned her by the window and held her legs together, the toy whirling between them. There came a brief, angry rattle as the vibrator met the drywall, but I steered it back to the core of her. Overcome by the pulsing glut of sensation, she was rendered all but silent, for once. Shuddering at the end of my wand.

Then I kissed her, gently, and she came.

It was a short orgasm, an aftershock, but I savored each tremor--and felt my balls answer in kind. "Here," I said, passing the slippery, whizzing tool into Ayame's hands. "Now me."

Nodding, she got the message and moved the wand to my length, trailing it back and forth. She was muttering something--a thank-you?--but I barely heard her, because I felt like I was being fucked by a passing train. Through the mounting haze of pleasure, I managed to worm three fingers into Ayame's pussy, as hot and humid as before. This time, I wasn't patient or careful; I fucked her roughly with my hand, the ball of my thumb clapping at her vulva. I went hard and fast at her velvet front wall, at the telltale swelling I found there.