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Cigarette Ash

MOMOI

T he night swallowed me whole as soon as I crawled into bed, and I didn’t even get a chance to pull the covers up before the dreams hit, the drink I had earlier taking its final effects on my mental state.

The dark pulled me under, the same kind of nightmare I had too often. The ones that felt too real. The ones that tasted like cigarette ash in the back of my throat. It always started the same way—my mother’s motel room, the stench of cheap whiskey and desperation clinging to the air. The muffled voices of men who had no business being there when they didn’t have an appointment… the sound of their laughter bouncing off the walls.

“Well, what do we have here?”

I scooted back in the closet, trying to get as far away as I could, away from the scent of his wretched breath. My gaze flickered to my mother, who was lying lifeless on the bed, still naked. He drugged her, didn’t he? Some of them do when they trick her into becoming a plaything to their group while only paying for a single service.

I could still feel it—the rough hands, the cold breath, the thick, suffocating air. I fought back, every muscle in my body screaming in protest as I slapped and kicked, trying to break free. But their laughter—God, it was the worst part. That mocking, taunting laugh. It echoed in my ears. I was trapped in the same moment over and over again.

In the dream, I was younger—barely more than a child—and I fought like I had no choice. I screamed, I pushed, I bit, and I tore myself away. But no matter how hard I struggled, they always came back, always found me. I could never escape. The fear, the helplessness—it clawed at me, raking deep into my skin, until I thought I might choke on it.

I was there in the moment, yet removed as if watching it all play out from a distance. But why could I still feel them on my skin?

Get them off me! Get away from me!

And then, as always, it shifted. One moment, I was fighting—pushing, kicking, screaming—and the next, the room seemed to melt away. The men were gone, their taunts fading into silence, and I was suddenly wrapped in warmth.

I froze. My muscles, still stiff from the phantom blows, went rigid in disbelief. My breath caught in my throat. This... this was different. The air was thick, but it wasn’t suffocating. It was safe , warm—a comfort I hadn’t known in years. But my body tensed, every nerve on edge. No. No, this wasn’t right.

There was no such thing as safe. Lies. It was all lies!

I tried to pull away, but something held me there. His arms, strong and steady, tightened around me, as if he was keeping me from falling apart. I fought against it—against him—but the warmth only deepened, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket.

It was wrong. This was wrong.

But the weight of it—this softness, this care—it felt real in a way I didn’t understand, in a way that terrified me.

The embrace caught me off guard, and by now, nothing should catch me off guard—that was what I was afraid of, an unknown to a girl who lived the life I had. But beyond reason, beyond my comprehension… it felt safe, a shelter, as if someone had finally pulled me out of the storm. For a moment, I wanted to sink into it, let the warmth drown out the nightmares. But then I registered something—his hands, his arms around me. Strong but gentle, as if he knew exactly how much pressure I could handle.

My heart skipped a beat. No.

I jerked in his hold, the sudden realization washing over me like ice water. I twisted, trying to break free, but he held me firmly.

Let me go! It was as if the scream was lodged, my mouth unable to pry open.

I forced myself to look up, to face my perpetrator head-on and possibly gouge his eyes out. But what I saw made my breath catch in my throat— the monk . His eyes were soft, too soft, and they held a kind of care I’d never known. The kind of care I didn’t know how to handle. My body tensed once again, my mind screaming at me to pull away, but my legs wouldn’t move. His face was closer now, his expression filled with something—something too tender for someone like me to even comprehend.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice a balm to my raw, battered mind. “You’re safe.”

Safe. What did that even mean?

I recoiled at the word. It didn’t fit. Safe was something I’d never had, something I didn’t know how to want. I didn’t trust this warmth, this soft comfort he was offering me. The only thing I knew was the cold distance I’d kept from everyone and the bitterness that came with it. This kind of care? It made my skin crawl.

But why? Why did it feel... different? What was wrong with me?

I pushed harder, pulling at his arms, feeling the heat of his touch like a branding iron. The monk didn’t budge, didn’t let go, and my heart pounded faster, erratic, until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

I woke up with a start, the sheets tangled around my legs, my skin slick with sweat. My breath was shallow, my chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. The shadows of the nightmare still lingered in the corners of my vision, but they were fading. The warm embrace, the monk’s eyes, the care —it all lingered too, but now it felt wrong. Too soft. Too much.

I sat up, rubbing my face with both hands, trying to clear the fog from my mind. The room was still dark, the hum of the city outside muffled, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for me to figure out what the hell was going on. My head throbbed, the remnants of the nightmare crawling under my skin, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted— something I wasn’t ready for.

What was that?

I could still feel the lingering sensation of his arms around me, the warmth of it, the care that didn’t belong in my world. The monk... why him? He was the epitome of out-of-bounds . He was a figure of peace, of serenity, something I couldn’t wrap my head around. Something that existed outside the underground universe.

And yet, there it was. That damn softness in his eyes, in the way he’d held me.

I couldn't understand it. I couldn’t even explain why it bothered me so much. I’d spent years fighting back against men who wanted something from me. Men who saw me as nothing more than an object to claim, to use, to abuse. But he wasn’t them. He was forbidden to be like them because of who he was.

And that, that was what unsettled me the most. That men like him even existed. That our worlds would collide—light and dark.

I threw the covers off, trying to cool my body down, staring out the window into the cityscape. I couldn’t let myself get caught up in this dream—this thing —because it didn’t make sense. I couldn’t trust it. It wasn’t real.

I shook my head violently, forcing myself to focus as I turned over and pulled the sheets back over me. I had to shake it off. Nightmares have been a dime a dozen since my youth.

But his phantom touch wouldn’t leave me, and I hated myself for even letting it linger. Guilt, shame, disgust, and self-hate washed over me as my fingers traveled between my legs.

What would the monk think of me now? If he caught me in this position, punishing myself like this? The men who paraded through my mother’s motel stole my innocence from me. When she was passed out from her addictions, the only way to protect her was to let myself be used. They all knew my weakness. It wasn’t that hard to figure out when I would whimper, dissociating as their filthy hands crawled all over me while I kept my eyes on my mother’s limp body, making sure she was alright, making sure they kept their word.

Over the years, I learned to defend myself, learned the art of the blade, and much more. But I never showed my hand, not when I could count on my fists if I had to. By sixteen, I roamed the streets as my mother made her living. It was for both her sake and mine as I began to develop a hidden rage that couldn’t be quenched.

My mother and I got into plenty of spats when my anger would cost her customers.

I chuckled against the pillow at the memories. Look at me now. My fingers slipping between the apex of my legs as images of a stranger—a monk of all things—flit through my mind.

They say monks worked on their physical strength, agility, patience, and resilience most of their lives. It made sense. Everything about him felt as if it belonged to a life of discipline and rigor. There was a stillness in him that seemed carved from years of training, and his calmness had an intensity to it, like he could endure whatever the world threw at him without flinching.

But I couldn’t help but wonder…

Spreading my legs further, I dipped my finger inside, my arousal making it easy to enter. He had the posture of someone who had spent years sitting in meditation, muscles honed not through brute force but through stillness, precision, and control. I bet I could crack his carefully crafted facade. The thought made me hot, knowing how bad I could be if he wanted me to. Heck, I could show him things he never thought possible.

I wondered about the scars beneath his robes, if any. Every monk had their own story etched into their body—whether from the hardships of life or the discipline of their training. I panted against the pillow as my fingers moved faster, teasing me with just the right amount of friction while still holding my growing pleasure at bay. After all, there was no fun in falling off the cliff within a few minutes.

I was used to the torture. I learned to crave it.

How long would a woman with my skill be able to edge a monk? I licked my lips at the thought. Would he be stoic as I licked his scars, traveling downward toward the promised land? A moan slipped as my hips began to undulate with my strokes.

Would he be able to continue to hold himself still without a sound when I sucked down his hard cock, licking the underside and its pronounced veins?

“This is so wrong…” I whispered, my fingers moving faster as my other hand kneaded my aching breast.

There was something about him that made my curiosity flare. It was strange, wanting to imagine him beyond the robes, beyond the serene calm. Why? Why was I thinking about it at all?

And why was my body responding with so much fire the more I reminded myself that he was out of bounds?

I bet I could make him break his stoicism. I bet I could make him moan and beg for more as I sucked down his cock down to his balls and watched his eyes roll to the back of his head in surrender.

My muscles tensed as I fought back against the impending climax, wanting my self-imposed punishment to last a little while longer.

But I couldn’t stop it. That question lingered, trailing through my mind similar to an itch I couldn’t scratch. What would it feel like to make him lose control? To naughtily make him break his vows at the tip of my tongue? To watch his own guilt and shame hum through his veins as I drank every last drop he gave me?

“You’re dirty, Momoi. You’re such a slut,” I breathed as I began to tease and pinch my clit until my head became light right before I cried out in ecstasy through one of the biggest self-induced orgasms I ever had.

I shook my head, trying to push away the thoughts. I couldn’t understand it, and that made me want to run even faster.

Instead, I found myself bringing my arousal-coated fingers into my mouth, humming around it, wondering what it would be like to sit on his face to clean up the mess he left behind.