I’m looking up at the Departures board along with everyone else around me. It’s like we are all praying, or perhaps watching the numbers at the stock exchange. Hope and despair, always hope and despair.

We watch as slowly, inexorably, the status info for each flight is rolled over to ‘DELAYED’, until the whole board tells the same story: ‘DELAYED, DELAYED, DELAYED’. People’s reactions are varied—one guy in a good suit turns away muttering “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Three leggy girls in shorts and cowboy hats whoop and cheer. No-one is surprised—it’s the northeast monsoon season in Singapore, and the rain is fierce and horizontal out there. 

And me? Well, it’s OK I guess, not a personal disaster. I’ve got stuff to get home for, but nothing urgent. Tom is already home, so the dogs will be looked after. I’ve already had five automated texts from Qantas telling me they really care about me blah blah blah.

“Ah well,” sighs the woman next to me, “at least I should get a room here tonight.”

I’m a bit surprised. Is she boasting? I glance sideways at her—tall, Asian, smartly dressed, pearls. A trim black carry-on. In her forties, maybe? She’s looking at me, smiling pleasantly. Not boasting—just trying to make conversation.

“Crikey, you’re lucky. How come?” I offer.

“I’m first class,” she replies, still smiling.

I’m thinking, “Yeah, I bet you are, honey,” but of course I don’t say it. Instead: “No shit. I didn’t know they did that.” Why would I know? Tom and I could never afford first class.

She’s motionless. Her eyes dart around the vast cavern of too-bright lights and Duty Free that is Changi 3, and come back to me. She blinks. She’s still smiling. 

I get it; she’s unsure, looking for a hint as to what happens next. The crowd of supplicants around the Departures board has thinned.

I sling my backpack to my other shoulder, and put my hand out.

“I’m Jamie.”

She reanimates, puts her hand in mine. It’s tiny, bony. “Ha-yoon,” she breathes, with a very slight incline towards me. 

“Is that Korean? I’m sorry, I’m a bit unsure with Asian names.”

“Yes. Yes, Korean.” 

“But your accent is, ummm…”

“Haha yes I know. I live in Canada now. Twelve years.”

She’s relaxing a bit, turning her head to the shops and back, shifting her weight. This is the moment. The moment when one of us makes an offer to be friendly, chew up a bit of time in this weird place where time is just a slippery theory. I’m not really interested—half-way home, stiff and sore from the first flight, feeling jet-laggy already, lusting for fresh air. But there’s nowhere else, nothing else to do, until that Departures board offers hope instead of despair. I tell myself, 'OK, kiddo, just be kind, will you?'

“Wanna get a drink? Some food?”

“Oh? Oh yes, that would be nice. Thank you.” She really means it. Poor little lost thing.

“There’s a sort of pretend hawker’s market upstairs. The Hainanese chicken and rice is ok. Tap and pay.”

There’s a pause. “Are you sure?” she asks. What’s going on? Is she sizing me up, assessing her risks?  Do I look like a scammer or something? In my old jeans and sloppy North Face jacket?! 

“Yeah of course,” I shrug. “What’s the worst that can happen—the chicken is bad?” and I laugh, hopefully in a reassuring fashion. It seems to work. 

We set off, across the hideously loud airport carpet, passing Bulgari, Calvin Klein and the other usual suspects. She tugs her carry-on along like a little fluffy dog. I bet she has a fluffy dog.

I stop myself. What the fuck am I thinking? I don’t know anything about this woman, yet here I go, blithely stereotyping her. 'How about a little open-mindedness, Jamie?' I admonish myself. This is all invisible to Ha-yoon as her long legs step her onto the escalator. She rises above me, even taller. She turns and looks down at me, smiling, seeking reassurance again. Or maybe not—maybe she is offering it? 

It’s crowded upstairs. We’re all transients now, seeking to be nourished. Ha-yoon doesn’t seem phased by the push-and-shove, almost glides through it; I could lose her if she wasn’t taller than most people here. She orders chicken and rice—and Asahis—for both of us, and insists on paying. 

“You are very kind to me,” she smiles and does that little lean forward again. She’s endearing. I feel like I’m her big sister, watching out for her.

We eat, drink, make small talk. I tell her about the family wedding that Tom and I have attended in England, how he had to go home early for work. She explains about her cousin’s funeral in Korea, about meeting her brother’s new—and already pregnant—wife for the first time. 

“No marriage for you?” I enquire, just keeping the conversation going.

“I am not like them,” she answers with a small smile. There’s a shadow there somehow. I shrug.

“It’s not for everyone,” I offer. I think of how Tom and I have slept in separate rooms for five years. Not for everyone indeed.

We keep chatting, but it’s difficult to find a subject to expand on. Besides, it’s noisy and we are struggling to understand each other. We go silent, sipping our beers, looking around at the crowd. There have been no updates on the Departures boards.

She stands up suddenly, decisively. “Ok, I’m gonna go claim my room,” she states. Lucky bastard—but she doesn’t look that happy about it. I smile and nod up at her.

“Thank you for sharing dinner with me,” I say. “Here’s hoping we get out of here soon.”

Did she hear me? She’s standing, not moving, looking across the crowd. She hasn’t reached for her little carry on. She looks down, fixes her dark eyes on me.

“You wanna share my room?”

I frown. I don’t understand. I mean, of course I understand the offer, but what’s the implication?

“Just for a few hours. You could have a shower, freshen up. Watch a movie.”

“Ummm, look thanks,” I finally respond, “I think I’ll just walk around a bit and -”

“Sure, no worries,” she interrupts. “I understand. I’m sorry, that was a bit weird wasn’t it? I didn’t mean anything by it. I just felt a bit selfish leaving you here like this,” and she gestures at the chaos around us.

I breathe in, sigh out. “I need to pee,” I declare, and before Ha-yoon can react, I’m weaving through the crowd to the toilets.  My dad taught me this: if you need to play for time, go for the dunny.  Anyway, I really do need to pee.

While I sit on the toilet, I weigh it up. If this girl really is some kind of weirdo, she has played me well. But surely not. I don’t believe I’m that dumb. Surely she’s just another lost soul in a monsoon in Changi. Like me. And I could do with a shower. I text Tom; he’ll get it when he wakes up. 

When I return to her, she is sitting down again, scrolling her phone, the cafe crowd swirling around her. Her fringe has fallen forward to partly obscure her face. She actually looks…gorgeous. Like a classic poster from one of those angsty Korean movies. She looks up suddenly as I pick up my backpack.

“Ok, which way to your fancy airport hotel?”

“You serious?” she responds, and her face lights up. “You wanna share?”

“Of course. Why not? What’s the worst that can happen—the movie is bad?” I grin. She giggles, her body fizzing with excitement. Once again, I feel like her big sister.

We escape the food crowd, get back downstairs and head through the warehouse of Changi 3. It’s quieter, and Ha-yoon is chattering away, jiggling her bag along behind her. 

“This is gonna be so cool,” she effuses. “We’ll have so much fun! There will be drinks, and hundreds of movies on the TV!” As she leads us into the hotel check-in counter, she chirps, almost as an afterthought, “And I do massage too. I can give you a shoulder massage!” 

Oh really? Well, whatever. This is definitely better than sitting on one of those rigid plastic chairs, staring up at the Departures board, muttering my prayers. 

There’s no trouble with getting me into the room with her; Ha-yoon really is first class. It’s a pleasant enough space—above no frills, below opulent. The TV is enormous, and there’s coffee and tea and snacks and, crikey, even some real milk!  

“You go and have a shower first, while I set up,” she directs, while she looks around the room in a critical fashion. 

“Are you…really gonna give me a massage?” I ask hesitantly.

“Yes, yes, of course. You have been so kind, so friendly. It’s my way of saying thanks. And it’ll be fun!” she declares, clapping her hands together lightly and smiling. Her enthusiasm is contagious. I feel excited for her. OK, and maybe—about her.

When I turn the shower off and step out, Ha-yoon calls softly from the main room.

 “When you’re dry, just put the hotel robe on, and come out. I’ve turned up the room heater.”  

She sounds so relaxed, almost dreamy, but I am completely the opposite. As I touch the fluffy white towel to my thigh, my skin feels electric. What am I doing?  Tom hasn’t touched me in years. Am I really doing this?  I met this woman an hour ago, and now I’m gonna let her massage me!! I've never done anything like this, ever.  But somehow, it feels ok. At least I hope so. There it is—hope, not despair.

I fumble through the little bottles of free stuff on the glass shelf above the basin.  There's body lotion. I open it and take a sniff—it smells lovely and fresh, something tropical. I smear a bit on my shins and forearms, and then, as a flourish, across the top of my pubic hair. I look critically at my wild bush in the mirror, trying to remember the last time I shaved it, or even trimmed it. Ah well, too late now! Robe on—here we go…

Ha-yoon has dimmed the lights and drawn the large curtains across the windows. She’s turned on a strip of soft lights, which goes around the back edge of the large mirror that sits above the desk. I can smell some other fragrance apart from my new body lotion, and I can hear some faint ambient music. Essentially, she’s transformed a bland hotel room into a cosy treatment room. It all feels highly inviting, and I am the one who is invited!

And Ha-yoon is also transformed.  She’s changed into a gorgeous lightweight flowing robe of her own, with a delicate flower-and-bird design, tied easily at the waist, who carries that in their hand luggage?? She’s let her hair down, and her long dark tresses are cascading over her shoulders. She looks absolutely stunning, and for the briefest of moments, I wonder what, if anything, she is wearing under her robe.  I feel a little unsteady as I walk towards her. 

Her face opens to a charming smile, like she is welcoming a client. I guess she is.

“You look very refreshed. Please, sit here,” and she gestures to the standard-issue hotel high-back chair that is at the desk, facing the mirror.  I notice a small toiletries bag on the desk, again with an elegant design. 

I sit down, folding my robe over my thighs, and she gently places a pillow from the bed on my lap, and smooths it out.  

“You might want to rest your arms on this to start,” she says, very professionally. She stands behind me, and places her hand on my shoulder. I can see her in the mirror, smiling at me, full eye contact, her dark eyes reflecting the strip lights around the mirror.  

I still have no idea how old she might be, but I suspect a little older than I first thought, perhaps more my age. I smile back, but I am struggling so hard to concentrate—I’m full of anticipation. OK, it’s more than anticipation—a lot more.  I think my daughter would use the phrase 'Hot mess'. Surely Ha-yoon can sense this?  

“OK, so just relax Jamie. Breathe in deeply and slowly. You can close your eyes if you want,” she says, and she starts to smooth her palms across my robe, over my shoulders and down my sleeves in a rhythmic fashion.  I close my eyes and inhale as slowly as I can.  

And a miracle happens. I feel my hot mess dissipate, my heartbeat steps back down from its staccato, and my belly loosens. With every stroke from Ha-yoon, my body releases more of the pent-up energy it’s been holding since that fateful moment when the Departures board took a nose-dive. 

She moves her hands inside the collar of my robe and gently kneads my neck with her small fists.  A festival of pins and needles rushes up to the top of my head and down my spine, and I feel my shoulders drop.  I let out a long satisfied sigh.  

“That’s the way,” she says. Did she giggle a bit then?  I open my eyes, but she isn’t looking at me, she’s looking down at her hands on my body.  Can she see down inside my robe?  I can’t tell.

She opens her palms and slides them forward, down around my neck to my collarbones, and just rests them there, fingers pointing downwards to my breasts—no pressure, no movement. She’s leaned forward a bit, and I can hear her breathe in, and breathe out slowly. I do the same. She catches my eye in the mirror, smiles a rather enigmatic smile, and looks back down at her hands.

That’s it. I’ve decided. I want to go all the way with her, do everything with her. Maybe twice. My heartbeat quickens.

For the next few minutes, she follows a simple pattern of gently smoothing across my shoulders, and methodically squeezing down the length of my arms.  It’s divine, absolutely divine, and now that I’ve made my decision to fuck with her to the living daylights and back, I’m relaxing more, knowing that the moment will come, that there’s no rush. Ha-yoon is our pilot, and I can trust her to get us to our destination when we are good and ready.  

Now she kneels down next to the chair, and carefully massages each of my fingers as they rest on the pillow—her fingers entwined with mine, stretching and pulling and turning in a little finger dance. I watch our hands together, her precise but languid method, and I can’t help but think of her fingers dancing with other parts of me. I am so turned on, yet also just drifting along with her. I feel there is sweetness coming.

Ha-yoon stands gracefully back up, steps behind the chair once again and places her hand gently back on my shoulder. Our eyes lock in the mirror. 

“OK,” she says brightly, professionally, “how are you going so far?”  

“Just fantastic, Ha-yoon, you are so bloody good at this, I feel so grateful,” I reply. 

“I also feel very grateful for this opportunity, Jamie,” she says. It’s almost a formal response. 

Then, slowly, she takes her hand up from my shoulder and strokes my hair. More buckets of pins and needles. There’s a pause. We are still regarding each other in the mirror. Without any change in tone, she asks, “Would you like to slip out of your robe now?” 

There it is. 

So unexpected. 

So wanted. 

I blink. I begin to reply, “Umm, I -” and she interrupts, almost as if she wasn’t planning for a reply from me. 

“It’s alright if you’re a bit embarrassed Jamie. I can take mine off too,” she announces, and she does! Still watching me in the mirror, Ha-yoon undoes the tie at her waist, and gracefully slips the robe off her shoulders, placing it on the bed behind her. So now I know what she had on under her robe—nothing! 

She gives me that quizzical smile again while I check her out. She’s bloody faultless—creamy smooth skin, long neck, beautiful little breasts, muscular arms, slender hips, a neat tuft of pubic hair above her shaved pussy, lithe angular legs. Willowy, a little boyish. Did I mention her little nose? Incredibly fucking sex— all of her. My gaze goes back to her dark nipples, which are now very erect. I can’t speak. I just can’t. Speak.

“Ummm…” she offers coyly, and I snap out of my ogling and realise it’s my turn. I stand up and turn my back to the mirror, facing her, and slip out of the hotel robe. What should I do?  Spin around? I’m a much fuller figure than her: bigger boobs, wider hips (and that furry bush!!) but I can see she is admiring me, sizing me up. Thank god for that. 

Her ambient playlist seems to have run out, and we are simply listening to each other's breathing. My pussy is fucking aching to be touched, and it feels as wet as Niagara Falls down there. I can’t stand it.

“Right,” I offer with a grin, “Now what?” 

“Oh, yes,” Ha-yoon stammers, “Let’s go on with the massage. Please sit.”

“Oh!  Well, OK,” I reply. I’m a bit surprised. I thought we were about to jump onto the bed together. But as I turn around and sit back down, I realise we are going to watch each other in the mirror. We are both naked, both super turned on, and we are going to be voyeurs together. This has been her plan, her desire, all along.

Ha-yoon reaches forward to the desk and picks up her little toiletries bag. As she does this, I turn my face to her outstretched arm and take a deep, long inhale. She smells so light, so clean, like sunshine through the trees, or something, I don’t know—it’s indescribable. She takes out a small bottle of oil and hands the bag back to me so I can put it back—oh, so we are a team now, are we? She squeezes some oil onto her hands, rubs them together for a moment and places them straight onto my breasts. 

Just like before, when she first put her hands on my collarbones, there is no pressure, no movement. Her head and her gorgeous little tits are directly above my head in the mirror, her arms straight down over my shoulders, her hands resting on my breasts.  Our eyes are locked together—her coal blacks, my clear blues—reflected back at us. We breathe in slowly together, we breathe out slowly together.  I think there is now enough stored energy in the room to light a small town for a week.

Slowly and expertly, she starts to massage my breasts. The sensation is utter magic, utter desire. She smooths her hands out and down the outer sides, then cups her hands underneath, and pulls slowly up, rounding her hands over my nipples. She repeats this circular motion again. And again. It’s fucking paradise. Hot sensation roars down into my soaking crotch.

I watch her hands in the mirror, mesmerised. It’s kind of tidal—down and out; over and back again. The feeling in my boobs is so intense, but also so light, that my brain can’t understand what’s going on. But my pussy can—oh yeah, it sure can. It’s pure pleasure, pure, powerful pleasure, pumping down and into my cunt. I tilt my head back against the top of the chair, and part my legs.  I’m opening up everywhere. 

Ha-yoon continues with the same action, but now she increases the pressure and the frequency. As she pulls her hands up from under my tits, she is also pulling firmly into my rib cage, so that she is pressing my tits back against my chest, and my back flat against the chair, stretching my whole torso up.  At the apex of this action, her grip is so strong, I can’t breathe in much. It’s a little scary, but also very very sexy. All I can do is moan loudly as she makes each circuit of my boobs. And again. And again.  My arms are lying slack by my sides, and I am utterly in her power.  My clit is throbbing, and suddenly I realise I’m close to cumming. Bring it on baby—I love going first.

She makes another circuit around and under my boobs, pulling up and even tighter over my achingly erect nipples. And stops. I look in the mirror—she’s gone! I can’t work out what’s happening. All I can see are her hands flat against my breasts. Then I get it, she’s leaning back low and hard behind the chair so she can exert maximum force. As I stare, her fingers open slightly, and my oily, rigid nipples slip through. And then, as if by magic, her fingers close again, clamping my nipples hard. 

Everything happens at once. Jolts of intense pleasure and agony surge down from my nipples straight to my clit and I start cumming. Cumming hard. I call out. But I can barely breathe in. Ha-yoon continues to pull my chest back so tightly. Her fierce grip has pinned me to the back of the chair so strongly I can’t suck air.  My legs are jiggling, my arms flailing helplessly, and I’m still cumming, cumming, cumming. My head is waggling, and I can’t tell whether the flashing lights I am seeing are the ones behind the mirror, or something my brain is creating from the last oxygen molecules it's receiving.  I am still cumming and I think I am going to pass out. 

Fear. 

Pleasure. 

Stop now. 

Don’t stop now.

She lets go.

I flop forward, forearms on the desk, head down, like I’m in brace position on that plane I’m still waiting for. I’m desperately sucking air, more air, more fucking air please. To say, “My head is spinning” is a ridiculous understatement. it’s whirling around the fucking planet. My ears are whooshing and my heart is thumping off the fucking chart.  I realise I’m dribbling a bit.  

But.

My cunt and my tits are on fire with pleasure and desire. “MORE!!” they are screaming. “MORE RIGHT NOW!!!” Especially my cunt—no-one has touched it.

I can’t stop myself. I reach one hand down and stuff two fingers inside me. Instantly , I’m cumming again. I buck up off the chair and call out, “Ow FUCK!!” with the intensity of it. I have never felt this wet, never even close to this sensitive, this aroused. I pull my fingers out and catch my breath a bit.

Then I feel Ha-yoon put her hand on my back. I leap up out of the chair and spin around to face her on wobbly legs.

“Are you fucking CRAZY??” I shout at her. She steps back, one hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.  “You fucking nearly KILLED me!!” I shout again. I take a fast, menacing step towards her and she backs up, to the foot of the bed. 

“But it was good, right? You liked it, right?” she pleads in a small voice.

I plant my hands on her chest and shove. She flies backwards onto the bed. And I follow, climbing quickly on top of her, pinning her arms above her head. My cunt is still tingling. 

“Liked it?? You’re damn fucking RIGHT I liked it!” I grin. “And now it’s your turn!!” And I lean forward and take one of her hard dark nipples between my teeth.