Ishani

The door sticks. She swears at it, laughs, and then she is in, sandals off, a cotton dress that has been in the heat. Ishani kisses you before the bag is down. Not a polite kiss. The kind that makes your hand find her waist without a plan. Mira Road is a noisy road under the window. She does not mention it.

She puts you on the edge of the bed and kneels, dress still on, and takes her time with her mouth until you are holding the sheet. She looks up once, pleased, then stands, turns, and bends just enough for you to push the cotton up. No speech about what she likes. You can feel it. She wants you standing for that first minute, her hands on the mattress, the fan moving her hair.

When her legs shake she pulls you down with her. Close, face to face, a small bed, her knee hooked over you. An escort who works Mira Road like this is not saving herself for a view. She wants you deep, her mouth at your ear, saying don’t stop like she means the night and not a performance. Finish on her stomach while she is still under you. She will watch. Condom if you stay inside. Mouth again if you ask before you are gone. Not her face. Anal is a no she will not dress up.

Cash on the table by the fan. Hotel name if you have one. She is not crossing the city for a maybe.