The air in Manila was thick, humid, the kind that clung to your skin like a second layer. It was a Wednesday, just past noon, and the sun blazed down on the cracked pavement outside the Centro Escolar University campus. The faint smell of diesel from jeepneys mixed with the sweet, overripe scent of mangoes from a nearby vendor. Inside the nondescript motel, tucked in a narrow alley off Mendiola Street, the atmosphere was different—stale, heavy with the musk of cheap air freshener and the lingering ghosts of past trysts. The room was dim, lit only by a flickering fluorescent bulb and the faint glow of sunlight sneaking through the heavy curtains. The bed creaked under the weight of anticipation.
Mika, a 19-year-old Filipina-Chinese dentistry student, stood near the door, arms crossed, her lips pursed in a tight line. Her fair skin, almost luminescent under the dim light, contrasted with the dark, wavy hair that cascaded past her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face. She was voluptuous, her curves accentuated by a fitted white blouse that hugged her full breasts and a navy skirt that clung to her rounded hips, ending just above her knees. Her legs, smooth and creamy, shimmered with a faint sheen of sweat from the walk to the motel. Her braces glinted when she spoke, a reminder of her youth, her vulnerability. Her pink nipples, faintly visible through the thin fabric of her blouse, were a detail she hadn’t anticipated being noticed today. She’d shaved herself smooth that morning, a habit she kept for herself, not for this. Her dark eyes, framed by long lashes, darted toward the man across the room, her annoyance barely concealed.
Professor Reyes, a wiry man in his late 40s with salt-and-pepper hair and a smug grin, leaned against the wall, loosening his tie. He was new to the “playbook,” a whispered legend among the male faculty at CEU’s College of Dentistry—a tattered notebook filled with names, numbers, and explicit “field reports” from professors who’d traded grades for favors. Mika’s name had been added last semester, a decision she regretted but couldn’t undo. Once you were in, you were in until graduation. The rules were clear: make time for the professor who called, no questions asked. Unprotected sex was the norm—birth control was on you. Mika had been diligent with her pills, but the thought of it all made her stomach churn.
“Grabe, Mika, ang ganda mo talaga,” Reyes said, his voice low, almost reverent, as he stepped closer. His eyes roamed over her, lingering on the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. “Worth every second ng paghihintay ko sa listahan.”
Mika rolled her eyes, her arms still crossed. “Can we just get this over with? I have a class at 3 PM, and I still need to review for my perio exam.” Her voice was sharp, but there was a resigned edge to it, like someone who’d fought the same battle too many times and lost.
Reyes chuckled, unbuttoning his shirt. “Relax, Mika. Hindi naman ‘to magtatagal. Unless you want it to.” He winked, and she felt her skin crawl.
The room was small, the bed covered in a faded floral sheet that smelled faintly of bleach. The aircon hummed, but it did little to cool the space. Mika kicked off her flats, her bare feet sinking into the worn carpet. She unbuttoned her blouse slowly, her fingers trembling slightly, revealing a white lace bra that barely contained her full, perky breasts. Her nipples, pink and sensitive, pressed against the fabric, already hardening from the cool air. She shimmied out of her skirt, letting it pool at her feet, exposing matching lace panties that clung to her smooth, shaved mound. Her body was a study in contrasts—soft curves, firm skin, a mix of Filipina warmth and Chinese fairness that made her look almost ethereal.
Reyes was on her in seconds, his hands greedy, roaming over her hips, squeezing her ass. “Tangina, ang lambot mo,” he muttered, his breath hot against her neck. Mika stiffened but didn’t pull away. She’d learned to disconnect, to let her body go through the motions while her mind drifted elsewhere. But the sensations were impossible to ignore—his rough hands, the scratch of his stubble against her collarbone, the faint smell of his cologne mixed with sweat.
He pushed her toward the bed, and she sank onto it, the springs creaking under her weight. Reyes stripped off his pants, his erection already straining against his boxers. He climbed over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. “Missionary muna,” he said, almost to himself, as he nudged her thighs apart. Mika stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster as he peeled off her panties, exposing her smooth, glistening folds. She was wet—not from desire, but from her body’s betrayal, a reflex she couldn’t control.
“Ang sikip mo pa rin,” Reyes groaned as he positioned himself, his tip brushing against her entrance. Mika bit her lip, bracing herself. He pushed in slowly, and she gasped, the stretch both familiar and intrusive. Her walls clenched around him, warm and slick, and he let out a low “Ugh, ugh, ugh!” as he began to move, his thrusts shallow at first, then deeper, more insistent. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by the creak of the bed and the hum of the aircon. Sweat beaded on Mika’s forehead, trickling down her temples, her breasts bouncing with each thrust.
“Fuck, Mika, ang sarap mo,” Reyes panted, his hands gripping her hips, leaving faint red marks on her fair skin. She turned her head to the side, her cheek pressed against the sheet, trying to focus on anything else—the texture of the fabric, the faint buzz of a fly trapped against the window. But the sensations were overwhelming: the heat of his body, the slick friction inside her, the way her breasts jiggled with each movement. Her braces caught the light as she bit her lip harder, stifling a moan she didn’t want to give him.
“Para kang artista, alam mo ba ‘yon?” Reyes said, his voice thick with lust. He shifted, pulling her legs up to rest on his shoulders, deepening the angle. Mika’s breath hitched, her body arching involuntarily as he hit a spot that sent a jolt through her. “Shit, ang ganda ng katawan mo. Ang pink ng utong mo, parang cherry.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, her voice barely audible. She hated how he talked, how he reduced her to parts—breasts, nipples, pussy—like she was a menu item. But her body responded anyway, her hips moving slightly to meet his thrusts, a reflex she couldn’t stop. The room was filled with the wet, rhythmic sound of their bodies colliding, her soft gasps mingling with his grunts.
Reyes’s pace quickened, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. “Ipuputok ko na sa loob!” he warned, his voice strained. Mika’s eyes widened, her annoyance flaring into panic.
“Wait, what? No, pull out!” she said, pushing at his chest. But he was too far gone, his hands pinning her wrists above her head. With a final, guttural “Ugh, ugh, ugh!” he came, his release flooding her, warm and thick. Mika felt it, the pulsing heat inside her, the sticky residue seeping out as he pulled back, leaving her raw and exposed. She clenched her thighs together, her heart racing—not just from the act, but from the risk. She was on the pill, but nothing was foolproof. The thought of pregnancy, of being tied to this moment, made her stomach twist.
Reyes rolled off her, panting, a satisfied grin on his face. “Tangina, Mika, ang sarap mo talaga. Sulit ang playbook.” He reached for his pants, already pulling them on, like this was just another transaction.
Mika sat up, her body trembling, the aftermath of their encounter clinging to her. She could feel the sticky warmth between her thighs, soaking into the sheets, staining her skin. Her blouse, crumpled on the floor, had a faint wet spot where she’d brushed against herself. She grabbed it, pulling it on quickly, not bothering with her bra. Her panties were ruined, so she left them, tugging her skirt back on, the fabric sticking to her damp skin. The room smelled of sex and sweat, and she wanted to gag.
“You know, you should be careful,” Reyes said casually, tying his shoes. “Baka mabuntis ka. Hindi ko problema ‘yon, ha.” He laughed, like it was a joke, and Mika’s hands curled into fists.
“Fuck you,” she spat, her voice low but venomous. She grabbed her bag, her movements jerky, and stormed toward the door. Her thighs rubbed together as she walked, the sticky residue a constant reminder of what had just happened. Her braces ached from how hard she’d been clenching her jaw.
Outside, the humid air hit her like a wall. She glanced at her phone—1:45 PM. She had just enough time to clean up before her class, but the weight of it all—Reyes, the playbook, the risk—pressed down on her. She felt dirty, used, but beneath the anger was something else: resignation. This was her reality until graduation. And as she walked back toward campus, the sticky residue on her skin and the faint dampness on her skirt were a cruel reminder of how little control she had.