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Land of Smiles

by Nick Nicholson © 2008

 

erotic fictionI am sitting nude on an armless chair. Kim is astride me, her mouth nuzzling my neck, her breath humid, tropical, her breasts pressing against my chest. My hands clutch her palm-sized buttocks. Slow fucking. She slides her cunt up and down my cock with the rhythm of a jungle river, unhurried, the passage of time still and ancient. Her skin has the texture of butterfly wings.

In the engulfing darkness, the hotel room is a womb, a crucible, a place of transmutation. The absence of light enhances the sensation of all that is not visible. Scent attains physicality. Touch becomes an electromagnetic force. Our worldly masks crumble, swallowed up by the night, and we are left to bathe in the primal springs of our carnality.

Kim is a master enchantress, a high priestess of lust. She's the sort of girl you'd want to meet in heaven. And if that was true—if I was really in heaven, with her—well, that would be all right with me.

*     *     *

The following morning I tell Kim that I want her to be completely naked for the whole day. Curtains drawn, conditioned air, room service when we need it. I will remain dressed for as much of the day as I can bear. I tell her I want the contrast of bare skin and fabric, her nude body against my clothes, the dynamic of it. I tell her I want to see her naked and free. She smiles, understands, and removes her bra, her skimpy panties. Simple gestures, at once guileless and heartbreakingly seductive. And then she is standing before me, her weight slightly on one leg, her curves slicing the air, looking like the most natural thing in the world. Her dusky beauty knifes my gut. She approaches me, her languid gaze never wavering, and touches her lips to mine, her tongue darting into my mouth like a cobra.

Kim is all sex. Pure, unadulterated, available. She is an alchemist; she transforms lasciviousness and obscenity into spiritual virtues.

She's also a Bangkok whore. I have bought Kim for seven days and seven nights.

*     *     *


It's all fake, of course. All this. A construction. A replica of love. Play-acting on an exotic stage. A Hollywood movie. And like all movies, we pay our fare, and for a short while we allow ourselves to be subsumed by another reality. In the warm comforting cinematic darkness, we become part of a world more vivid than the one we live in. We want to believe, so we believe. We feel what the actors feel. And for one abbreviated moment, we awaken the stories entombed within us, the ones that have always been there, waiting to be brought to life, and the movie, the fakery, the special effects—they all become real.

I am in a movie right now, a movie I have longed to see. Kim is the star. She knows this. She is a consummate actress.

*     *     *

Soap froth slides down her body, over the sinewy length of her back, the gentle hillocks of her arse, then traces down the back of her thighs and calves. The movement of the froth is delicate, frictionless, ethereally light, but in my head it has the power of an avalanche. I grab Kim's arm and turn her around, pulling her to me with a jolt. She doesn't tense up. Her body gives way to my impetus. She is momentum itself, a boat on a torrent, and in a smoothly choreographed movement, she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me, the shower streaming water over our faces. My hands move downwards. I slide two fingers into her wet cunt, and with my other hand, I reach behind her and slide a soapy finger into her anus. With a grip in each opening, I lift her, gently, raising her slim lithe body a little closer to my level. Her lips still pressed to mine, a moan vibrates deeply in her throat. She presses harder, closer, my cock straining with rigidity between us. Her hips undulate in subtle circles with my fingers still inside her.

I know she has done this before.

*     *     *

Where are you from?

Sydney.

How wonderful! I would like to go to Australia one day. Do you have a wife?

I used to, a long time ago, when I was young and foolish. It only lasted a couple of years.

That's sad. I guess that's the way it goes sometimes. Did you have any children?

A son. He's thirteen now. He lives with his mother.

Do you see him, spend time with him?

Yes.

That's good. Family is important. What about a girlfriend? Do you have a girlfriend?

No. It's been a while.

Ah, you must be lonely. That is why you are here. In Bangkok. With me.

Yes.

Do you like Bangkok?

Yes, I do. I like it because it's not home. Things are different here.

You are different here.

That's very true.

I am different too?

Oh yes.

I am not like other girls?

No, you're not.

I am more beautiful than other girls?

Yes.

Do you like me?

I like you very much.

I like you too.


Kim lies back on the bed and spreads her legs wide, her eyes a liquid fire, an incantation, a spell of dark lust.

Lick me.

And like an ignorant peasant, I succumb to her magic, her voodoo.

*     *     *

Soi Cowboy is a red-light district like no other in the world. My senses are assaulted with floods of neon, the sharp aromas of Thai street food, soaking humidity, the colliding thumps of bass-heavy dance pop from the gogo bars, the sultry perfumes of the bar girls and ladyboys. The atmosphere is hedonistic, hyper-sexual, and guilt-free. Beer-gutted middle-aged Western men with indelible, euphoric smiles cavort openly with teenage Thai girls, squeezing their slender bare waists and adolescent buttocks.

Kim stops and leans close to my ear.

You are not like them.

Uncertain of what to say, I smile, hesitantly. Until now, I had managed to avoid feeling like a sex tourist, but in Soi Cowboy, with Kim beside me, my self-deception seems as thin as Thai silk.

A little further along, Kim spots a group of three friends, bar girls. She squeals with delight and runs over to them, beckoning me to join them. The girls are all extraordinarily attractive. Everything about them spells instant good-time sex. Their conversation, in Thai, is liberally sprinkled with giggles and female cuddles, their eyes constantly darting at me, assessing me. I buy them all a round of watered-down "lady drinks" which only increases their attentions towards me. Two of the girls start touching me, and it takes me a while to relax into their public display of affection. Kim squeezes my hand.

You want a bar girl?

I look at the girls and then at Kim.

I have you.

But she doesn't hear my answer over the noise of the street. Protesting is futile. Before I know it, I am paying the barfine to the mamasan inside the bar.

Fifteen minutes later, back in the hotel room, Kim and one of her friends are sliding their tongues along the length of my cock. Her friend looks up at me, smiling, her eyes twinkling like Christmas decorations.

Hello. I am Som.

*     *     *

The white noise of Bangkok's streets infiltrates my sordid dreams and I awaken to an empty bed. Som returned to Soi Cowboy several hours ago and Kim is nowhere to be seen. I get up, noticing that the sliding glass door leading to the balcony is open, the curtains drifting listlessly in the barest of breezes. Silently, I part the curtains and look outside. Kim is standing at the end of the night-darkened balcony, gazing like a monk at the streets fifteen floors below. She is naked. A shot of adrenalin immediately hits me but I quickly assess that she is in no danger.

I relax, and for a few minutes I simply lean against the door jamb and watch her, the tender nudity of her body contrasting sharply with the concrete backdrop of the city. I can only imagine what she must be thinking about. Her family in Isaan? A Thai boyfriend, perhaps? Her future? It's then that I realise just how different we really are. Different language, different culture. Different life. However kind I have been, I cannot forget that, to her, I am simply a farang, a foreigner, another Westerner with money in his pockets, a source of income to fund her university studies. For me, however, she is the realisation of a desire made urgent by the brevity of time.

I step out onto the balcony and walk towards Kim. She hears me, turns her head slightly. Standing behind her, I put my arms around her waist and breathe in the clean scent of her long kohl-black hair. Silence between us as we inhale the night and dwell on our private thoughts. Then she whispers:

I'm lonely too.

Her unadorned confession touches me. I squeeze her tighter in the hope that it communicates something of comfort, of understanding. Our bodies sway slightly.

A few moments later, Kim moves her legs apart, grinds her backside into my groin. From somewhere deep inside me, I hear the instinctive low rutting growl of a predatory beast, hiding in the foliage, stalking its mate. I part the dark lips of her cunt and enter her.

*     *     *

The gigantic roots of the silk-cotton trees strangle Ta Prohm temple like the tentacles of a mythological squid dragging a ship underwater. I am in awe, dumbstruck. The ancient oversized tendrils seem to reach deep inside me, simultaneously destroying my foundations while holding them together, just as they do with the blocks and stones of the temple itself. Kim is silent too, clutching my hand ferociously as we wander among the ruins.

Separated from our tour group, we are drawn into the darkest corners, the inner sanctums and corridors of Ta Prohm. Like lungs, the lichen covering the stone walls inhales and exhales the very soul of the temple. We breathe a mystical air.

Throughout our day trip to the temples of Angkor, the sexual tension between us has been palpable, as visceral and relentless as the encroaching jungle. Satisfied that we are now safely alone, Kim pushes me against a stone wall and rubs her hand against my crotch until I am hard under her touch. Then she unzips me, drops to her knees and takes my cock deep into her mouth. Desire drenches me like a monsoon. I pull Kim up and kiss her hard, spinning her around and pinning her to the wall. Kim raises her legs, wraps them around my back. I reach under her skirt and pull her panties to one side. In a frenzy, I fuck her, my cock feeling like the thick invasive root of a silk-cotton tree.

Afterwards, still floating on a sexual effervescence, we straighten ourselves up and go in search of our tour group.

Look.

Kim points to a carved stone Buddha relief adorning one of the parapets of Ta Prohm.

The Buddha has seen everything. He smiles upon us.

*     *     *

After the steamy jungles of Cambodia, the conditioned air of our hotel room is like a soothing balm. Kim is exhausted. She busies herself in the bathroom for a few minutes then emerges, strips off and flops face down onto the bed. Within minutes, she is in a deep sleep.

I take off my clothes too and lie down beside Kim. Asleep, she appears vulnerable, fragile, but she is really neither of those things. On the contrary, she takes possession of herself with an energy and unabashed fullness that I can only describe as inspiring. Even her declaration of loneliness carried with it the power of disarming honesty.

Lying beside her, I cannot help but gaze at her nude body, feeling an imperative need to imprint her onto my memory. Her pale brown velvet skin, her supple hills and valleys, her flawless proportions...

As I hardwire these images into my head, waves of sleep edge closer to my consciousness.

*     *     *

Glioblastoma multiforme is a tumour of the brain with the aggression of a pit bull. It usually begins in the deep white matter, then necrotises its way to the ventricular wall. Like a marauding army of zombies, the cells of the brain end up eating themselves, disintegrating the personality and obliterating all memory. On an MRI scan, the tumour looks rather pretty, much like a butterfly.

My first partial seizure occurred eighteen days ago. I have six months to live, a year at best.

Kim does not know this. Nor will she.

*     *     *

Again, I am sitting in the armless chair with Kim astride me, only it’s early morning this time, I’m wearing boxer shorts, and Kim is lathering my face with shaving foam. The sliding balcony door is completely open and already the heat of Bangkok is infecting the room like a virus. Kim is wearing a pair of tiny pale yellow panties and nothing else.

If only every shave was like this.

Quiet! I’m working. Be still.

The look of concentration in her dark brown eyes, as if she was a surgeon handling a delicate operation, is utterly endearing. Her soft fingers work the foam methodically into a luxurious lather over my two-day growth. Satisfied with her preparations, she wipes her hands on a small towel and reaches for the razor. She shifts in my lap, positioning her crotch squarely against my hardening cock. I swear I see the wisp of a smile flit across her mouth.

Each stroke of the razor is slow and deliberate. She is meticulous in catching every whisker. Like a magnet, I am impelled to reach up and place a hand on her bare breast. Caught off-guard, Kim immediately sucks in a short shallow breath, then bends forward and speaks quietly into my ear.

You can put your hand there, but don’t move it around. If I get too excited, I might cut you.

I smile, discreetly, and keep my hand perfectly still.

Watching Kim’s eyes as she focuses on my face, I realise, with something of an inner shock, that this is perhaps the most intimate experience of my life, and that this is what I have wanted and needed all along, for one last time: intimacy.

She finishes. Kim wipes the remaining traces of lather from my face with the towel, then gently moves the back of her hand over my cheeks. Pleased with her work, she smiles.

So, do you plan on leaving my other breast unattended?

*     *     *

The day is like a dream that you never want to end.

It’s the little things that stop me in my tracks. A lingering touch to my arm when she passes me, an unbidden kiss when I least expect it, her hand on my thigh as she talks to a friend on her phone.

I don’t think Kim really knows what this is doing to me.

*     *     *

The seventh night. It arrives with the finality of a death sentence. We both feel it.

And so we fuck.

Like lovers.

*     *     *

Kim slumbers in my arms, her naked body half covering mine. Sleep eludes me, but I don’t really mind.

I will, of course, soon forget this past miraculous week. But I have to believe that somehow, somewhere in my bones, part of me will know, will remember, even after my mind has sabotaged itself into oblivion, after the butterfly takes full flight in my head.

I have to believe that.

*     *     *

The following morning, we are both subdued. Our conversation is minimal, and mundane.

Are you sure you've packed everything?

Pretty sure.

Passport?

Yes.

Wallet?

Let me check. Yes.

Toiletries?

Yep.

What about the new clothes you bought?

All packed.

And me?


I am floored.

Then, somehow, I manage to summon some words:

You’re a beautiful, extraordinary woman, Kim. You’re going to make your future husband incredibly happy and I think you will live a long and fruitful life. You won’t be alone.

*     *     *

Kim sees me off at the airport. I’m not good at goodbyes.

A long hug.

A last kiss.

A gentle wave.

And I’m gone.

*     *     *

The crowds at Sydney airport are predictably hideous. Overwrought and badly dressed. I probably look exactly the same.

Arriving back in Australia makes me acutely conscious that things will soon begin to slip away. My head is a merry-go-round of thoughts and emotions. I feel drained, satisfied, terrified and numb, all at once.

Outside, the sky is purpled twilight. The taxi queue is long, with at least a dozen people ahead of me. I retrieve my mobile phone from my pocket and switch it on. A text message, which must have been sent to me mid-flight, immediately pops up:

Come back soon. The land of smiles awaits you. Love, Kim. X.

_______
© 2008 Nick Nicholson. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Nick took up writing two years ago. He lives in Canberra, Australia.


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Nick Nicholson

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