EPISODE II — THREE MEN, JUST FOR ME

I tell myself it isn’t planned, but of course it is.

By the time night settles over the street and the lamps outside glow like small, trembling suns, something inside me has already shifted. Desire rises in me the way heat climbs through metal — slow at first, then impossible to ignore. My skin grows hypersensitive; my breath grows shallow. There is always a moment, just before I open the door to anyone, when I feel the pulse low in my body and know I won’t be able to pretend innocence tonight.

My name is Thalia.

French by birth, Vietnamese by origin, shaped by two cultures and somehow by neither. I stand tall, all angles and softness at once — amber-coloured skin, green eyes, a quiet face people pretend to understand. Men look at me as though I’m a promise they hope I’ll keep.

My particular talent — the thing I never admit out loud — is the way I touch.

I’ve always known that my hands say far more than my mouth ever dares.

Tonight, I’ve invited three men.

I still don’t know what that says about me.

Maybe I don’t want to know.

They arrive in quick succession, carrying with them that restless, hungry energy men have when they think something is about to happen. I greet them in nothing more than delicate lingerie beneath a half-open robe. It feels risky, deliberate. I feel their eyes on me like warm fingertips.

Before anything else, I pour them *bia*, the light, golden drink of my childhood summers. Their laughter softens; their bodies loosen. The room becomes warmer, smaller, more intimate than it has any right to be.

When we step into the massage room, something shifts again.

It’s subtle — a collective breath, a hum of anticipation — but I feel it in the base of my spine. They undress without being asked, their confidence mixing oddly with a kind of reverence I wasn’t expecting. Three bodies, three forms of hunger, three kinds of tension tightening the air between us.

I ask them to lie down.

I pretend my voice is steady.

Their weight presses into the mats, and I kneel between them, letting my hands rest on warm skin. I begin slowly, almost ceremonially, tracing lines along shoulders, backs, hips. My breath falls in rhythm with theirs. Each exhale seems to pull me deeper into a place I recognise all too well — that fine, trembling edge where touch becomes meaning.

There is a moment when the room becomes unbearably quiet.

Only their breaths.

Only mine.

The kind of silence that feels like a held note, waiting to break.

As I move from one body to another, their reactions ripple through me — a shiver here, a sigh there, the subtle way muscles tense beneath my palms. I shouldn’t enjoy the power this much, but I do. It curls warmly in my chest, in my stomach, lower still. Their desire hangs in the air like incense, sweet and heavy.

At some point, the lines blur.

Their hands find me — cautious at first, then bolder.

My robe slides from my shoulders; my breath shortens. I feel their attention on every inch of skin they can see, and suddenly I’m not the only one guiding the pace. The room tilts, as though we drift into some collective dream where restraint feels optional and hunger feels inevitable.

Everything afterward becomes a kind of fevered sequence —

bodies shifting,

breaths mingling,

heat blooming in overlapping waves.

There is no choreography, only instinct.

Only the knowledge that all four of us are giving in to something larger than intention.

I lose track of time. Of order. Of reason.

All I know is that I am wanted — profoundly, overwhelmingly — and I want in return. Not one of them, but all three, the way their presence surrounds me, presses warm against my thoughts, unravels something inside me that I rarely allow to surface.

By the time our bodies finally calm, the night is deep and breathless.

My pulse echoes in my ears; my skin is damp with heat. The room smells of desire and something faintly sweet — the lingering trace of *bia* and the certainty that we crossed a line none of us can name.

We collapse into a loose, tangled heap, spent and wordless.

I should feel embarrassed.

Instead, I feel electric.

I don’t sleep.

I simply lie there, between them, listening to their quiet, satisfied breaths, wondering what part of me woke tonight… and why I already know I’ll let it happen again.

END ------------------------------------

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