Archive of Our Own

Your driving test is coming up tomorrow, the primary reason for your current state of stress. There is no real reason to get a driver’s license when the robust public transit system could take you anywhere you want, but it makes for a nice feather in the cap. You already passed the written portion with flying colors. You are confident in your driving skills, but there was always that little seed of anxiety and self-doubt. You want to nail it in one go, for no other purpose than perfectionism and pride. But it was also for practicality’s sake, as the next open date was not for another few months or so. That’s one more worry you’d rather not take on if you could avoid it.

To destress, not just for this, but also for every other stressor going on in your life, you find yourself soaking in the ensuite hot tub inside a room in your favorite luxury love hotel. Solo flights in love hotels are nothing new to you, and many love hotels even advertise girls’ nights in. Their main draw is that you can get a luxurious, relaxing experience without interacting with any human being, the perfect kind of urban retreat any time you wanted to unwind. There are other activities available to do, beyond the obvious, such as the aforementioned hot tub, sauna, and karaoke. Decent room service food is also a plus. You even have a membership card so you can avail of the free breakfast and earn rewards points for every visit.

After the hot tub soak and slipping on a fluffy robe, you feel a little frisky and pull up your favorite steamy cell phone romance novel while playing with the complimentary wand vibrator (after sanitizing it yourself of course—you can never be too sure). All movies and toys were included with the room fees, thank goodness. The resulting orgasm was great and all, but that only heightened your need and perhaps a little more of your sexual frustration. You want more, much more, something more…interactive and warm-blooded.

Sadly, to the best of your knowledge, there were no delivery health services that offered male escorts. A shame, because women have needs too. Or perhaps that market was way too niche. A flash of inspiration strikes you, however, and you fire up your dating app. There would be no shortage of men who would be down to fuck at a moment’s notice.

Instead, you are reminded that until recently, you were communicating with a man you had matched with in the dating app, username midnight shadow. How mysterious-sounding. Quite handsome in his profile picture. He mentioned he's a police officer. After a few months of friendly back-and-forth, he asked if the two of you could meet up for coffee.

That was the last message in the chat. Has been for the past few weeks. Not your finest hour. At the time, you were looking for a little attention, validation, and harmless fun. When he wanted to meet up, you thought it was too soon for any of that. Instead of being candid with him, you racked your brain for a perfect excuse and simply failed to get back to him at all.

You feel guilty as you scroll through your older messages with midnight shadow, but a little smile forms across your face. You remember it would take forever for him to reply—probably because he was too busy in his police officer job. He would greet you good morning and good night with a lot of emojis and always asked at meal times if you had already eaten. He was considerate and funny, and he always showed sincere concern over your long-term goals and fleeting rants. You had a number of common interests, including your favorite TV show and your individual pursuits of the best eats around Isezaki Ijincho. You had many great conversations that bled into late nights and early morning hours.

After you had seen-zoned him, you now realize, there was no other communication from him—no apology, sour-graping, follow-up, or dick pic. He left the ball in your court and took your lack of a response as a hard no. Turns out he is also quite respectful. You also now note that he had only asked for a casual coffee date for the potential first meet-up, nothing too demanding or suggestive like a dinner date.

You decide to have a change of course. You wouldn’t mind spending the night with a gentleman like that. He isn’t a complete stranger after all. It saves you the time of vetting matches through the dating app all over again.

After all those weeks, you finally send him a reply:

Sorry for the late reply. Are you free to meet right now? I am at the Hotel Ambrosia Club.

The mention of the love hotel is an immediate proposition, you are aware of the fact. If he doesn’t reply or if he turns down your request, no harm, no foul. You can still enjoy the rest of the night alone. You are playing with low stakes. You can always say later that the invitation was a time-sensitive one-time offer only.

He replies back, a little faster than usual, although he still took a while:

Good evening. :) It is very nice to hear from you again. OK, I am on my way.

After giving him your room number, you call the hotel staff to inform them that you are expecting a male guest to come to your room. You do have a few doubts about being with a strange man in a room in this particular love hotel. Here, the main door to each room cannot be opened from the inside until the room bill is settled at the checkout machine at the entryway, or it is remotely unlocked by staff. You already have an idea of how he is like, and you have to trust your gut that he won’t be up to any funny business in person, so this would be the lesser evil compared to entertaining a brand new match.

While waiting, you slip on the pajamas provided by the hotel, allowing for a little more modesty than the bath robe. Later, while you are applying some body lotion of your favorite scent, you get a call from the staff that your male guest is on his way up. You feel a little nervous and maybe a little thrill at your uncharacteristically brazen moves tonight. You are finally going to come face to face with your online match in mere seconds. Is the driving test really stressing you out this much?

The doorbell rings. You open the door to meet him at the entryway. As the main door opens, your heart sinks a little.

You do not expect there to be a much older man standing in front of you. It then dawns on you that this is the man in midnight shadow’s profile picture, which you now realize had to be from twenty or so years ago. The silver highlights gleam in his hair and beard, and additional lines and folds now grace his face, no less handsome than previously advertised. In a way, he has become even more handsome—age suits him well.

“Good evening,” he greets you when he sees you, although he sounds nervous himself, as if he was expecting you to freak out as soon as you figure out the profile picture switcheroo. “It’s me, midnight shadow.”

You are not sure how to feel at first. Did he deceive you, sure, but did he really? It was still a picture of himself, just…not up-to-date. You are also still recovering from the shock of how this man standing in front of you is massive—broad shoulders and chest that make for an endless horizon. Thick and sinewy forearms emerge from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of a blue bomber jacket. He is tall, very tall. In spite of his more advanced age, it is apparent that he takes care of himself and his appearance.

A mental image of this absolute unit pounding into you to kingdom come sends a warmth shooting between your legs. You hold onto the doorway for balance.

“Maybe I’m not what you were expecting exactly,” he says, anticipating your reaction and possibly reading the thoughts flashing in your wide eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He bows his head slightly towards you and holds out a box in both hands. Gift-wrapped chocolates from a European gourmet brand you recognize from the depachika. He actually put some effort into it than grabbing a discount box from the konbini next door.

He continues, “My friend made my profile but used an old picture as a joke. He gave me the account, but I couldn’t figure out how to change the picture. And then you and I matched, and I thought it was too late for me to use a current picture. …I was ready to come clean when I asked you to meet over coffee. But I understand if you’d prefer me to leave right now. You can keep the chocolates as my apology, and I will never bother you again.”

You realize that he is propping the main door wide open with his body, not yet entering the room himself until he has your explicit consent to do so. He is giving you every opportunity to escape if you feel endangered by being with him. He is even slouching somewhat to make himself seem small (an exercise in vain). He is making you feel safe.

That demonstration of his turns you on more than his body does. Okay, maybe that’s a little lie—his lusciously thick body is still doing a lot of the heavy lifting. But sincerity can go a long way into getting into a woman’s panties.

You are not certain when you will have this kind of opportunity with this fine specimen of a manly man again. Blame instinct—he is every bit the epitome of a virile mate. The sight of him is triggering every alarm of desire within you. The next realization you have is that he is very much familiar with how love hotels work, although given his age, it shouldn’t be all too surprising.

You accept the chocolates with both hands and a thank you. “We can talk about it inside the room.” You try to play coy, although it is taking every bit of willpower to stop yourself from jumping on him.

He nods his head to you slightly and says thank you before he exchanges his shoes for a pair of hotel slippers at the entryway. The door behind the two of you closes.

“Do you want to order a drink?” you offer as you navigate to the food and beverages menu on the TV screen. You are feeling peckish, so you order a banana honey toast to go with your choice of drink. This love hotel is famous for their honey toasts after all.

You hand the remote control to him. It looks like a child’s plaything in his very large hand. He remembers that you only offered him a drink, so he obliges by choosing a pint of beer. He asks for your okay to place the order.

You sit on the L-shaped sofa in front of the TV, while he takes the perpendicular section. His neck cranes around to survey the room, nervously tapping his fingers on his knees.

You both sit awkwardly in silence. He clears his throat, still deep and rough.

Something about the rolled-up sleeves look turns your insides into butter, but you are dying to take a look at how the even thicker upper arms are like. “You’re hot,” you say, desperately trying to break the silence, and you instantly regret how that came out. “I mean—aren’t you feeling hot? Don’t you want to take off your jacket?” You point towards the coat hangers on the wall next to the door.

He seems relieved to do anything other than sit awkwardly, so he immediately shrugs off the jacket and bounds back towards the door. He is wearing a white T-shirt underneath, and you deem it to be the luckiest T-shirt in existence. As soon as his jacket is on the hook, the doorbell rings again.

“Our orders are here. I’ll get them.” He doesn’t open the door until the second doorbell that signalled that the staff had departed after placing your orders on the shelf in the entryway. He brings over the tray with your drinks and honey toast to the coffee table in front of you and picks up his mug of beer to take back to his seat.

The honey toast is the size of your face—half a loaf of milk bread topped with whipped cream, caramelized bananas, and ice cream; not yet including additional toppings on the side like chocolate syrup, condensed milk, and mini marshmallows. The only thing missing is the giant anime sweat drop.

You grab a pair of utensils and shoot him a pleading look, although now you are very distracted by the emergence of his biceps, which are the size of melons. Now that you think about it, maybe ordering a melon pan instead of this honey toast tower would have been the wiser choice, but too late. “Do you want any?” you offer.

He shakes his head with a verbal thank you. “So…you’re not mad at me?” he asks under his breath.

“You’re not mad at me?” you echo. “I never responded to your invitation for coffee.”

“Ah…. I thought it meant you figured out the truth about me. Or maybe I got what I deserved for not being completely honest about my actual age. So I was ashamed to reinitiate any contact. I was surprised you invited me here, actually…. And that you also invited me inside the room….”

“But what it all comes down to…. That was all still you, right?” you say. “No matter how old you are—that’s your real personality I connected with, and that’s what’s most important to me.”

He smiles bashfully. “We did have a really good thing going on, but I must say, I never expected our first meeting to be at a love hotel,” he says. “But here we are.”

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

He is craning his neck around to observe the room yet again. “This is the nicest one I’ve ever been in, and that’s saying something. It actually looks like a five-star hotel. There’s so much space!”

Aha, so your earlier observation was correct. “You go to love hotels a lot?”

He detects a bit of contempt in your tone, so he stops his admiration of the room and looks at you with a curious pause before the realization dawns on him.

“Oh! Taking breaks at capsule and love hotels is very common as a police officer on duty,” he says, “since they are open any time, day and night, and you can pay by the hour. I often used them for a quick nap, shower, and a meal. I know a lot of the budget ones around Yokohama; I never used any of these very fancy hotels.”

Oh, of course. You’re much more relieved that there’s now less of a risk that he could be a walking STD.

He chuckles at you still struggling with the tower of toast. “The hotels back in my day definitely did not have desserts like this on the menu. That’s too comically big for you. You may be biting off more than you can chew.”

“I’m so full,” you say, although you have respectfully taken down most of the toppings, leaving behind a mass of syrup-soaked milk bread. The utensils clatter on the plate. “I give up.”

He sighs. “Young people waste too much food these days.” He sidles over to close the distance to you on the sofa, so he could reach out for your leftovers. “Ugh, the combination is awful with beer, but I just can’t let good food go to waste…. At the hotels I’m more used to, I’d be lucky if they offer complimentary rice. So what I’d do is buy my own carton of eggs from a konbini and go to town with the rice. I’m pretty sure I was the cause of one hotel ending its all-you-can-eat rice promo.…”

You laugh. “Is that your body-building secret?” you ask. “Lots of rice and eggs?”

“Yes, but not by choice. Tamago kake gohan is mostly what I can afford to eat day to day…. Less soy sauce, of course….” He stops abruptly as he realizes the implication of what he’d just said, even if the gift of premium chocolates suggests that he isn’t completely broke. Or maybe he was the type who was frugal towards himself but generous towards other people?

“I didn’t expect someone like you to be using online dating.” You change the topic, pretending to be oblivious. “Maybe it started out as a joke with your friends, but…you kept it going.”

“Because I’m old?” he says, but he does so with a playful tone and a smile.

“Because you’re handsome and charming; I figure it’s easy for you to meet women in real life,” you recover. Smooth.

“Ah, if only that were true,” he chuckles. “These days, I might as well be invisible to most women in real life. Or a creepy old man. At my age, I’ll take whatever I get.”

“So you’re something of a playboy?”

“I say I am an avid appreciator of women,” he says. “All shapes, all sizes, all ages….” He clears his throat. “Excuse me. I’m a cop. I mean, most ages.”

The alcohol has loosened him a bit. You haven’t noticed it until now, but he has come in even closer next to you on the sofa, now seated mere inches away. He lightly brushes the side of his finger onto the back of your hand to gauge your reaction.

You like it. He notices.

“I find it hard to believe then that you’re a bachelor.” You recall his status has he’d told you over chat. Last round of vetting before you open for business. “You’re married, aren’t you? Have any kids?” He is shaking his head as you rattle off the questions. “Because usually, when men your age are single, they are either heartbroken widowers, damaged divorcees, sexual predators, or liars.”

“The old cliché of being married to my job, I suppose,” he says. “Before I knew it, life had already passed me by.”

“You love it so much, you’re still not retired?”

He smiles. “What can I say? I’m a workaholic.” He clears his throat and quickly changes the topic. “You know, I’m fine if we just talk tonight or do…something else. Like karaoke? Fun to do karaoke in a love hotel; the room is soundproof and you get a bed….”

He says it all with a straight face; that police training is coming in handy. It almost sounds convincing. What man accepts a spontaneous invitation to a love hotel and does not expect to get laid? You decide not to call him out on his bluff just yet.

“Sure. Karaoke sounds good. We can also borrow some cards or games.” You browse to the rentals on the TV menu. You move up closer to him to study his face intently, cupping his cheek with your hand and thumbing his nose. “Or maybe I can borrow the facial steamer, and I could pick out your blackheads?”

He makes an odd, high-pitched noise, and it’s what gets you to break. Your hands fly to your face, but they barely contain the smirk and giggles. He leans in and your back meets the seat cushions, and he is now hovering over you so close that you breathe in his cologne, a spicy rainforest fragrance, mixed with a hint of his own musky scent. The hormonal combination is exhilarating.

“What’s your reason for spending the night in a love hotel anyway?” he asks. “Just curious.”

“I have an important exam tomorrow. I’m trying to relax.” You’re embarrassed to admit to him it’s taken you this long to get a driver’s license, so you omit that fact. The practical driving test is still an exam, right?

“Ah, I respect that. Is…is that why you called me here?”

You bite your lip and grimace. That’s about as much of an answer as he’s going to get.

He nods in understanding. “In that case…. Delivery health at your service, ma’am. How can I help?” he growls as he takes one of your hands and clasps it into the sofa. Oh, the kid gloves are off.

You tug at his shirt’s neckline. The pesky T-shirt has to go. It’s in the way. Hate it. “You can start by getting rid of this.”

He obliges, taking his shirt off and placing it neatly across the back of the sofa. His biceps already looked huge underneath the shirt, but even then, you were not prepared at how big they really were. He has the appearance of being able to crush your lungs with a mere embrace. You really, really hope your desperate whimpers are in your head and not in actuality. Is it possible to be turned on and scared for your life at the same time? What kink about yourself did you just discover?

“My god, is this really all that tamago kake gohan?” Alas, resistance is futile, and your hands reach for his frisbee-sized pecs like a kitten to catnip. You run your fingers through the tuft of chest hair. You think he’s one of the handful of men whose chest hair actually suits them.

“There’s an idea. Maybe my delivery health escort name can be ‘Mr. TKG,’” he quips.

“That’s the worst escort name I’ve ever heard!” You roll your eyes, unimpressed, then get tickled at the waist for your impertinence. Laughing, you try to shove his arms away, but they are immovable pillars. He then shuts you up plenty when he picks you up as if you are weightless and pulls you in for a steamy, lingering kiss. He tastes of malt and tobacco and sweet cream.

“OK, ma’am, next, I have to ask, for how long do you intend to stay in this room? Do you want the quick or extended service?” he asks, twirling your hair with his finger.

You giggle. He’d always shown signs of this kind of silliness in your chats, and it’s a relief that his charming personality shines just as well in person. “I’m staying until morning, so I can go for the extended service.”

“Ah. Well…maybe we’ll have to focus our activities on the sofa or in the bathroom so the bed stays dry. …Don’t…ask me how I know….”

Now it’s your turn to shut him up as you pull in close to kiss him again, relishing the prickling of his facial hair around your lips. His hands are fondling you all over your body through the pajamas, paying special attention to your waist, lower back, and thighs; the remnants of his touch sending rivulets of desire beneath your skin. He is warming you up, you realize, in slow, gradual increments until you’re able to reach the right temper. He has yet to touch you on your chest or between your legs, a far cry from the grabby younger lovers you are used to. You figure you’re starting to see the perks of a mature, experienced lover. But at the back of your mind, you can’t help but worry somewhat, knowing that age can bring with it…certain male complications.

“I’ve been dreaming about kissing you like this for a while, you know?” He is laying on the flattery thick now, like he’s probably done a hundred times to other women, but none of that matters at the moment. “I knew you would be beautiful, but your beauty is exceeding everything I ever imagined.”

One look at his eyes tells you he meant every word, or he is just a damn good actor. You wrap your hands around his neck—you’ve never met a person with this wide of a neck before, let alone made out with one. You look straight back into his eyes and say, “You should take off your pants too.”

He obeys and then neatly folds his trousers to set beside his shirt, and you get the thrilling revelation that he is wearing white briefs. If they weren’t tight enough when he had to put them on, they are plenty tight now. The bulge makes no illusion of what is underneath—a picture-perfect outline of a cock and balls strained towards the left. The heat rises in your loins.

Oh, and now you know he does not skip leg day.

Just like with his chest, you reach towards him with reckless abandon, and he guides your wrist to cup your hand on him. He moans in his deep bass tone at your touch, which encourages you to rub him more. The cotton fabric feels nice. His meaty shaft feels nicer. You giggle to yourself as you liken it to rubbing a magic lamp.

“Lovely,” you whisper. You like getting a reaction out of him. Pure lust places your mouth right on him, kissing and licking through his underwear. He places his hands on your head, and you think he’s holding your head in place to keep you there, but his fingertips graze your scalp. His fingernails are trimmed. He moves his fingertips in small circles and back and forth, all across your scalp, and you are floored at how erotically pleasing this is. You never knew you could be aroused by a scalp massage. Okay, the boner in your face does contribute.

You’re not even asking him this time around; you take and use. You pull out his dick and take him in your mouth, and his groans grow even louder. His fingertips are tightening around bunches of your hair, but not painfully. With every lick of your tongue and glide of your hand, you’re silently daring him to come in your mouth, and—

”That’s enough!” he snaps in a brusque tone that almost makes you jump, but he’s the one who jumps away from you and keeps moving away with his momentum. He makes a beeline to the bedside table to grab the requisite love hotel freebies, during which you realize one crucial flaw.

He’s totally naked, but you’re still in pajamas.

He notices you checking him out, and he stops and flexes his biceps for you. You squeal and giggle in delight.

“Turn around,” you command. You want to want to see his rear too. He continues flexing while he turns the impressive musculature of his back to you, and you swear the floodgates from heaven open up to shine light from above. That’s not even mentioning his butt yet.

Goodness gracious. You want this man in the worst way.

“Saved the best for last.” He peels off your pajama pants. Why did you even wear panties after your bath? You almost feel sheepish at the unnecessary hindrance. He reciprocates what you were doing and caresses you through your panties, his giant palm and long fingers seemingly surround your entire mound. He teases you like this for a good while until he pulls your panties down.

Finally, you think. The wait has been sheer torture.

But…instead, he slicks his middle finger around your vulva. “Guess I don’t have to use this just yet,” he smirks as he throws a sachet of lubricant onto the coffee table. His finger slides inside you with the greatest of ease. With every movement, a new pulse of desire emanates within your belly.

“Please…just fuck me already,” you whine.

He laughs. “I feel like every generation gets more impatient the younger it gets. You are no exception. I think you young people should learn the virtue of a good, long warm-up before the main event. It’s usually worth it in the end. Besides….” He pulls his finger out and slides it up to your swollen, sensitive clitoris and strums at a titillating pace, bringing the intensity of the fire inside you all the way to eleven. “I prefer giving, a lot more than receiving.”

It’s all too much to bear. After all the build-up, all the tiny pulses amalgamate as one crescendo, and you come in an explosion of utter bliss.

He sits you up and takes off your pajama top, and wraps his arms around you from behind. He pleasures you with his hand like this (did you mention his fingernails are trimmed?) over and over again, all while smothering you in passionate kisses and embracing you against his large, warm body.

“Your skin is so soft and smooth. You smell so good. It drives me crazy.” His deep voice in your ear is whisper-soft, making goosebumps tingle all across your body.

He has rehearsed these actions and these lines before; that much is sure. You’re just another one in a string of women he’s done this to, no doubt, but you decide it just benefits you in the end.

“Need a break? Want some water?” he asks cheerfully while you’re lying down, absolutely spent, on the sofa. Your heart is beating furiously, still trying to recover from the haze of the most recent orgasm he’d given you.

He walks around the room, leaving you to keep checking out his ass and back muscles again. He returns with a bottle of water for you and the wand vibrator you had previously used on yourself. He helps you sit up to let you take a sip.

He then looks for an outlet near the sofa, which he finds on the floor. “Ah! They totally know guests want to use this here.” He turns to you and asks, “Have you ever been fucked while using this?”

“Can’t say that I have,” you reply because that’s the answer he wants to hear. “Have you ever fucked someone while using it?”

He raises an eyebrow at you, but doesn’t answer, which you think is unfair, but you keep that thought to yourself. He unwraps a condom packet and pauses. “Please, lie down and start to use it.”

The fact that this very large, handsome, older man is ass-naked with a raging hard-on in a love hotel while he is still acting like a proper Japanese gentleman only adds to the absurdity of your current scenario. You are putty in his hands, and you’re all but certain that if he told you to to buy every vibrator from the vending machine and use them all at the same time, you would (thankfully, he does not). You take the powered-on wand to your clit, and after he’d thoroughly rendered you raw, you almost cannot take the intensity of the lowest setting.

“I can’t do it,” you wail.

“You can do it,” he purrs. He rolls the condom down his cock. “You’re a good girl.” He dispenses a packet of lube all over his sheathed erection, and even the thoughtfulness of using lube is a turn-on. “Please, enjoy yourself. I like watching you enjoy yourself.”

You want to earn more of that validation, and you gamely hold the wand in place. As long as you keep to the lowest setting for now.

“Are you ready for me?” When he sees you nod, he slowly prods himself in. At this point, you are so properly aroused and lubed that even his visibly hefty size feels nothing like an imposition. He gingerly sinks his hips into yours before he slowly rocks himself back and forth to build that sweet, addictive friction. His maddening fucking combined with the vibrator awakens all the pleasure points in your core and spreads to your face and toes like you never experienced before. He takes your legs and spreads them wide to thrust himself deeper. His knocking against the sofa frame creates a rhythmic thumping that takes over the room.

“OH!” You have no control of the animalistic grunt that escapes you. Or all the ones that follow. You have no choice but to drop the demure virgin act. You are a primal being now; you know no other reality but this cocoon of carnal pleasure.

“Please increase the speed of the vibrator,” he says. Again, so polite. As if he wasn’t absolutely ramming your pussy like a crazed beast.

What was it about his words that made you want to obey every time? Like he has a power over you—you know he is a cop, after all. Even if you know it’s going to damn well kill you, you press the button to increase the vibrator’s speed. He too revs up his pace; his hips moving like pistons. You whimper in exquisite agony. How is it that something feels so good that you desperately want it to stop, yet you don’t want it to stop?

“More speed, please,” he says after a while.

“I…I can’t take any more,” you gasp. You are sobbing tearlessly as your entire body is aflame.

“That’s okay. You can stay there if you can’t go any higher,” he whispers. “You are still doing beautifully.”

Fucking cop with his reverse psychology. Okay, maybe he’d actually meant when he said that you were fine with staying where you are. He is pounding into you with all his energy. You should match his effort as well, you decide.

You click the up button, and it just about destroys you. The frenzied rumbling against your clit sends you into overdrive. Your sobs grow louder, rising well above the machine’s monotonous thudding motor and the syncopated sounds of slapping flesh.

“Gorgeous,” he praises, almost like he’s taking pleasure from your distress. From your reactions, he knows he has found the perfect angle and depth to hit that special spot that magnifies everything.

You’re a stammering, incoherent mess now as you orgasm to the harmonious assault of his cock and the wand on your most erogenous points. Gone are any inhibitions. It’s a soundproof room in a love hotel—no need to suppress the sex screams. You cannot remember a recent orgasm this intense, taking away everything out of you. Your entire body feels like jelly, after being thoroughly used. Your heart is beating as if you’d run a full-on sprint. You turn off the vibrator and toss it aside. No more. The blasted thing is finally off you, but you are still reeling from the phantom vibrations on your sex, the ephemeral spasms between your thighs.

He too grunts some time after, repeatedly pulling your hips into his, and you’re certain you’re going to come away with a pelvic bone fracture. You watch him as he closes in on his own climax. His face is red and sweaty and contorted, and his chest is glistening and heaving. His mighty scream signals his final release.

“You’re amazing.” He leans in on top of you, flattening you with his heavy, massive frame for a moment, as he plants a scratchy, sloppy kiss on your cheek. When he rises to free you, you ache for the comfort of his crushing weight on you. He slowly pulls out while he is still hard, to make sure the condom doesn’t slack and leak, and quickly hops off to the bathroom.

You think you’re both done for the night after he finished, but he has other ideas. You let him have his way with you until you have to beg him to stop. Later, you protest when he tries to dress up to leave. You offer him to stay the night.

“You wouldn’t want that. I’m a loud snorer,” he chuckles. “And I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

“Crime never sleeps; gotta catch the bad guys before they get their start in the morning,” you quip.

He politely chuckles at your joke, but there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. He continues putting his clothes back on. “Besides, don’t you have your exam tomorrow? You need your rest.”

You pout in disappointment as you really wanted to share a bed with this cuddly behemoth, but perhaps he had a good point.

He leaves a few bills on the coffee table. “This is all the cash I have right now. It is not enough for the room. I can pay you the rest next month. I will write down my number….”

“Please don’t think of me as a prostitute,” you say, trying to lighten the mood. “Besides, I invited you for the company. But thank you. You don’t have to pay for the room.”

“…But I owe you at least for the drink….”

“…Or that. Please, take your money with you. It’s fine.”

He stares at the money on the table for a second and stuffs it in his pocket. You call the hotel staff to request for the front door to be unlocked for him.

He gives you one last kiss good night. “This was fun, finally meeting you in person. Better than I could have ever imagined. When will I see you again?” he asks.

“Let’s see how it goes on my exam tomorrow and we’ll see my mood.” You giggle and wink before he departs.

You take a quick shower before scuttling off to bed, grateful that he did think about keeping it dry. You drift off to a satisfied slumber.

What a very interesting man. You’re thankful he wasn’t actually a delivery health escort. That would have been a real waste of his size.

* * *

As you go out onto the entryway to settle your bill at the checkout machine the following morning, you’re greeted with an aggravating sight.

On the shelf are some bank notes and a terse note with a phone number.

I insist. - Mr. TKG

You find the offer of payment weird, maybe even a little insulting, but perhaps in his mind, he was trying to do the gentlemanly thing. Something to do with his generation and chivalry.

You put the cash in your purse. You’ll deal with this little problem later. In the meantime, you have your driving exam to worry about today. The driving test course is a good distance away, and you don’t want to be late.

Your only regret about last night? You didn’t even get his real name.

* * *

After completing another round of paperwork at the driving test center—as if you didn’t do enough of it back at your written test—you are waiting in a holding room overlooking the test course, along with the other driver’s license applicants scheduled in the same time slot.

“I hope we don’t get the old, tall man with the scary-looking face.” You overhear another examinee in the room. “He failed me last time. He had to use the passenger-side brake during my test, and that’s apparently an automatic fail. He failed a lot of other people that day. I asked another officer—the tall guy used to be in homicide. Rumor has it he was a terrible detective and falsely accused an innocent man of murder. That’s why he was demoted to traffic. Must explain why he has a stick up his butt.”

“Police officers like that just want to stick around until they’re eligible for pension,” their companion says. “Probably just wants to take the easy road until retirement.”

In your mind, you feel a little smug because you believe no police officer, no matter how tall or scary-looking or inept a detective, could intimidate you during a driving test.

Right on the scheduled test time, your cohort’s assigned police officer enters the holding room. Immediately, you recognize his tall, imposing build…and his face.

Oh, no….

No!

NO!

You gulp.

The universe must be playing a cruel joke. None other than Mr. TKG is adjudicating over your driving test today, decked in the standard blue Kanagawa Prefectural Police uniform. You hope he has to have an identical twin who also happens to be a police officer in the traffic division. Actually, that doesn’t make it any less awkward. Scary-looking face? Why, you were sitting on that very same face less than 24 hours ago while he ate you out to even more toe-curling orgasms after he’d finished inside you.

This. Cannot. Be happening.

The mystery of his real name is revealed by his name tag—Adachi Koichi. His name is spelled with the kanji for “large one”. How utterly fitting and adorable; and boy, did you sure get the full brunt of his large one last night, hah….

Stop. Having your mind in the gutter.

Officer Adachi greets everyone with a “good afternoon” that’s more out of formality than friendliness and launches into the procedure of the exam steps. Yes, that is his gruff bass voice alright, but your vision starts to grow white at the edges and your hearing is fading.

“Excuse me, miss, are you okay?” A younger police officer gently taps you on the shoulder. “You look a little pale.” He is holding out a folded tissue to you. “Please inhale deeply.”

You hold the tissue to your nose and breathe deeply, a blend of menthol, camphor, and other strong-smelling essential oils. Likely no medicinal properties, but enough of a placebo to snap you out of it. The officer also hands you a cup of water, which you thank him for.

“It’s normal to be nervous,” he tells you. “It’s common for applicants to faint just before their test…. You can excuse yourself if you don’t feel well….”

“It’s okay, thank you, I can take the test today,” you insist. “Low blood sugar,” you lie and grab a piece of candy from your purse. You remember you grabbed it from the love hotel’s lobby. Dammit! “I’ll be all right.” The young officer has no choice but to take you at your word.

You’re tuning out of the officer's instructions as you reconcile the duelling personas of the hunky lover you had last night and the scary-looking cop running through his driving test script. He was totally comfortable with a woman using sex toys during intercourse! In fact, he encouraged it! He knew your clit existed and treated it as worthy of veneration! He still attended to your needs even after he’d finished! Thinking about his naked body again makes you want to melt into a puddle. Or create a puddle….

You hear your name being called in a louder than normal tone, and you’re startled as you return to earth.

Adachi is scanning around the room, repeating your name that he is reading from a clipboard. Half of the applicants in the room are standing in queues of five. Just like elementary school, you think.

“I’m here!” You raise your hand.

“Stand at the back of that line, please,” he murmurs. He offers no hint of recognition. Bad memory or good actor?

After arranging everyone in the room in their designated order, he walks past each applicant to hand out a small slip of paper. When he stops in front of you, you’re not sure what to expect, but he hands you your slip without a word or even eye contact, just like everyone else.

You’re somewhat disappointed. You were hoping for even a light, playful brush of the hand, but…nothing. Ever the consummate professional.

He leads the first group of five out to the test course while you and the others wait in the holding room.

“Shit, just my luck, it’s the scary, cranky, tall guy,” groans your neighbor.

“He’s very big,” you hear another person comment. “Can he even fit in the car?”

How did he fit inside you last night? Stop it!

Brushing all your blue thoughts aside, you decide to spend your time waiting by watching the batches of applicants before you tackle the course. You’ve already studied the course before, but there’s no such thing as being too prepared. At the very least, you could study which variation of the route is being run through today.

Finally, it was your group’s turn to be escorted from the holding room into a small glass booth next to the parking lot by the course. Adachi asks for the people with 1 and 2 marked on their slips—number 1 to undergo the test, number 2 to observe from the backseat.

You check your slip. Number 3. You will be joining the next drive.

You and your other companions watch from the booth as number 1 pops the trunk as he is trying to pull out of the parking lot and revs the engine, having failed to disengage the emergency brake while stepping on the gas. He is soon able to leave the parking spot, only to run past the very first stop sign. The officer aborts the rest of the test and asks the applicant to return to the parking lot. Rough start. Poor kid. Adachi won’t reveal anyone's results until the everyone in the group undergoes the test, but this one is a foregone conclusion.

You’re going to have to enter the car sooner than expected, but it doesn’t matter much—you get the benefit of riding as a passenger while someone completes the full course—provided number 2 doesn’t botch it as badly as number 1 does.

Adachi says very little during number 2’s drive, only pointing out which markers to follow on the course. He also doesn’t say anything when number 2 fails to check her blind spot on a marked bike path, when she commits a rolling stop at a stop sign, or when she hits the curb three times while going through the S-curve. You notice from the backseat every time he marks in his clipboard. You hope number 2 doesn’t get fazed whenever he does this, and she is able to complete the entire course. After she parks, he measures the distance of the front bumper from the wheel stop with his clipboard—the clipboard must make clearance, and it does.

He sure is Mr. Stick-Up-His-Butt today. A very fine butt though. STOP IT.

Now, it’s your turn at the wheel. Joining your drive from the backseat is number 4, a young girl, likely in her teens. Maybe with the right (or not-so-right) circumstances, she could be young enough to be Adachi’s granddaughter, you think.

“Nice to meet you,” you greet him and bow slightly as the three of you stand outside the car. You’re trying not to burst out laughing at the irony that the two of you have been cavorting in a love hotel mere hours ago, but you’re simply going to have to deal with going through this whole ritual as if you were total strangers.

“Nice to meet you,” he echoes. Again, he’s a man of few words while he’s on the job.

You approach him on the passenger side of the car and check underneath the front and back of the car. You’re not sure exactly what it is you’re looking for, probably for obtrusive objects underneath the car, like sharp nails or sleeping cats. You check that the road is clear of traffic before opening the door on the driver’s side.

He enters the car at the same time you do, and his long legs are indeed a tight fit in the issued compact sedan, even with the passenger seat pushed all the way back. He looks like a grizzly bear cramped in a tiny toolshed. You resist a quip that he should be lucky that the prefecture did not issue kei cars for the driving exam. Since it is an unfamiliar car, you adjust the seat, mirrors, and steering wheel, a procedure the traffic bureau expects. You notice the emergency brake is on the steering wheel column—likely why number 1 popped the trunk by accident. You study the seatbelt intently to make sure it isn’t twisted. It also helps you keep your eyes off the sexy police officer in the passenger’s seat.

Driving a car is easy. But the government only issues licenses to those who have ably proven that they could follow safety precautions and road rules. That’s why you’re aiming to perform the test with all the safety checks the driving test examiner is expecting. At the most basic, every turn of the wheel or press of the accelerator must be preceded by a visual check.

So far, you feel like you are nailing every expected behavior on the test route. You also learned to correct some of number 2’s errors while you observed her. The driving test course is an amusing simulation of everyday driving encounters, like traffic lights and even a faux railroad crossing. You stop behind the railroad crossing and roll down the window—that’s to listen for an oncoming train in case the signal does not work. Stop signs? No rolling stops here. Look left and right before you go. Turning left? Watch out for oncoming bicycles on your blind spot especially when there’s a marked bike lane! The fastest you’re able to accelerate on the straight portion of the course is a blistering 50 kph. You’re not sure when or where in real life you’re ever going to encounter an S-turn or a crank turn, but you deftly maneuver through those without hitting the curb. You even have to force yourself to slow down through the S-turn for fear that you would be perceived as going through it too recklessly—the traffic bureau wants to see a safe and careful driver after all. And that’s what you’re going to give them.

You notice that Adachi has not marked his clipboard once during your drive. The finish line is close. You’re just about to queue behind the other examinees wrapping up their road tests, getting ready to pull up into the parking lot. Your lips start to curl up into a smile to congratulate yourself on a flawless driving test.

“Please pull up next to bollard number 15 when you get to the parking lot,” Adachi says in a serious tone, and then he continues to deadpan, “You shouldn’t miss it. It’s the one that looks like honey toast.”

You make an unsettling high-pitched sound through your nostrils in utter surprise, trying to control your laughter and shock. How dare he spring this on you now?!

When you make the left turn, you forget to do the blind side bike lane check and start maneuvering the car from the main road onto the driveway. Adachi steps on the brake on the passenger side to stop the car.

Oh shit….

Oh shit….

Automatic fail.

“Don’t forget to check for oncoming bicycles in your blind spot, please,” he says in a low voice. He lets go of the brake. “Now, please check again before you turn.”

Meanwhile, hapless number 4 in the backseat is very confused about your and the driving test examiner’s weird sense of humor. The parking bollards look nothing like honey toast, after all.

You lean forward and check through the window on his side for bicycles. Of course there are no fucking bicycles. It’s a fucking test track that’s exclusively used by the police for driving tests. You exhale a deep breath as you make the turn into the driveway. You grip the wheel and bite your lip as you queue the car in the driveway. You realize how silly it is that you’re holding back tears over failing a driving test, but you’re still trying to keep it cool—not just to show a fellow examinee like number 4, but also to make a good impression on the man—not only the police officer—in the passenger seat.

Why do I care so much over what he thinks of me? Deep down, you already know the answer to that question.

You do the requisite check in the rearview mirror—maybe for your tears—and driver’s side mirror before exiting the parked car. You wish number 4 luck before heading back to the trackside booth.

Honestly, you’d feel just as bummed over failing even if your proctor had been a complete stranger. Now…you just want to hide in a hole and never emerge.

Eventually, Adachi and number 5 return to the booth with the last test of your group completed, which means it’s time to reveal everyone’s results. The officer hands number 1 a small white paper slip, explaining that he did not complete the test and therefore his test today is forfeited. So, a white slip means a fail.

Number 2 gets a pink slip, meaning she passed, much to your surprise, and Adachi gives her some pointers for improvement.

He stops in front of you and says your name in that deep, gruff voice. He’s still handsome, in that police uniform. Your eyes briefly meet, but you quickly glance down to his hands and expect a white slip….

He hands you a pink slip.

“Congratulations on passing the test,” he tells you. “Just remember to check for bikes on your blind side before steering.”

You stammer a thank you, eyes wide in surprise, as you receive the pink slip. You were too addled after your perceived failure to pay attention to 4 and 5’s tests, but they too receive pink slips for passing. Number 1 just so obviously fucked up today; there was no redeeming that.

You are all instructed to go back into the office and complete more paperwork (even in number 1’s case), but those who passed are able to wait for their licenses to be issued. By the time you receive your license, however, it’s already the end of day and minutes to closing time.

As you exit the building, you decide to take a chance and check the outdoor smoking area around the corner. You spot him immediately, already in his civilian clothes. While a small group of uniformed officers are chatting with one another over their smoke break, Adachi, much more physically imposing than any of them, is off by himself on the opposite side. He continues with his cigarette, not saying a word or acknowledging you, even as you stand in front of him.

“Why did I pass?” you ask. “Was it because we….” You don’t complete the sentence but wave your index fingers between the two of you.

“You passed because you earned it,” he says simply.

“But you interfered with the brake! That’s an automatic fail, right?”

“Where did you hear that?”

You pause, reluctant to admit where you actually did hear it. “I don’t know! Somewhere!”

“Well, don’t believe everything you hear,” he says warily. He takes a drag and flicks the ash off his cigarette. “So, this was actually the big test you were stressing about last night?” There’s a slight chuckle in his voice.

“Uhm….” You’re too embarrassed to say it outright, but he already knows the answer, regardless.

“It’s funny. I was actually in a good mood today; I passed almost everybody. I don’t usually do that. Must have been something I ate last night.” He gives you a knowing wink.

You gasp. You don’t need a mirror to know your cheeks are as red as a tomato. His deep, hearty laugh confirms it. You’re grateful you two are out of earshot of everyone else, but no one else can know the context, right?

“So…you’re absolutely sure I passed? Legitimately?” you ask, praying that the color in your cheeks has faded, even a bit.

“Come on. If I had a vested interest in your result, I would have failed you instead because you might need another night at a love hotel before the retest,” he says with a smirk. God, why does he look both punchable and adorable with a smirk? Not like you could take him in a fight….

“Speaking of believing everything I hear…. Is it true you were in homicide and got demoted; that’s why you’re in traffic?”

He pauses. The smirk disappears instantly. He stubs the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. “Well, everything that happened there is true,” he finally says.

There was the same sad, regretful tone you heard from him last night when you joked about catching bad guys. That kind of remorse is not characteristic of a so-called terrible detective. You believe there’s a lot more to that story. It sounds like a very long story, and you’re curious to learn about his version, but that will have to wait another day. “Oh!” You remember about the cash in your purse and hold it out to him.

He jumps backward away from you, as if you were brandishing a venomous snake instead. “Oi! What do you think you’re doing?”

You step closer to him, still holding your arm out with the 5,000 yen bills. “Returning your money! I told you, I paid for everything just fine! I don’t need your money! I can’t accept this!”

“It’s okay! You can keep it!”

An unfamiliar voice barges into your little squabble. “Adachi-san! Are you accepting a bribe?!”

You both turn around towards the direction of the voice. A uniformed police officer has curiously approached you; neither of you had noticed when. You freeze and immediately feel horrible for putting Adachi in a precarious situation. Oh god, is he going to be reprimanded or worse…lose his job?

“No, it’s not like that!” Adachi protests to his colleague. “She…she is actually trying to pay for car damage because one brake light wasn’t working during her test. But when I examined it, I just had to tighten the bulb. Now I am telling her the brake light is working properly again!”

The colleague stares at you both a while and then laughs. “I know. I’m just messing with you. I also know you’re not the type to accept bribes, Adachi-san. Instead, you usually fail everyone unless it’s a cute woman.” After exchanging some nervous laughter, the officer bids you both good night before leaving the both of you alone again.

“I suppose I have something of a reputation.” Adachi scratches his head sheepishly.

You’d noticed his white lie put the blame on the car, and not on any action you supposedly did. He could have easily said that you bumped the car, but that would have been an outright lie because your driving today was near flawless—if not for his sudden quip catching you off-guard.

By coincidence, he’s on the same train of thought. “I’m sorry if I ended up distracting you during your test there,” he tells you. “You would have been perfect if I’d just kept my mouth shut. And I should have. That was unbecoming of me….”

“I’m just going to learn from experience,” you say. “It will prepare me in case I drive my friends and they say or do something just as distracting. And thank you for…upholding my honor, I guess. And I’m sorry if I made it look like I was bribing you!”

“Maybe you can make it up to me by finally letting me take you out for coffee one day?” he asks shyly.

You shake your head vigorously. His shoulders slump in dejection. “Ah, I guess I don’t deserve….”

“Coffee?! One day?! No! I’m absolutely starving now, you know. I waited forever for my license and I didn’t get to eat lunch today,” you exclaim. “Are you just planning to eat rice and eggs tonight, or do you want to get some dinner together instead?”

He stares at you for a split second, taken aback, and then bursts out laughing. “Damn, you got me good there.”

“You see, I finally got my driver’s license today, and I feel like celebrating, so it’s my treat.” You hold up the same bills he’d left you last night. “Also, I may have come into a little bit of money. Who knows, there might be a little left over for a little fun afterwards….”

He chuckles at your suggestive wink. “Let’s go then. Any food you have in mind?” He leads the way back to the parking lot, but unlike earlier today, a huge weight is off your shoulders. Somehow, it feels like you’re walking on clouds.

“I’ll pretty much eat anything!” you say. “Just…maybe not honey toast.”

He laughs, rubbing his beard. “We still have time to think of something on the way. We can take my car.”

He then says the words you’ve been longing to hear—

“I’m driving.”