Seoul Survivors (13 page)

Vancouver had obviously been the honeymoon period. Once he was back in Seoul things had been tougher. He'd had to consult the MAP Workbook regularly, taking it out from the back of the closet when Sydney was out at her modeling sessions or the gym. Her meeting that Jin Sok character had been a real test, but it was true that the photographer was gay; he'd had him checked out. Sydney was his now. They had their ups and downs, but according to Beacon, every couple did.

As the taxi entered Itaewon he drummed his fingers on the arm-rest, trying to resolve the issue of the ConGlam contract in his mind. The way to play it was like this: once they'd got to Thailand he'd tell Sydney about the Project, and he'd also tell her about his own prospects with ConGlam. He'd say sorry for being uptight before China, and he'd promise that things would be very different once they were both flying high in the company, both relaxed, happy and focused. The bottom line was this: they were tigers in the sack together, they looked good together in photos, and they were going to make a fucking fortune. What girl was going to argue with that?

“I love my wife.” Jae Ho was perched on the edge of Sydney's sofa, smiling as if he had just seen a fish jumping or a falling star. “She . . . good spirit.”

It didn't sound like a passionate assessment to Sydney. She stopped fiddling with the CD player and squeezed in beside him. He stroked her thigh, almost tentatively.

Wondering if he was having second thoughts, she said nothing.

“You very soft,” he told her, his hand lingering beneath the hemline of her dress. “Korean sophists write soft is
Eum
.
Eum
,
Yang
. You know?”

Sophists? “You mean Yin Yang?”

“No, not Yin Yang,” he said, waving his hand emphatically, “Yin Yang
Japan
story. In Korea, everything
Eum Yang
.” He sprang up and pointed to the florescent bulb above them. It was off—the wiring was broken, but she hated florescent lights, so she hadn't tried to fix it. “Light now
Eum
,” he announced. Jauntily stepping over to the switch, he flicked it. Nothing happened.

“Sydney light always
Eum
,” he giggled.

She jumped up and plugged in her string of fairy-lights. The little bulbs lit up, almost invisible in the dawn light. “Now is
Yang
?” she asked.

“Yes, but is very
Eum
-style
Yang
. Why you buy this light?” he demanded. Koreans had a way of asking why you had done something as simple as cutting your hair as if they were accusing you of some unspeakable crime.

“Because is pretty,” she said, sitting back down.

“Ah.” He smiled indulgently. Roaming about her apartment, he scrutinized every postcard she had tacked to the walls. Sydney took the opportunity to admire not only him but also her new home: one spacious room with balcony windows and a long corridor lined
with closets. Its primrose-yellow, verdigris and peach color scheme had looked erratic at first, but it melded surprisingly well. She had furnished the place sparingly, buying a sofa, a round coffee table, a silk bed-mat and cushions. The sheets on the bed-mat were a little crumpled, the pillows in disarray; a fashion magazine lay opened on the floor beside her ashtray: otherwise the place was just too new to be untidy.

“This very good fortune!” the painter cried, picking up a little pink plastic pig Jin Sok had given her. “You keep by bed. If you dream of pig, you go out and buy ticket for money game. Yes!”

“A lottery ticket?” She giggled as Jae Ho bowed over her bed-mat and placed the pig carefully on her pillow beside the teddy bear she had, at the last minute, decided to take with her from Johnny's place.

“Sydney.” He waltzed back over to the sofa and sat down beside her. “I want ask you question.”

“Yes?” She pressed her leg against his.

“Self-sex?”

“Huh?” Were they going to fuck, or not?

“Self-sex—sometimes you make?”

Oh . . .
“Sometimes.” She stretched out her fingers and he regarded them with interest.

“I want watch.” He pinched her thigh, sending a quick dart of pleasure to her clit. So that would turn him on? Well, it would be easy enough to oblige.

“I want lie on bed,” she said, “is how I always do it.”

He lit a cigarette as she rearranged herself on the
yo
. She picked the pig and teddy up from the pillow and set them on the floor, then peeled off her panties and hitched her dress up around her waist, watching him through half-lidded eyes as her fingers fell into their familiar routine. He assessed her through wreaths of smoke, his legs apart, rubbing himself through the strange fabric of his pants. The motion of his fist made a faintly abrasive sound. For the first time she noticed that, against all Korean custom, he was wearing his black leather boots in her home. She whimpered and pulled off her dress. Then she undid her bra, tossed it aside, and returned to the wet place between her legs.

He rose from the sofa and stepped on her thigh, lightly, but with enough pressure to bend it back against the bed. She strained against his weight, trying to hoist her hips into the air. He laughed and inched his foot down to her knee, then, one leg at a time,
tugged off his boots, then his trousers. Kneeling either side of her throat now, pinning her arms to the bed, he threw the trousers over her face. They rustled synthetically, smelling of sweat and smoke, then, just as alarm was rising in her torso, they were gone, pushed aside, and she was gazing up at the reassuring bulge in his fire-engine-red Y-fronts.

“Good girl—you good girl, Sy-duh-ney,” he whispered, lowering himself down her body, roughly displacing her hands from her clit. He hadn't watched her masturbate at all, but whatever he wanted was fine, just fine. The edges of his shirt trailed over her skin as his cock nudged at her lips. Lost in the sensations, she spread her legs even further apart, aching for deeper penetration, impossible through his underwear, but inevitable, she could tell. He pried her apart with his fingers, nuzzling into her, a foretaste of fullness. Then he pulled off his underwear and his naked body towered over her, his torso plush muscle, his cock erect and quivering.

“Do you like my little man?” he asked.

His taut scrotum was nestled in long silky tufts of black hair and his cock was a color she'd never seen before: a gorgeous purplish bruise-brown, entwined with thick, twisty veins blue as rivers in an ancient map.

“I like him very much,” she whispered.

The only way to stop staring was to take him in her mouth where he fit perfectly, his smooth head nudging into her relaxed throat as her tongue massaged his rigid length. But then he withdrew and, swinging his hips down between her spread open legs, entered her point-blank.

Yes.

No—not ever!

Yes, but . . .

She reached out for the box by her bed mat, “Hey, I have—”

He paused. Touched her face. “Is okay, Sy-duh-nee. No problem.”

No problem? Really
? In the time it took her to absorb his tender tone, his slow thrusts developed a searching rhythm, and a huge, slippery sense of longing rose up in her. Was this what
real
sex was like? Without rules, without limits, instinctive;
trusting
the feelings? Being close,
so close
to a man. Why couldn't she experience that, just once? He wasn't a
client
, he was someone she
wanted
.

She couldn't think anymore. Her body was hauling her over the brink of resistance to the hot edge of tears. She flung her legs up around his back and maneuvered her body to allow him deeper.
Grunting, he pushed her knees apart, lifting his hips to gain access, and fucked her faster, then, grabbing her buttocks and hoisting her upward, he pushed in from a new angle. Yelping, she threw her hips up to his. She'd never desired a man so much, ever in her life.

With that realization she entered another dimension, a wet, sliding place where there was no separation between his body and hers. When at last he grabbed her breast and devoured her nipple, something detonated deep inside her. She yowled, almost in disbelief, as the orgasm radiated throughout her body.

The sunlit peak mutated into a plateau of dazed contentment. Moaning softly, she opened her eyes. Jae Ho was smiling down at her like an elf, like a genie, like no man she had ever met before. She ran her finger up the ridge that started at his sternum and split his broad abdomen in two. His MoPho rang in his trouser pocket beside her head. Gently, he resumed his probing.

“No babies,” she ordered, forming a cross with her hands on her belly. He nodded, picked up speed, then swiftly pulled out and shot his cum all over her hip.

Afterward they lay still and quiet in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Short, I think,” he said.

Had it been quick? It had seemed timeless. “No,” she replied, sleepily, “very nice.”

“Western man very long,” Jae Ho insisted, holding his hands about nine inches apart. “Asian man short.”

In her blissed-out semi-doze it was hard to think what to say. Sure she liked big cocks, but she had to be turned on to enjoy them—and with Jae Ho she'd been so excited she'd hardly noticed his size. And now—unlike a guy who thought he was God's gift but couldn't even get it up all the time—instead of rolling over and starting to snore, he was talking to her, stroking her, sounding anxious to have pleased her.
That
was sexy.

She reached up and tickled his nose. “Western men all different. Size not important, anyway.”

“I think you lying.” He sat up on his elbow and examined her intently.

“I am not—” She turned toward him, and he gasped.

“Sydney have belly!” he announced. “Like Vietnam pot-belly pig!”

Jeez, what a way to change the subject. “Thanks a lot!” she protested, but he was rubbing her tummy and poking his finger in her belly button.

“I like belly,” he declared. “Very woman shape.”

Lots of guys liked curves on girls; she knew that from her escort days. She gave his hand a little slap. “Woman, okay. Pig no!”

“Okay. Sydney my piglet,” he decided, as she twisted round and snuggled her bum into his lap. He cupped her tummy as they spooned, like Johnny sometimes used to do. It had always felt nice, comforting, until he'd started telling her to
stop fucking worrying about the fucking designers
, and they'd get into a fight. Jae Ho didn't know anything about her job issues, and he didn't need to. He was a beautiful break from all that. Stroking his fingers, she yawned and closed her eyes.

When his MoPho rang again he rose abruptly, and dressed. Before he left he clutched her breast for a moment, smiled as he had done at the fairy-lights, then kissed her lightly goodbye.

“See you soon, Sy-duh-ney.”

“See you soon, Jae Ho,” she whispered. She flopped back on her pillow as the door closed, hugging herself with glee.

She'd slept with an
artist
. He'd talked to her, asked her how she felt. He didn't even know how gorgeous he was. She was never again going to sleep with some thick dolt just because he had money. Soon she would be appearing in her first-ever runway show; soon she would be friends with designers and scientists and having a mad torrid affair with a painter. From now on she was
in charge
of her own life.

As the cab drew across the river Johnny felt the anticipation rising. He took the stairs two at a time.

“Herrrrrrre's Johnny . . .” he announced.

To an empty apartment.

The living room was silent, the bed un-slept in. Where the fuck was she? Was she fucking
fucking
somebody else? Where was all her
junk
? He flung open the wardrobe: nothing but empty hangers dangling and jangling on her side. He banged open the door to the en suite. All her toiletries were gone.

“
Sydney
,” he shouted. He sounded ridiculous, he knew it, and shut up. She was gone. Had Kim fucking taken her? Blood pulsing in his temples, he stormed back into the living room. Half the CDs were missing, but the blanket on the sofa was mussed up and the remote lay where she usually left it, as if she might wander back from the toilet at any minute and turn the TV on.

His gut twisted and a lump bulged in his throat. Just for a second a hot prickle darted around his eyes. Fuck, was the Sandman
crying
? He wiped his face roughly with his sleeve. No, he was just exhausted—and, it had to be admitted, outmaneuvered.

That bitch Da Mi must have stepped in. But in so doing, she had overstepped big time. He just had to let Sydney know he was back, that she could come home. He grinned. Kim didn't know what Sydney was like when she wanted something bad. There was no way she'd be able to keep the girl against her will.

He switched his MoPho back on and called Sydney. Out of service—of course she was. He'd have to call Kim, demand the new number—but first he needed a drink: Johnny Walker Black Label, a double, on the rocks.

The note was on the kitchen table beside a stack of his Andrew Beacon books and a pile of jewelry: Sydney's Gotcha Watch and the six pairs of EarRings he'd given her.

His chest heaving, his hands shaking, Johnny poured himself a stiff shot of Scotch and sat down. Light filtered between the shutters on the windows, scoring sharp lines down the center of the kitchen table. His Gotcha rang. He let it. He finished his drink. Then he listened to the message from Kim.

“Good morning, Mr. Sandman. I gather all went well in Beijing. Congratulations.” Her voice was pointedly monotonous. “In your absence and after consultation with your superiors, it was decided that GRIP would take over the negotiations with your Canadian candidate. She has arranged independent living arrangements and is now under our protection. Under no circumstances are you to contact her in any way. To do so would be grounds for instant dismissal. Please call me to discuss your own revised role in future proceedings. I look forward to speaking to you soon.”