The humid air of Mumbai clung to Hans Müller’s skin as he stepped out of the air-conditioned taxi, his crisp white shirt already sticking to his back. At thirty-eight, Hans was a tall, broad-shouldered German with a neatly trimmed beard and a practical demeanor honed by years of engineering work. His new role as a project manager for a German manufacturing firm had uprooted him from Munich to this sprawling, chaotic city—a move he’d accepted with a mix of ambition and trepidation. Beside him, his wife, Pornchai, emerged from the cab, her petite frame dwarfed by the towering suitcases they’d hauled from the airport. At twenty-four, she was a striking young Thai woman with long, dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders and wide, almond-shaped eyes that flickered with curiosity and unease.

Pornchai—her name a playful remnant of her rural Thai upbringing, meaning "beautiful blessing"—adjusted the strap of her sundress and squinted at the high-rise apartment building that would be their home for the foreseeable future. The journey from Bangkok to Mumbai had been a whirlwind, her marriage to Hans still fresh at just under a year. She’d met him during his business trip to Thailand, where her charm and quiet resilience had captivated him. Now, standing in this unfamiliar land, she clutched his arm lightly, her English still accented but fluent from months of practice with him.

Their apartment, provided by Hans’s company, was a sleek, modern space on the fifteenth floor with wide windows overlooking the bustling streets below. The furniture was sparse but functional—teak wood and neutral tones, a far cry from the vibrant chaos of Pornchai’s family home in Chiang Mai. Hans dropped his briefcase on the glass dining table and loosened his tie, exhaling heavily.

“First day tomorrow,” he said, his German accent thickening with fatigue. “They’re throwing some company party this weekend. Supposed to welcome the new expats.”

Pornchai nodded, unpacking a small wooden Buddha statue from her bag and setting it carefully on a shelf. “Party? Already?” she asked, her voice soft but lilting. She wasn’t sure what to expect—Hans’s world of corporate life was still a mystery to her, a maze of suits and handshakes she’d only glimpsed through his stories.

“Yeah, some charity thing,” Hans replied, running a hand through his blond hair. “Should be a good way to meet the team. You’ll come, right?”

She smiled faintly, her fingers brushing the statue. “Of course. If you want me there.”

“I do,” he said, stepping closer to kiss her forehead. “It’ll be fine. Just a bunch of engineers and their wives, probably.”

Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the city. The sound of horns and distant voices filtered through the windows, a constant hum that reminded them both they were far from the quiet streets of Munich or the rice fields of northern Thailand. For now, they settled into the stillness of their new home, the weight of the move settling over them like the thick Indian heat.

The morning of the company party dawned with a golden haze filtering through the apartment’s wide windows. Pornchai stood in the bathroom, the steam from her shower still clinging to the mirror as she wrapped a towel around her small frame. Hans leaned against the doorway, sipping coffee from a chipped mug, his blue eyes tracing her movements with a quiet appreciation. She’d left the glass door ajar, and he watched as she stepped out, droplets of water glistening on her smooth, caramel-colored skin. Her long, dark hair hung wet and heavy, framing her delicate face, and her petite body moved with a natural grace that always caught him off guard.

To Hans, she was a vision—slender but softly curved, her skin unblemished save for a faint scar on her knee from a childhood fall. The towel clung to her hips, accentuating the gentle swell of her breasts and the narrow dip of her waist. He admired the way her collarbone stood out, sharp yet fragile, and the subtle strength in her arms as she reached for a comb. She was beautiful in a way that felt effortless, unpolished, like the wild orchids he’d seen growing near her village.

Pornchai caught his gaze in the mirror and smiled shyly, brushing her hair with slow, deliberate strokes. She set the comb down and turned to the counter, retrieving a small razor and a jar of coconut oil she’d brought from Thailand. Hans lingered, his curiosity piqued as she sat on the edge of the tub, parting her legs slightly. With careful precision, she smoothed the oil over her skin, then ran the razor in smooth, practiced motions, removing every trace of hair until her skin was bare and gleaming. It was a ritual she’d kept since they’d married, one Hans found oddly intimate, though he never asked why she did it—only watched, captivated by her focus.

Later, as the evening approached, she stood before the bedroom mirror, slipping into a modest outfit she’d chosen for the party. The dress was a deep green cotton number, knee-length with a high neckline and long sleeves, cinched at the waist with a thin belt. It was simple, practical, something she’d picked from a Bangkok market before they left, but it hugged her frame just enough to hint at her figure. She paired it with flat sandals, her hair now dry and falling in loose waves down her back. A thin silver bracelet jingled on her wrist, a gift from Hans, and she dabbed a touch of jasmine perfume behind her ears.

Hans adjusted his tie in the reflection behind her, his tailored blazer sharp against her softness. “You look good,” he said, his voice warm but understated, resting a hand on her shoulder. To him, she was perfect—elegant in her restraint, a quiet beauty that didn’t need to shout. Pornchai smoothed the dress with her hands, her expression uncertain but trusting, and nodded. The party loomed ahead, a new chapter in this strange, sprawling city, and they stepped out together into the warm Mumbai night.

The company party was held in a sleek, open-air venue atop one of Mumbai’s newer high-rises, the city’s skyline sprawling beneath a canopy of stars. Hans and Pornchai stepped off the elevator into a hum of chatter and laughter, the air thick with the scents of spiced hors d’oeuvres and floral garlands draped along the railings. Fairy lights twinkled overhead, casting a warm glow over the crowd of expats and local staff mingling in clusters. Hans, in his navy blazer and crisp white shirt, fit seamlessly into the sea of tailored suits, while Pornchai’s green dress stood out modestly among the flashier sarees and cocktail dresses.

A waiter in a pristine uniform greeted them almost immediately, balancing a tray of drinks. “Welcome, sir, madam,” he said with a slight bow, offering them tall glasses of mango lassi spiked with a hint of rum. Hans took one, nodding his thanks, while Pornchai hesitated, her fingers brushing the stem of the glass before accepting it. The sweet, creamy taste was familiar yet foreign with the alcohol’s edge, and she sipped it cautiously, her eyes darting around the room.

Hans guided her forward, his hand resting lightly on her lower back as they approached a group near the bar. His colleagues—mostly German and British expats—turned to greet them, their voices booming over the soft sitar music in the background. “Hans, you made it!” a ruddy-faced man exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder. “And this must be your wife. Lovely to meet you.” Pornchai smiled politely, murmuring a quiet “hello” as introductions swirled around her—names she’d struggle to remember later.

The group absorbed them effortlessly, and soon a woman in a shimmering blue saree—Clara, the wife of Hans’s British coworker—pressed closer to Pornchai. “You’ve got to try something stronger than that lassi,” Clara said with a grin, her accent clipped and cheerful. She waved over another waiter, this one carrying a tray of shot glasses filled with a clear, sharp-smelling liquid. “Tequila! It’s a party, darling, live a little.”

Pornchai glanced at Hans, who was deep in conversation about factory timelines, oblivious to the exchange. “Oh, I don’t know…” she began, her voice soft, but Clara was already thrusting a shot into her hand. “Come on, just one! Everyone’s doing it.” Around her, a few other wives and junior staff cheered encouragements, their faces flushed with the night’s revelry. Pornchai’s cheeks warmed under their gazes, the weight of their expectation pressing against her natural reserve.

She lifted the glass, the tequila’s scent stinging her nose, and tipped it back in one quick motion. The burn hit her throat hard, making her cough, and the group erupted in laughter and applause. “There you go!” Clara crowed, handing her another. “One more, for luck!” Pornchai’s head spun slightly, the rum from the lassi mingling with the tequila’s bite, but the infectious energy around her pulled her along. She downed the second shot, wincing as the heat spread through her chest, her modest demeanor cracking just enough to let the night take hold. Hans turned briefly, catching her mid-laugh, and smiled before returning to his discussion, the party’s rhythm sweeping them both into its current.

The party pulsed on, the hum of conversation blending with the clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. Pornchai stood near the edge of the group, her head still buzzing faintly from the tequila shots, when Clara looped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Oh, you’re going to love this,” Clara said, her eyes glinting with excitement. “They’re doing an auction tonight—some of the women are going up, and the men bid to win a date with them. It’s all for charity, of course. I’m in it, and you should be too!”

Pornchai blinked, her fingers tightening around her empty shot glass. “An auction?” she repeated, her voice barely audible over the music. Clara nodded enthusiastically, not pausing to explain further, and Pornchai’s brow furrowed slightly, her mind grappling with the idea. Before she could respond, Hans appeared at her side, his expression calm but his voice low as he leaned in. “It’s a good chance to make a strong impression,” he murmured, his hand brushing her arm. “For the job, you know. The team’s watching.”

Clara chimed in again, her tone insistent. “Come on, it’s just a bit of fun! Everyone’s doing it for a good cause.” Around them, a few other wives nodded, their smiles encouraging but unrelenting, and Pornchai felt the weight of their gazes settle on her. Her lips parted, then closed, her reluctance battling the pressure closing in. After a long pause, she gave a small, hesitant nod. “Okay… for charity,” she said softly, her agreement more surrender than enthusiasm.

Clara clapped her hands together. “Perfect! Let’s get you ready, then.” Without waiting for a reply, she tugged Pornchai’s wrist, leading her through the crowd toward a narrow hallway at the back of the venue. They slipped into a small dressing room, its walls lined with mirrors and a rack of clothes glittering under the fluorescent lights. Clara rifled through the hangers, pulling out a series of short, sparkly dresses—bright pinks, silvers, and golds that shimmered like disco balls. “These are the options,” she said, holding up a particularly tiny pink number. “What do you think?”

Pornchai’s eyes widened, and she shook her head quickly. “No… nothing sparkly,” she said, her voice firm despite her unease. Clara pursed her lips, then turned back to the rack, digging deeper until she emerged with a single black garment. “Fine, then this is it,” she said, handing it over. It was a nightgown—slinky, black, and barely long enough to cover much of anything, its hemline ending well above mid-thigh and its neckline plunging low.

Pornchai hesitated, running the thin fabric between her fingers, but Clara waved her toward a curtained corner. “Go on, try it. It’s all we’ve got.” With a tight swallow, Pornchai stepped behind the curtain, slipping out of her green dress and into the nightgown. The material clung to her skin, its brevity leaving her legs exposed and her curves accentuated in a way that felt foreign. She stepped out, tugging at the hem, and Clara grinned. “Oh, that’s perfect,” she said, steering her toward the mirror. The reflection stared back—a version of Pornchai she hardly recognized, vulnerable yet striking under the harsh light.

The dressing room door swung shut behind them as Clara hustled Pornchai toward the stage, the black nightgown swishing against her thighs with every step. Her green dress dangled over Clara’s arm, and when Pornchai glanced back at it, Clara waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this for you,” she said, tucking it under her arm as she pushed Pornchai forward. “You’re up soon—just follow my lead.”

The stage loomed ahead, a raised platform framed by twinkling lights and a small crowd of party guests gathered in front. The hum of anticipation buzzed through the air as a portly man in a suit—Hans’s regional manager—stepped up to a microphone, his voice booming. “Next up, ladies and gentlemen, our charity auction! All proceeds go to the local children’s fund, so bid generously!”

Clara squeezed Pornchai’s shoulder. “See? It’s for the kids. You’ll do great.” Before Pornchai could protest, the first woman strode onto the stage—a tall Brit in a silver sparkly dress that caught the light like a mirror ball. She twirled playfully, her blonde hair bouncing, and the manager called out, “Starting bid, one thousand rupees!” Hands shot up, bids climbing quickly—two thousand, three thousand—until a grinning expat in a pinstripe suit won her date for four thousand rupees. The crowd clapped as she sashayed off.

Next came an Indian woman in a hot pink dress, its sequins glinting as she posed with a confident smile. The bidding started again, voices overlapping in a flurry of numbers. “Three thousand!” “Four!” “Five!” It ended at six thousand rupees, the winner a wiry man with a mustache who pumped his fist triumphantly. The audience cheered, the energy swelling.

Clara adjusted her own gold sparkly dress, its hem barely grazing her thighs, and turned to Pornchai. “My turn, then you’re up. Just smile and let them bid.” She stepped onto the stage, hips swaying, and the manager’s voice rang out again. “Clara, our radiant star! Let’s start at two thousand!” The bids flew—three thousand, four thousand—and Clara blew kisses to the crowd, egging them on until a stocky German engineer claimed her date for five thousand rupees.

As Clara stepped down, she grabbed Pornchai’s hand, pulling her toward the platform. “Your turn,” she whispered, giving her a gentle shove. Pornchai stumbled forward, the black nightgown clinging to her as she climbed the steps. The lights hit her hard, the crowd’s eyes locking onto her bare legs and the deep cut of the fabric. She froze for a moment, hands tugging at the hem, then forced a small, tight smile as the manager’s voice cut through the noise. “And here we have Pornchai, our lovely newcomer! Bidding starts at one thousand rupees!” The room stirred, heads turning, and the first bid rang out.

Pornchai stood under the glare of the stage lights, her fingers still clutching the hem of the black nightgown as the manager’s voice echoed through the venue. “One thousand rupees to start!” The crowd shifted, a murmur rippling through the suited men and their glittering companions. A hand rose lazily near the front—two thousand. Another followed—three thousand. She kept her eyes fixed on a spot just above their heads, her smile faltering, her posture stiff with unease.

Her hesitation seemed to spark something in the room. A wiry man in a kurta called out, “Five thousand!” and the bids began to climb with a strange urgency. Perhaps it was the way she stood—small and uncertain, the nightgown stark against her caramel skin—or the contrast to the confident struts of the women before her. Whatever it was, the numbers ticked upward—eight thousand, ten thousand—each call met with a ripple of excitement from the onlookers.

Hans watched from the sidelines, his brow creasing slightly as he sipped his drink, but he stayed silent, his expression unreadable. Beside him, his boss, Klaus Weber—a broad, imposing German with graying hair and a sharp jaw—leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he studied Pornchai. The bids hit fifteen thousand, then twenty, the voices overlapping in a chaotic crescendo. A few men laughed, egging each other on, but Klaus remained still, his gaze fixed.

“Twenty-two thousand!” shouted a young engineer near the back, his face flushed with liquor and bravado. The room buzzed, heads turning to see if anyone would top it. Pornchai shifted her weight, her hands dropping to her sides, her reluctance plain in the tight line of her mouth. Then Klaus raised a single hand, his voice cutting through the din like a blade. “Twenty-five thousand rupees.”

A hush fell, followed by scattered gasps and a smattering of applause. The manager banged a gavel on the podium, grinning widely. “Sold! Twenty-five thousand to Mr. Weber for a date with Pornchai! A record for the night, folks—well done!” The crowd erupted, clapping and whistling as Klaus stood, smoothing his blazer with a satisfied nod.

Pornchai stepped off the stage, her legs unsteady, the nightgown’s hem riding up slightly as she moved. Clara met her at the bottom, beaming. “See? You were a hit!” she said, handing her a glass of water. Pornchai took it wordlessly, her fingers trembling as she glanced across the room. Klaus was already turning away, rejoining Hans and the others, while the party swirled on around them, the air thick with triumph and the clink of rupees well spent.

The auction’s energy lingered in the air as Pornchai lingered near the edge of the crowd, the black nightgown still clinging to her skin. The other women—Clara in her gold sparkly dress, the Brit in silver, and the Indian woman in pink—milled about in their shimmering outfits, their laughter bright and carefree. No one had suggested changing back, and the night’s momentum carried them along, the fabric catching the light with every move. Pornchai tugged at her hem again, her bare legs feeling exposed under the scrutiny of passing glances, but she stayed put, caught in the current of the party.

Clara sidled up beside her, her cheeks flushed from the night’s revelry. “You need another drink after that,” she said, flagging down a waiter with a tray of tequila shots. She pressed one into Pornchai’s hand, the glass cool against her palm, and raised her own. “To breaking records!” Clara toasted, clinking their glasses together before tossing hers back. Pornchai followed suit, the liquid searing her throat, her head swimming as the alcohol layered atop the earlier shots. She winced, setting the empty glass on a nearby table, and Clara laughed, nudging her playfully.

The question had been gnawing at Pornchai since the gavel fell, and the tequila loosened her tongue just enough. She turned to Clara, her voice low but steady. “What does a ‘date’ mean? With the auction?”

Clara wiped her lips with the back of her hand, grinning. “Oh, it’s just a dinner out, you know—nice restaurant, some chat, that sort of thing.” She paused, then leaned in closer, her tone turning teasing. “And, well, whatever happens afterward on a date, right?” She winked, her laughter bubbling up as she straightened, clearly amused by her own quip.

Pornchai’s smile froze, her breath catching. Clara’s words landed like stones, the casual addition twisting in her mind. She didn’t laugh, didn’t catch the jest—only felt a cold certainty settle in her chest, confirming the dread that had been simmering since Klaus’s bid. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table, her eyes darting to where Hans stood across the room, laughing with Klaus and the others. Clara, oblivious, grabbed another shot and handed it to her, but Pornchai barely registered it, the party’s noise fading into a dull roar as her thoughts churned.

The party’s rhythm shifted as a live band struck up a lively tune, the sitar’s twang weaving through a pulsing beat that drew people to the open space near the stage. Pornchai lingered near the table, the tequila’s heat still lingering in her veins, when a group of men approached—expats in crisp shirts, their faces flushed with drink and confidence. One, a lanky Brit with a crooked grin, extended a hand. “Come on, let’s dance,” he said, his tone light but insistent. Another, a stocky German with a sweaty brow, chimed in, “Yeah, show us some moves!”

Pornchai hesitated, her eyes flicking to Hans across the room. He caught her glance and stepped closer, his expression calm but firm. “Go ahead,” he said, nodding toward the men. “Make a good impression—it’s good for us here.” His voice carried that same quiet pressure from earlier, and she felt the weight of his expectation settle over her.

With a small, reluctant nod, she let the Brit take her hand, leading her to the dance floor. The black nightgown swished against her thighs as she moved, the fabric drawing eyes with every step. The band’s tempo picked up, and the men formed a loose circle around her, their movements clumsy but enthusiastic. The Brit spun her lightly, his hand brushing her waist, while the German swayed closer, his arm grazing her back. She tried to keep her steps simple, her arms close to her body, but their hands wandered—fingers lingering on her hips, a palm pressing briefly against the small of her back, another brushing the curve of her side.

Their touches were casual, veiled as part of the dance, but they left her skin prickling. The Brit’s hand slid lower for a moment, cupping her hip before he laughed and twirled her again, while the German’s fingers grazed her arm as he pulled her into a quick dip. She stiffened, her smile tight, but kept moving, the music and Hans’s words anchoring her in place. The men grinned, their laughter loud over the beat, and the crowd around them clapped along, oblivious or uncaring. Hans watched from the sidelines, his drink in hand, his nod of approval subtle but unmistakable as the dance stretched on.

The music faded as the dance ended, the men stepping back with satisfied grins, leaving Pornchai to catch her breath. She smoothed the nightgown’s hem, her skin still tingling from their hands, and made her way back to Hans. He stood near the bar, his blazer now draped over a chair, a fresh drink in his grip. As she approached, he set the glass down and pulled her gently to his side, his arm settling around her shoulders.

“You did well out there,” he said, his voice warm with approval. “They loved you—good for the team, good for me.” His blue eyes met hers, a rare softness in them, and he brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I know it’s a lot, being new here, but you’re handling it perfectly.”

Pornchai managed a small smile, the praise easing some of the tension coiled in her chest. “It’s… different,” she said, her accent thickening slightly. “But if it helps you, I try.”

“It does,” Hans replied, squeezing her shoulder. “More than you know.” He waved over a waiter, grabbing two more glasses of rum-spiked lassi, and handed one to her. “Let’s relax a bit now. You’ve earned it.” She took the drink, the sweet tang cutting through the lingering burn of tequila, and they clinked glasses, sipping in companionable silence as the party hummed around them.

Their conversation drifted—Hans talking about the factory’s upcoming projects, Pornchai nodding along, her responses short but attentive. The alcohol flowed freely, each sip blurring the edges of the night, until Clara bounded over, her gold dress still sparkling. “You two! Come join the game—we’re playing ‘Chug and Challenge’!” she announced, dragging them toward a circle of guests near the stage.

The game was simple: a deck of cards with dares, and a shot of whiskey for each player to down before drawing. Hans chuckled, already tipsy, and agreed, pulling Pornchai into the circle. She hesitated but followed, the lassi’s buzz urging her along. The first round started—Clara chugged her shot, drew a card, and belted out a terrible rendition of a Bollywood song, earning cheers. Hans went next, downing his whiskey and landing a dare to mimic his boss, which he did with a exaggerated German growl, drawing laughs.

Pornchai’s turn came. She tipped back the shot, the whiskey scorching her throat, and drew a card: “Dance with the person to your left.” That was Hans, and he grinned, pulling her into a sloppy, swaying twirl as the group whooped. The rounds continued, shots piling up—Hans arm-wrestling Klaus, Pornchai reciting a Thai tongue-twister through giggles—until their heads spun and the room tilted, the game dissolving into drunken chaos as the night wore on.

The party wound down as the sky outside darkened to a deep indigo, the fairy lights flickering faintly against the Mumbai skyline. Hans and Pornchai stumbled out of the elevator, their laughter echoing in the quiet lobby as they hailed a taxi. Inside the car, Hans slumped against the seat, his arm draped loosely around her, the alcohol softening his edges. Pornchai leaned into him, the black nightgown still clinging to her skin, but her mind churned despite the haze. The ride home blurred past—neon signs, honking rickshaws, the humid air seeping through the cracked window—and all she could think of was the date with Klaus, Hans’s boss, looming somewhere in the days ahead.

They reached their apartment, the door clicking shut behind them as Hans kicked off his shoes and tugged at his tie. “Shower?” he mumbled, already shuffling toward the bathroom. Pornchai nodded, following him, the night’s sweat and tequila clinging to her. They stripped down, the nightgown pooling on the floor, and stepped into the glass stall together. The hot water cascaded over them, washing away the party’s residue, Hans’s hands roaming lazily over her wet skin. She closed her eyes, letting the steam and his touch pull her into the moment.

Back in the bedroom, still damp from the shower, Hans pulled her onto the bed. Their movements were clumsy, fueled by liquor and exhaustion, but familiar. He kissed her neck, his beard scratching her skin, and she arched into him, her hands gripping his shoulders. The sex was quick, urgent—a release of the night’s tension—his breath heavy against her ear as they moved together. When it was over, he rolled off, murmuring a slurred “Gute Nacht” before his snores filled the room. Pornchai lay beside him, the sheets cool against her flushed skin, and drifted into a fitful sleep.

The next morning, she woke early, the first light filtering through the blinds. Hans still slept, sprawled across the bed, but Pornchai slipped out quietly, her bare feet padding to the kitchen. She brewed a pot of tea, the jasmine scent grounding her, and stood by the window, staring at the waking city. Her head ached faintly, but her thoughts circled back to Klaus—his sharp jaw, his steady gaze, the twenty-five thousand rupees that bound her to this “date.” She sipped her tea, the steam curling upward, her mind restless as the day stretched out before her.

The clatter of dishes broke the morning’s quiet as Pornchai set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of Hans. He stirred awake, blinking against the sunlight streaming into the apartment, his hair tousled and his face still heavy with sleep. She poured him a mug of coffee, the rich aroma filling the space, and slid into the chair across from him. He grunted a thanks, digging into the food with the slow focus of a man shaking off a hangover.

She watched him for a moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup, before her voice cut through the silence. “Hans… about the date with Klaus. It’s coming up, ja? You really want me to do it?”

He looked up, chewing thoughtfully, then swallowed and nodded. “Ja, I do. It’s important, Pornchai. He’s my boss—big man here. Show him a good time, make him like us. It’ll set us up right.” His tone was casual, practical, the words tumbling out between bites as if it were just another task on his list.

Pornchai’s breath caught, her grip tightening on the cup. “A good time,” she echoed softly, the phrase landing like a stone in her gut. Hans kept eating, oblivious to the shift in her, his mind clearly on the innocent outing he envisioned—maybe a meal, some polite chat, a chance to charm Klaus for the sake of his career. But for her, those words cemented the fear she’d carried since Clara’s teasing remark. Twenty-five thousand rupees for a “good time”—it could only mean one thing, she thought, her worst suspicions hardening into certainty.

She forced a small nod, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Okay,” she said, her voice steady despite the churn inside her. If it was for Hans, for their life here, she’d do it—just this once, she told herself. A one-off to get them started, to secure his place in this new country. She rose to clear the dishes, her movements mechanical, while Hans finished his coffee, humming faintly, unaware of the weight she carried as the morning unfolded around them.

The afternoon sun hung heavy over Mumbai, casting long shadows through the apartment windows as Hans sat at the dining table, scrolling through his phone. A soft ping broke the quiet, and he squinted at the screen, his lips curling into a faint smile. “It’s Klaus,” he called out, glancing toward Pornchai, who was folding laundry on the couch. “He’s set the date—Friday night, seven o’clock. Says he’ll pick you up here.”

Pornchai’s hands stilled on a shirt, her fingers gripping the fabric as she looked up. “Friday,” she repeated, her voice steady but her pulse quickening. Hans nodded, still focused on the message, and read on. “Oh, and he says to wear that nightgown from the party. Part of the deal, I guess—since that’s what you had on for the auction.” He chuckled lightly, setting the phone down. “Makes sense, keeps the theme, right?”

She forced a tight smile, resuming her folding with careful precision. The black nightgown—slinky, short, barely there—flashed in her mind, its image tied to the stage, the bids, and now this. Klaus’s request felt like a tether, pulling her back into that moment, and Hans’s casual acceptance only deepened the knot in her stomach. She didn’t argue, didn’t question—just nodded again, her thoughts spiraling as she stacked the clothes in silence.

Hans stretched, oblivious to her tension, and stood to grab a beer from the fridge. “Should be a nice night,” he said, popping the cap. “Klaus knows the good spots around here.” He took a swig, leaning against the counter, while Pornchai kept her eyes on the laundry, the date looming like a shadow over the days ahead. The nightgown sat folded in a drawer, waiting, its black fabric a quiet promise she couldn’t shake.

Friday evening crept up, the air thick with the promise of rain as Pornchai stood before the bedroom mirror, the black nightgown draped over her frame. She smoothed the fabric down, its hem barely brushing her upper thighs, the plunging neckline exposing the curve of her collarbone. Her long hair fell in loose waves, and she dabbed a touch of jasmine perfume on her wrists, the scent a small comfort against the unease curling in her chest.

She reached for a pair of white cotton panties from the drawer, slipping them on beneath the nightgown. Stepping back, she caught her reflection—the white fabric peeked through the thin black material, stark and obvious, like a spotlight on her discomfort. She frowned, tugging at the hem, but it only made the outline more pronounced. With a quiet huff, she peeled them off and rummaged through the drawer again, pulling out a pair of black panties instead.

These were different—delicate lingerie, a gift from Hans early in their marriage, all lace and thin straps that hugged her hips. She slid them on, the black blending seamlessly with the nightgown, no longer visible but a subtle contrast against her skin. The downside hit her as she moved—they were fragile, barely there, the lace tickling her thighs with every step. She shifted, testing the feel, and decided they’d have to do; anything was better than the white flashing like a signal.

Pornchai slipped on a pair of low heels, the simplest she owned, and grabbed a thin shawl to drape over her shoulders—more for her own nerves than the weather. She glanced at the clock: 6:50. Klaus would be here soon. Hans poked his head into the room, whistling low. “You look great,” he said, oblivious to her fidgeting. “Have fun tonight.” She nodded, her throat tight, and turned back to the mirror, the black-on-black ensemble staring back at her, ready or not.

The clock ticked past seven, and the intercom buzzed sharply, cutting through the hum of the apartment. Pornchai adjusted the shawl over her shoulders, her fingers lingering on the thin fabric as Hans crossed the room to answer it. “That’ll be Klaus,” he said, pressing the button to let him in. “Right on time.” He turned to her with a grin, oblivious to the stiffness in her posture, and gave her a quick peck on the forehead. “Enjoy yourself, ja?”

She nodded, her lips parting to reply, but the words stuck as a knock sounded at the door. Hans opened it, revealing Klaus Weber—tall and broad in a tailored charcoal suit, his graying hair swept back, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Evening, Hans,” he said, his voice smooth with a thick German edge, then shifted his gaze to Pornchai. “And you—ready for our night?” His eyes swept over her, lingering on the black nightgown, the lace peeking faintly at the hem.

“Ja, she’s all set,” Hans answered for her, clapping Klaus on the shoulder. “Take good care of her.” Klaus chuckled, a low sound, and offered his arm. Pornchai hesitated, then slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, the shawl slipping slightly as she moved. Hans waved them off, shutting the door behind them, and the hallway stretched out in silence as they headed to the elevator.

Klaus pressed the button, his presence filling the small space. “You wore it,” he said, nodding at the nightgown. “Good. Keeps the spirit of the auction.” His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it that made her skin prickle. She murmured a soft “yes,” her eyes fixed on the elevator doors as they slid open. They stepped inside, the descent quiet save for the hum of the machinery, and Pornchai’s grip tightened on her shawl, the lace of her panties shifting against her thighs as they dropped toward the night ahead.

The car rolled smoothly through Mumbai’s bustling streets, the neon lights flashing past as Klaus leaned back in the leather seat, a bottle of single malt whiskey already open in his hand. He’d waved off the driver’s offer of a restaurant immediately, instead directing them to a sleek, dimly lit lounge tucked away in a quieter district. “Better atmosphere,” he’d said, pouring himself a generous shot into a crystal tumbler he’d pulled from a compartment. He glanced at Pornchai, her shawl now pooled in her lap, and held out a second glass. “Drink with me,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “I don’t like drinking alone.”

Pornchai’s fingers brushed the glass, the cool weight of it grounding her for a moment. She didn’t say no—couldn’t, really, not with the twenty-five thousand rupees hanging between them, not with Hans’s voice echoing in her mind about making a good impression. She nodded, accepting the shot, and Klaus poured the amber liquid with a practiced hand. “Prost,” he said, clinking his glass against hers before tossing it back. She followed, the whiskey burning a sharp path down her throat, her eyes watering slightly as she swallowed.

He didn’t stop at one. The second shot came as they pulled up to the lounge, the car idling outside. “Another,” he insisted, refilling her glass before she could set it down. She drank again, the heat spreading through her chest, her head already beginning to lighten. By the time they stepped out and settled into a plush velvet booth inside, he’d poured a third, then a fourth, his own pace matching hers shot for shot. The lounge hummed with low music and murmured conversations, the air thick with cigar smoke and spice, but Klaus’s focus stayed on her.

“Last one before we eat,” he said, handing her a fifth shot, his smirk widening as he watched her hesitate. Her hand trembled slightly, the nightgown’s hem riding up as she shifted in the seat, but she took it, tipping it back with a grimace. The alcohol hit hard, blurring the edges of the room, and she set the glass down with a soft clink, her breath shallow. Klaus leaned back, satisfied, swirling his own drink as a waiter approached with menus. “Good girl,” he muttered, almost to himself, before turning his attention to the food, leaving Pornchai to steady herself against the rising tide of the whiskey.

The waiter laid out their dinner with quiet efficiency—plates of butter chicken and garlic naan for Klaus, a small portion of vegetable biryani for Pornchai. The lounge’s dim lighting cast shadows over the table, the velvet booth cocooning them in a haze of warmth and alcohol. Klaus dug into his meal with gusto, tearing off chunks of naan and dipping them in the rich sauce, while Pornchai picked at her rice, the whiskey still swirling in her system. She ate slowly, the spices sharp on her tongue, her appetite dulled by the five shots and the weight of the night.

Klaus kept the conversation flowing, his voice a steady rumble over the lounge’s soft jazz. “Hans is a good man,” he said between bites, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Smart, reliable. Lucky to have him here.” He glanced at her, his gray eyes catching the light. “And you—quite the surprise at that auction.” She nodded, offering a faint “thank you,” her words clipped as she pushed a grain of rice around her plate.

He reached for the bottle of red wine on the table—a bold Cabernet he’d ordered with the meal—and topped off her glass without asking. “Prost,” he said, raising his own and clinking it against hers. She lifted the glass, sipping the dry, oaky liquid, and he refilled it the moment she set it down. “You’re keeping up well,” he remarked, a faint approval in his tone as he tore into more naan. She murmured something polite, her head swimming as the wine layered atop the whiskey.

When the waiter returned to clear their plates, he offered dessert—gulab jamun or mango mousse—but Pornchai shook her head, her stomach already tight. “No, thank you,” she said softly, and Klaus shrugged, waving the waiter off. “More for the wine, then,” he said, pouring her another generous measure. “Prost,” he repeated, his smirk deepening as he watched her drink again. The glass felt heavier each time, the room tilting slightly, and she rested her hands in her lap, the nightgown’s lace brushing her thighs as Klaus leaned back, content to let the night stretch on.

The dinner ended with Klaus tossing a stack of rupees onto the table, waving off the waiter as he stood and offered Pornchai his arm. “A little walk,” he said, his voice thick with wine and satisfaction. “Clear the head before the next stop.” She rose unsteadily, the nightgown swishing against her thighs, and slipped her shawl back over her shoulders, though it did little to cover the outfit’s brevity. They stepped out into the Mumbai night, the air humid and heavy, the streets narrowing into a maze of shadowed lanes.

Her heels clicked against the uneven pavement, the black nightgown stark against the muted tones of the city—saris and kurtas blending into the crowd, her lace-edged silhouette drawing sidelong glances from passersby. Klaus strode beside her, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his pace leisurely as they wound through dark alleys, the neon glow of distant signs barely reaching them. She clutched her shawl tighter, the wine and whiskey blurring her steps, her outfit feeling more exposed with every gust of warm wind.

After ten minutes, they reached a discreet entrance tucked between two buildings, a polished wooden door with a small brass sign: The Sapphire Lounge. Klaus pushed it open, revealing a sleek interior of dark wood and amber lighting, the hum of jazz filtering through. A host greeted him by name, leading them past the main bar to a curtained-off section. “Your private lounge, sir,” the host said, pulling back the velvet drape to reveal a plush room—low leather couches, a glass table, and a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket.

The word “private” hit Pornchai like a jolt, slicing through the alcohol’s fog. Her breath caught, her fingers tightening on the shawl as Klaus gestured for her to step inside. She’d been waiting for this, expecting it since the auction, since Hans’s “good time” and Clara’s jest—twenty-five thousand rupees for more than just dinner, she was certain. Her heart thudded as she crossed the threshold, the nightgown’s hem brushing her skin, the lace of her panties a fragile barrier as Klaus followed, closing the curtain behind them with a soft rustle.

The private lounge settled into a hushed stillness as Klaus sank into the leather couch, gesturing for Pornchai to join him. A waiter slipped through the curtain, presenting a slim cocktail menu with a practiced smile. Klaus scanned it briefly, then ordered a Negroni, his voice gravelly from the night’s indulgences. Pornchai hesitated, her eyes skimming the unfamiliar names, before settling on a Mai Tai—something sweet to cut through the tension knotting her stomach. The waiter nodded, returning minutes later with their drinks: a ruby-red Negroni for Klaus, a vibrant orange Mai Tai topped with a pineapple slice for her.

He set the glasses on the table, then pointed to a small silver button embedded in the armrest of the couch. “Press this if you need anything,” he said, his tone neutral. “Help, more drinks—whatever. Otherwise, you’re undisturbed.” He gave a slight bow and retreated, the curtain falling back into place, sealing them in. The button gleamed faintly, a quiet promise of assistance—or a guarantee of isolation. No one would come unless they called.

Pornchai sipped her Mai Tai, the rum and citrus sharp on her tongue, her shawl slipping to the cushion beside her. The privacy pressed in, thick and expectant, and she felt the weight of Klaus’s gaze, the twenty-five thousand rupees a silent contract between them. She didn’t want to falter, didn’t want to seem unwilling—not after the auction, not after Hans’s encouragement, not with the night’s trajectory so clear in her mind. She’d agreed to this, she told herself, her resolve hardening against the flutter of nerves.

Setting her glass down, she shifted closer to Klaus on the couch, her hand moving with deliberate intent. Her fingers brushed his thigh, then slid upward, finding the outline of his penis through the fabric of his trousers. She began to rub, slow and firm, her touch steady despite the racing of her pulse. Klaus exhaled sharply, his Negroni pausing mid-air as he leaned back, his eyes narrowing with a mix of surprise and approval. The room stayed silent save for the faint clink of ice in their glasses, the button untouched, the privacy theirs as she pressed on, her nightgown riding up slightly with the motion.

The air in the private lounge thickened as Pornchai’s hand moved over Klaus’s trousers, the leather couch creaking faintly beneath them. Her Mai Tai sat half-finished on the table, the ice melting into the orange liquid, while Klaus’s Negroni rested in his grip, his breathing heavier now. The vagueness of the moment gnawed at her—what did he expect? A handjob? A blowjob? Full sex? The alcohol dulled her edges, but not enough to quiet the uncertainty. She didn’t want to misstep, didn’t want to disappoint or overstep the unspoken deal tied to those twenty-five thousand rupees.

Her hand paused, and she turned to him, her dark eyes meeting his gray ones. The words tumbled out before she could rethink them, blunt and unfiltered from the haze of rum and whiskey. “Do you want to put your penis in my vagina?” she asked, her voice steady but slightly slurred, the question hanging raw in the stillness. Sober, she might have softened it, cloaked it in shy glances or hesitant hints, but the drinks stripped away the finesse.

Klaus blinked, his smirk faltering for a split second before widening into a grin. He set his Negroni down, the glass clinking against the table, and leaned closer, his tone light but edged with amusement. “Sure, how nice of you!” he said, his German accent thickening as he chuckled low in his throat. He shifted on the couch, undoing his belt with a casual flick, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Pornchai exhaled, her nerves steadying now that the ambiguity was gone, replaced by a clear directive. She nodded faintly, the nightgown’s lace brushing her skin as she adjusted her position, the button on the armrest gleaming silently beside them.

The private lounge pulsed with a quiet tension as Pornchai’s fingers found the zipper of Klaus’s trousers. She tugged it down, the metal teeth parting with a soft rasp, revealing his cock already straining against the fabric of his boxers. It sprang free as she pushed the material aside—thick and rigid, the head flushed and glistening faintly in the dim light. She wrapped her hand around it, her small fingers barely encircling its girth, and stroked slowly, feeling the heat of him against her palm. Klaus groaned low, his head tipping back against the couch.

She shifted, reaching under the nightgown to hook her thumbs into the delicate black lace of her panties. The fabric slid down her thighs, catching briefly on her knees before she kicked them off, the lingerie crumpling to the floor. Climbing onto his lap, she faced him, her knees bracketing his hips on the leather cushion. The nightgown rode up, exposing her bare skin, and she steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder, the other guiding his cock toward her.

Their first attempt fumbled—her angle off, his hips shifting too soon. She adjusted, lifting slightly, but the dryness made it awkward, his tip brushing her entrance without sliding in. Klaus muttered something under his breath, then spat into his palm, the wet sound sharp in the stillness. He rubbed the saliva over his cock, slicking it from base to tip, then gripped her hips, pulling her down. She gasped as he pressed against her again, the spit easing the way this time. With a grunt, he thrust upward, and his cock breached her, the thick head stretching her tight folds as it sank in.

Her breath hitched, her walls clenching around him as he pushed deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside her. The fit was snug, her body yielding to his size, the slick heat of her mingling with his spit. Klaus’s hands tightened on her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, and he rocked her slightly, the friction sparking a low groan from his throat. Pornchai’s nails bit into his shoulders, the nightgown bunched around her waist, her thighs trembling as they found a rhythm in the shadowed confines of the lounge.

Klaus’s hands gripped Pornchai’s hips firmly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he lifted her slightly off his lap. Her weight shifted in his grasp, the nightgown rucked up around her waist, and he guided her back down, his cock sliding deep into her with a wet, steady thrust. She gasped, her hands braced on his shoulders, her nails pressing crescent marks into his shirt as he set a rhythm. Up and down he moved her, his strength controlling the pace, each lift pulling him nearly out before plunging back in, the slick heat of her enveloping him fully.

The leather couch creaked beneath them, the sound mingling with Klaus’s grunts and the faint slap of skin against skin. Her thighs flexed, straining to keep up, the lace-edged nightgown fluttering with each motion. His cock filled her repeatedly, thick and unrelenting, stretching her tight walls as he drove upward, his hips bucking to meet her descent. Sweat beaded on his brow, his graying hair sticking to his forehead, and his breath grew ragged, the alcohol fueling his urgency.

Pornchai’s body rocked with his thrusts, her breasts bouncing faintly under the nightgown’s thin fabric, her head tipping back as the sensation built. Klaus’s grip tightened, his fingers bruising her hips, and he quickened the pace, lifting and slamming her down harder. His cock pulsed inside her, the friction slick and hot, until a low growl rumbled from his chest. With a final, deep thrust, he held her down, his hips jerking as he ejaculated. Warmth flooded her, his cum spilling into her in thick spurts, coating her inner walls as he shuddered beneath her, his breath escaping in sharp pants.

She stilled, her chest heaving, feeling the wet heat of his release inside her as Klaus’s hands loosened their hold. He slumped back against the couch, spent, his cock softening slowly within her, a faint drip of cum leaking out where their bodies joined. The lounge remained silent save for their breathing, the untouched button on the armrest a mute witness to the act.

Pornchai eased herself off Klaus’s lap, her thighs trembling slightly as she slid to the side of the couch. His softening cock slipped free, a thin trail of cum glistening on her inner thigh. She reached for a tissue from a small box on the glass table, her movements slow and deliberate, and wiped away the sticky mess, the white paper staining as she cleaned herself. The nightgown fell back into place, though it did little to cover the dampness between her legs. She balled up the tissue and set it aside, her breath steadying.

Klaus leaned back, his chest still rising and falling heavily, a faint sheen of sweat on his face. He ran a hand through his graying hair, then glanced at her with a satisfied smirk. “That was… unexpected,” he said, his voice rough but warm. “You’re something else, Pornchai. Thanks for that.”

She nodded, her lips pressing into a small, tight smile. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her accent soft against the lounge’s quiet. She reached for her Mai Tai, the glass cool in her hand, and tipped it back, draining the last of the sweet rum and citrus in one long swallow. The alcohol burned faintly, grounding her as she set the empty glass down.

Klaus shifted, zipping up his trousers with a quick tug, the sound sharp in the stillness. He adjusted his belt, smoothing his shirt, then leaned forward and pressed the silver button on the armrest. A soft chime echoed, and within moments, the curtain parted, the waiter stepping in with a polite nod. “Another round,” Klaus said, gesturing to their empty glasses. “Negroni for me, Mai Tai for her.”

The waiter dipped his head and retreated, leaving them in the plush silence once more. Klaus settled back, his arm resting along the couch, and Pornchai tucked her legs beneath her, the nightgown’s hem riding up as they waited for the drinks to arrive.

The curtain rustled as the waiter returned, balancing a tray with their fresh cocktails—a Negroni for Klaus, its ruby hue catching the light, and a new Mai Tai for Pornchai, the pineapple slice perched on the rim. He set the drinks on the glass table with a quiet clink, then slipped away without a word, the velvet drape falling back into place. Pornchai reached for her glass, the cool rim brushing her lips as she took a slow sip, the rum’s warmth spreading through her chest. She set it down, her hand lingering on the stem, then shifted slightly, her bare thighs sticking to the leather.

Her eyes darted to the floor, searching for the black lace panties she’d kicked off earlier. The dim lighting made it hard to see, and she scanned the shadows beneath the couch, the table, the cushions—no sign of them. A flicker of unease crept in; they’d vanished into the lounge’s plush abyss. She didn’t want to draw attention to it, didn’t want to flush with embarrassment in front of Klaus or make him think she was careless. Her lips parted, then closed, and she opted for silence on the matter.

Klaus sipped his Negroni, the ice clinking as he leaned back, his gaze settling on her. “You’re quiet now,” he said, his tone casual but probing. “Everything alright?”

She nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yes, just… tired. Long night.” Her voice stayed soft, her accent curling around the words as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

He chuckled, swirling his drink. “Fair enough. You’ve earned a rest after that performance.” His eyes glinted with amusement, and he took another sip. “Hans is lucky, you know. Not many wives would play along so well.”

Pornchai’s fingers tightened on her glass, but she kept her expression neutral. “I want to help him,” she said simply, lifting her Mai Tai for another sip. “It’s important here.”

“Smart girl,” Klaus replied, nodding approvingly. “You get how it works. Connections, impressions—that’s the game.” He stretched his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing the cushion near her shoulder. “You’ll do fine in this city.”

She murmured a quiet “thank you,” her eyes flicking to the floor again, still hunting for the lost panties, but she let the conversation drift on, the cocktail’s sweetness masking the unease lingering beneath her calm facade.

The cocktails flowed as the night deepened, the private lounge a cocoon of amber light and muffled jazz. Klaus set his empty Negroni down and clapped his hands together, a grin spreading across his face. “Karaoke,” he declared, nodding toward a sleek machine tucked in the corner, its screen flickering to life. “Let’s have some fun.” He stood, a little unsteady from the drinks, and punched in a song—some German rock anthem Pornchai didn’t recognize. His voice boomed, rough and off-key, as he swayed to the beat, the lyrics slurring into a hearty chorus.

Pornchai watched, sipping her Mai Tai, until he finished with a theatrical bow and thrust the microphone toward her. “Your turn,” he said, plopping back onto the couch. She rose, the nightgown shifting against her bare skin, her missing panties a quiet absence she tried to ignore. She picked a Thai pop song from the list, her voice soft but clear, the melody lilting through the room. As she stood, the curtain parted, and a waiter slipped in with a tray of water glasses, his eyes flicking toward her. His gaze lingered a moment—too long, she thought—and her stomach tightened. Had he noticed? The nightgown’s hem barely covered her, and without the lace barrier, she felt exposed. He set the tray down and left without a word, but the heat crept up her neck as she finished the song, her notes faltering slightly.

They traded turns for hours—Klaus belting out old hits, Pornchai sticking to familiar tunes, the alcohol loosening their voices and inhibitions. Time blurred, the room spinning faintly as the empty glasses piled up. She sank back onto the couch, her head buzzing, when Klaus turned to her, his grin widening. “Another round?” he asked, his hand gesturing lazily toward the bulge straining against his trousers, the outline unmistakable.

Her breath caught, the casual question landing like a jolt. She glanced at his face, then down, the implication clear despite the haze of drinks and karaoke. The night stretched on, and she sat frozen for a moment, the microphone still warm in her lap, the waiter’s earlier look echoing in her mind as Klaus waited for her response.

Pornchai’s fingers hesitated as she reached for Klaus’s trousers, the lounge’s dim light casting shadows over the leather couch. His question hung in the air, and she moved forward, unzipping him with a quiet rasp. His cock emerged, not fully hard this time—thicker but softer, the head resting against his thigh. She glanced up at him, his smirk encouraging, and leaned down, her lips parting as she took him into her mouth. The taste was sharp, musky, and she worked her tongue along the shaft, sucking gently until he stiffened, growing rigid against her palate. Klaus groaned, his hand resting lightly on her head, guiding her rhythm.

Satisfied with his hardness, she pulled back, a thin string of saliva breaking as she straightened. She climbed onto his lap again, straddling him, the nightgown bunching around her hips. Her tiny, hairless pussy—perfectly innie, smooth and tight—hovered over him as she gripped his cock, aligning it with her entrance. She sank down, her slick folds parting to take him in, the fit snug as she enveloped his length. Klaus’s hands found her hips, steadying her as she began to move, pumping up and down with steady, deliberate thrusts.

Her thighs flexed, driving him deeper, her hairless slit glistening as she rode him. His cock pulsed inside her, thick and hot, and she quickened her pace, the friction building. Klaus’s breaths grew short, his fingers digging into her skin, until he tensed beneath her with a guttural grunt. His cum surged into her, thick spurts emptying into her tight pussy, draining him dry as she milked every drop. She slowed, her chest heaving, feeling the warmth pool inside her as his cock softened.

Klaus slumped back, his face flushed and slick with sweat. “I’m spent,” he rasped, a tired laugh escaping him. “You’ve done me in.” He patted her thigh, signaling her to slide off, and she did, the nightgown falling back into place, sticky with their mingled fluids. He zipped up, pressed the button for the waiter to settle the tab, and stood, offering his arm. “Let’s get you home.”

The ride back was quiet, the city’s lights blurring past as Klaus escorted her to the apartment. He walked her to the door, gave a curt nod, and left her there, the night’s weight settling over her as she stepped inside alone.

Pornchai slipped through the apartment door, the latch clicking softly behind her as she stepped into the dimness. The living room glowed faintly with the flicker of the TV, left on some late-night news channel, and there was Hans—sprawled on the couch, his head lolled back, mouth slightly open in a deep, oblivious sleep. His blazer lay crumpled beside him, one arm dangling off the edge. She froze for a moment, her breath held, hoping he wouldn’t stir and see her—disheveled, the nightgown clinging to her sweat-damp skin, cum still sticky between her thighs. But his snores rumbled on, undisturbed, and relief washed over her.

She tiptoed past, her heels dangling from her hand, and made a beeline for the bathroom. The door shut with a quiet thud, and she turned on the shower, the hiss of water drowning out the night’s echoes. Peeling off the nightgown, she let it drop to the tiles, the black fabric pooling like a shadow. She stepped under the spray, the hot water cascading over her, washing away Klaus’s scent, the stickiness, the ache. Her hair plastered to her back as she scrubbed, her movements quick and mechanical, eager to erase the evidence of the lounge.

Wrapped in a towel, she padded to the bedroom, the cool sheets a balm against her flushed skin. She slid beneath them, not bothering with clothes, her body heavy with exhaustion. The mattress dipped slightly under her weight, and she curled onto her side, eyes closing as sleep pulled her under fast. The night’s weight lingered, but the steady rhythm of Hans’s snores from the living room anchored her, and she drifted off, the shower’s steam still curling faintly in the air.

Here is another story by me:
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