Simon is just a little boy wanting affection. (English is not my native language, there may be spelling errors)
Simon knows this is the stupidest thing he's ever done. If any member of his team finds out, he'll be ridiculed for weeks—no, for years. The Phantom is a strong man, a highly trained assassin who has killed hundreds of people. A living legend who terrifies even the most despicable men in the underworld.
So why is he about to do this? Hiring a prostitute isn't a crime; everyone does it. But this becomes pathetic because, well… he doesn't want to sleep with her.
Yes. He doesn't want sex with the prostitute he hired. Actually, he does—what kind of man doesn't want easy sex?—but that's not the point. He could have sex without paying. What he really wants, what he truly desires, he won't get without paying, he wants…
Affection.
Affection, damn it. Hugs, kisses on the cheek, hands that touch him with pure affection, like in those ridiculous comedies that girls love—he wants someone to soothe his scars, to tell him she loves him.
That's why he hired you. He's afraid you'll tell him to fuck off, leave, or start laughing in his face. When you arrive, he trembles, feeling pathetic. His face heats up, his hands sweat, and the cheap motel room feels like it's going to swallow him whole.
You're hot, like the girls in the porn movies he watched as a teenager. Low-cut top, short skirt, heavy makeup, and high heels. That's what he expects, but he sees something different in your eyes; a seriousness, as if you were more than just a woman looking for money.
Maybe that's why you don't tell him to fuck off when he asks you to take off your makeup and let your hair down. You end up taking a shower while he waits for you, sitting on the worn bed, clutching the sheets and feeling the fabric fray in your hands.
Now you're just in your panties and bra, drying your hair with a towel while watching him. And, damn, you're beautiful. Beautiful in the way he likes. More beautiful than the vulgar, sexy mask; you seem real, something he'd find at home if he were a good man. Your eyelashes are the color of your hair, he can see some freckles on your face, the natural color of your lips.
He finds himself imagining, pretending you're his wife. That after returning from a damned mission, you're waiting for him to take care of him, to sleep embraced by him. Maybe you even have a little son sleeping downstairs, who calls him daddy.
When he speaks, his voice is low. Muffled by the skull mask and the shame. You observe every word.
"No sex? Just cuddling?", his voice is sweet, without judgment.
"Yes."
"Okay."
"Okay." He nods as he watches you approach, stopping between his legs.
"What do you want me to call you?" Your eyes seem to see through his mask.
"Simon... call me Simon."
You take his hand, guiding it to your hip, where he feels the soft skin beneath the lace of your panties. His head rests on your stomach as you caress the strands of hair that escape from under the mask.
Simon feels like he's on cloud nine. He hugs your hip, feeling your fingers against his skin, the way you slide them down his arms and back, as if he were something good... precious. You make him take off his shirt, not for sex, but for affection. He doesn't know when the last time a woman undressed him without wanting anything in return was. You kiss his neck.
His breath falters. He feels dizzy, unable to contain his sighs. He groans loudly when you kiss his cheek, over the fabric of the mask. He needs more. Much more. He holds your fingers, pulling them toward the mask's strap. You feel his hands gripping it desperately. When he finally reveals it, there's no fear, no revulsion. Just a gentle expression. You don't hesitate. You press your lips against his cheeks, kissing his skin, every scar. His hands grip your thighs; your body trembles and your breath becomes ragged as you massage him, adoring him, his warm, fragrant skin.
"Say you love me," he begs. It's trembling, desperate. He knows it's humiliating, but he doesn't care. "I'll pay you whatever you want, just pretend... that you love me."
You caress his cheeks and lean in, kissing his nose, sending an electric shock through his skin.
"I love you, Simon," your eyes are fixed on his. "I love you more than anything."
Does he feel like crying? He can't explain it, he's overwhelmed by so many stimuli. Simon hugs you around the waist and turns you onto your back in bed, settling between your thighs and resting his face on your breasts. He smells your perfume, something floral and fresh. The sensation of your warm thighs enveloping him, your hands on his back, the softness of your face... The beating of your heart, so real and sweet, he feels his own.















