No Regrets

I strode to the elevator from the bar, and my hand shunted Porn's butt. We moved together despite being mentally out of step. The monotonal ding of the elevator broke our silence between floors. I hastened along the empty hotel hallway, Porn and her small steps in tow.

Doors with numbers flew past us. Rooms, no doubt, bursting with bodies indulging in every form of carnal activity. A blown globe exposed a murky corridor. My fingers fumbled, jamming the key into the lock.

Porn stood patiently.

Inside the room, I dispensed with polite ramblings. I patted her rump. Porn reacted, confining herself to one side of the bed. Her fingers were locked at her knees. I signalled her, and she removed her dark short pants and a cream T-shirt. Her white bra and panties followed. I undressed at the bottom of the bed.

I pounced wolfishly and dispensed sensual foreplay. A perv's concocted mind manual regimented my approach. I viewed my sole interest and my undeviating target. Smearing her wetness occupied my fingers, rimming her crack. Her moisture seeped across her gap like a slow bleed.

She provided no reaction; her body was indifferent and inert. I guided her hand to work my shaft.

I inferred she's experienced enough to know what comes next. 

My hand squeezed and guided her rump up and indicated over.

She spread doggy in the twinkling of an eye.

Finally, her street girl mode activated.

Her indented, rilled ring mesmerised my eyes. My flawed genital autopilot switched on, and the tightest crevice pinpointed my view. My vibe forged me to hammer her.

She's no anal virgin. 

Convincing myself, my intent brooked OK—my raging desire launched to its predetermined goal.

Porn's head half swayed and swivelled.

My body pulsated rawness.

My ego assured me she was blowing a good luck kiss.

I scrutinised her brown eyes; they opened to her soul. I beheld no pleading or resignation.

Her eyes asked for respect.

The ruby pendant dangled forlornly. It swayed as her payment for what I anticipated or as a signal to be better.

I hesitated.

My mind see-sawed between decent and selfish thoughts.

I chose to take.

If it were crap, I wouldn't do it again. 

I told myself, Harden.

She veered, staring at God knows what—the bed head, or deep inside herself, Chang Mai, her youth.

Her hands dragged the white linen under her as her fingers scrunched, rumpled and puckered the bedsheet. Her nails dug into the mattress springs.

Damn it, surly with myself, punch her starfish.

I used my index finger to rim fifth base.

Ride to hell. 

My hands seized her hips. I gripped her skin, forceful and inflexible, digging my fingers fiercely. I screwed my eyes closed.

My movement into her was direct and piercing.

Paradise emerged — grace governing my heart.

No regrets, forever — I chose her vagina.

I opened my eyes in newfound maleness and met Porn's gaze. Her head cocked askew to contemplate me. I joined in her knowledge of myself as we managed the awkwardest of humbling kisses.

I shared her pussy like an arrow from a bow guided by a passionate heart.

And in an insight moment, I understood the passage to my self-balance of male-femaleness. Porn liberated her hidden intimacy as our parts combined behind her.

The wondrous remains: Patsaporn is forever in front of me.

Patsaporn granted more with her backward gaze than her giving body. Memory's crucible of this extraordinary, steadfast rapport centres on her mahogany eyes. She distributed the secrets of womanhood; she chose to gift her core.

She curved her body in a sinuous embrace of my maleness. Her graceful personal calligraphy of whole-body expression. Patsaporn bestowed her authentic sensual signature. Her endowment formed a mutual embellishment deeper than skin contact as she enveloped me with more than her visible flesh. Our bodies were knitted and interleaved like a Celtic torc. She remained serene as her gaze probed into mine.

As was my nature, I accepted it as given.

Only later in life did I comprehend its depth.

Patsaporn knew what I would realise only as it happened: The next time I made love to a woman, the sex that resulted would bud gentle, tender gentleness—the gentlest of my life.

Completing my climax, I embraced my mission to give.

My lips indulged her sex like the Dream of the Fisherman's Wife. 

The unforgettable, powerful image of mouth to full vulva accord arose. The print depicts the fellowship of pleasure to oceanic depths. Bliss swelled out in ecstatic waves. Together, we generated a tsunami of inclusive indulgence. Patsaporn orgasmed, and we embraced and slept.

The next day, I watched her bundle her bag of the modest belongings she had brought to the hotel room.

At least share a final breakfast, I told myself.

Yet Patsaporn invited me, taking my hand, "Spend the day with me," she offered.

I accepted her invitation straightforwardly, sidestepping a difficult goodbye.

I returned my room key at the reception and secured my travel bag in storage. I intended to collect it before catching an evening train from Bangkok to Singapore using a pre-booked ticket.

Leaving the hotel and heading to a taxi rank, Patsaporn wrested my loose hand and tugged me forward. Her eyes scanned the street sharply.

She risked the ire of her pimp.

I assisted in hailing a taxi with haste beyond the hotel rank.

Porn gave directions to the driver, and the journey meandered. She took me to the edge of the bustling, burgeoning city - across busy highways, bridges, clogged arterial roads, shop house streets and potholed lanes. We stopped where a narrow dirt road ended. Wooden bungalows sprouted along the river's edge in a cluster between high trees.

I paid the driver in cash, adding a tip. She took my hand and walked along a dirt path by the river. Her other hand held her small bag: her working bag. Through the riverbank trees, I saw bungalows on stilts.

Several men were casting using dragnets, waist-deep in the brownish water. Due to the wake of small boats further out on the river, the water lapped their midriffs.

'Puck, puck,' it plashed and resonated in my mind.

We passed a group of women sorting tangled seaweed strands and hanging them to dry in an extended row.

Patsaporn directed me to a bungalow—the house nestled into surrounding tall trees as a traditional style home constructed of natural timbers. The windows were open spaces to nature, edged by crafted teak shutters.

She led me through an open door on the first floor. The interior space expanded, supported by hefty, imposing wooden beams. Broad greying planks formed the foundation floor, matching the timber walls.

Porn greeted a woman on entering. They embraced in a quick friendship-style hug. My impression shaped that the woman was not from her immediate family but maybe an aunt.

They spoke without gestures, their conversation a string of delicate sounds. The middle-aged woman affirmed my presence with a deft nod. She busied herself preparing food on a wide table.

Porn ushered me towards broad stairs in the middle of the bottom storey. They led to a wide-open sleeping room overhead. I noticed rolled bed mats tucked and stacked at the edge of the vast room. Porn unfolded one.

She invited me to lie and peruse her in a private world.