Draft of Lorry by Leon Wing
Ah Chun parked his lorry in a space behind the building. He usually feels the need for one - a good time, not a space or a building - after a delivery involving a long haul outside the capital. Probably the boredom with the lengthy to and fro and the heat of the day. The guard stops him, smirks, permits him to enter, when he mentions the flat number he is visiting. He climbs two floors up in the lift. There is no need even to knock, the door opens as soon as he reaches the flat. He looks about for a camera. He gawps at the woman in a red dress. A very tight dress, wrapped around her body, like a rubber suit, stretching over her - thankfully- huge breasts; making her mount above the hem of the dress protrude, well, he thinks - looking down for a moment - rather oddly. Like she hasn’t put in her female stick thing in properly.
As whores go, she is not much different from the others Chun visits. He found her not from any recommendations from friends, acquaintances, or customers needing hauling household stuff to new homes, or clients hiring him to haul merchandise. It was after his lunch time, when he returned from a long haul. Walking back to his lorry, he saw the usual phone numbers stenciled onto some walls of a abandoned shophouse. He was drawn to one he didn’t remember having seen before. He called it and a female voice answered, “Tuala, your lady for a good time.” Surprisingly, in English, and he couldn’t place the accent, there was none. Not Chinese, not Malay, nor Indian.
Now, he stands, unwashed, and he knows, smelly, because he can sniff his own stink, assessing Tuala. Well, she doesn’t look anything like these races, in the flesh (he nearly laughs at this pun). Not matsalleh, either, though the nose is not flat, the eyes round but not white man kind. He guesses she is, everything?
The woman doesn’t return his stare, but there is a beginning of a smile, a condescending one, he feels, as if his dusty clothes and his smell are all part and parcel of a john. He thinks, she won’t expect her john to clean himself up first, course not. The whores he frequents never require it, so why should this one?
As he steps over her threshold he wrinkles his nose at the rich scent of incense. But he cannot see fumes or smoke, and can’t find any joss sticks burning. In anticipation of a new john, she must have sprayed some cheap overpowering perfume from a night market stall making homemade perfumes. He has a beginning of a cough but he suppresses it, pretending to clear his throat.
Ah Chun narrows his eyes, taking in the color about her: no shoes, the toenails red, like the dress, the hair fiery, the makeup, before she turned around, he remembers, is reddish, the eyeliner, the lips. He walks behind her, his cock jumping hard under his pants. He leers, licks his lips, can’t wait for things to start rolling. He checks out her buttocks. Meh, he thinks, they’re OK. If they are round and bouncy, he wouldn’t help reaching down and grabbing a hold. He likes slapping the flesh and feeling the jiggle.
She stops beside a table. It is bare, nothing on it. She looks over her shoulder at it. He doesn’t get what she wants him to do. Face back to the front, hand up in the air, she rubs the forefinger over the thumb, sighs. He hears, “200 dollar”. Understanding now, he takes out the amount in ringgit and places the notes on the table.
The living room is lit from a fluorescent tube on the ceiling, giving things inside a glaring contrast. Nochairs around the table, the room is barely furnished, except for a sofa, and it looks new and seldom sat on. He can see some of the usual items in the kitchen. He recognizes IKEA, he has hauled similar stuff to places. He follows her past these furniture. She opens the door to an enjoining room. She turns on the light. She goes and sits on a bed. It is neat, looks clean, with a red duvet, and a few large pillows leaning on the headboard.
She leans back with her palms on the bedspread. She doesn’t say anything, sighs, looks up the ceiling and then at him, with a squint, as if she can’t see - the room is barely lit, as it is - and has to focus. She sits up, signs with her hand, points to his crotch, wiggles a finger up and down. So she wants him to divest first. He is not used to this, it’s usually the whores who remove their clothing first, those women he pays to fuck.
He tears at the shirt buttons and pulls down the zip, leaves them ruched on the floor, his shirt, pants, and underwear (he locked his phone back in the lorry; no calls when he’s having pleasure). His cock stands up, harder, feels the breeze from a revolving fan. He puts his hands on his hips and looks down at her, grins, no need to say, Go ahead, suck it. He closes his eyes, feels her touch him. He shudders and feels his cock jump from the shock of a finger moving up and down it. The finger stops and dabs at the tip, wet with anticipation. He opens his eyes, see her knuckles, and her head bobbing up and down. He can’t see her lips but he can feel her tongue sliding up and down, all over. He has a sensation of a snake wrapping around him.
He holds the sides of her head, above the ears, pushes her down to take in more of him. He feels the back of her throat. Then he pushes her head and his cock pops of her mouth, with a small sound, like something unplugged. He pushes and pulls, like this, till he feels himself melt.
He remembers he has paid good money for a good time. He doesn’t want to waste it and stop short his pleasure so soon. He pushes the woman off his cock. She still has her dress on. He gestures at her to undress. It takes merely a moment for her to reach behind, unzip, and wriggle out of the garment. But he loses a few moments as she lifts the dress from the floor and folds it neatly, tamps down the folds, places it, slowly, on the dresser table. She comes back and holds his hips.
He doesn’t want to continue this sucking, he wants to penetrate. He pushes her and she falls onto the bed. Her legs lie over the edge and he hovers over her. He nudges towards the bed and holds his hands behind her knees. He pushes her up to the middle of the bed. He climbs in. He lifts her legs up, shuffles in, his cock bouncing.
He watches her face as he pushes his cock between her legs. He brings her legs over his shoulders. He pushes and enters. He goes in more and pulls out and does it again, slowly, rocking her. He watches her indifference to his ardor, and an anger creeps into him when she doesn’t groan nor whimper, like his other whores. It’s only him uttering any sound, mostly grunts as he grits his teeth.
He roars when something grips his cock inside her cunt.
