The women arrived just before midnight, delivered without introduction: one in a claret silk slip, the other in a cream dress loose enough to puddle at her ankles when it fell. Their beauty was immediate, smiles deliberate—the kind that promised everything and revealed nothing.

Mikael hovered briefly at the door, exchanged standard pleasantries in Farsi, then faded into the shadowed corner of the sitting room where he could watch without intruding.

Tarmo did not move to meet them. He sat sunk into the armchair, a vodka sweating on the glass table, eyes following the slow sway of their hips as they crossed the room. They began without prompting—fingertips skimming his shoulders, perfume mingling as they leaned in, mouths soft against his jaw. Then, wordless, they turned to each other.

The slip went first—silk pooling onto the carpet, revealing skin the color of warm honey. The cream dress followed, drifting down in a hush. Their kiss started slow, then deepened; hands roaming, bodies bending into each other. They laughed under their breath, as if sharing a private joke.

It should have been intoxicating. Instead, he watched as if through glass—until memory cracked the distance. The rhythm, the closeness, the heat between them… it was Elena and Sandi again, in that lamplit room, unaware of him, tangled in a raw intimacy no performance could counterfeit.

Something tightened low in him. Desire rose, sudden and sharp—not for the women in his suite, but for what they evoked. His breathing slowed. One of them noticed; her hair brushed his cheek as she leaned in, her hand trailing over his chest through the thin silk. A finger caught the sash, tugged until the knot loosened. The robe fell open just enough for her eyes to flick downward. She smiled—slow, knowing.

Without a word, she eased the silk wider, guiding him with her palm until she felt the heat and weight of him, until he stirred fully under her hand. She shifted onto his lap, bare thighs warm against his, and began a measured, undulating rhythm. Through the press of her hips, he felt himself finally, mechanically, hard.

She moved with practiced grace, each motion a careful escalation. The longer it went on, the hollower it felt. What he wanted was nowhere in reach. His hands slipped from her waist; urgency drained into something colder, heavier. He mumbled an apology—more confession than courtesy—and lifted her gently aside.

Mikael stepped forward without missing a beat, face unreadable. He thanked the women, guided them toward their clothes, passed them their clutch bags with the calm authority of a man who had done this before. The door closed with a soft click, and the suite exhaled back into stillness.

Tarmo stayed in the chair, staring at the dim city light bleeding through the terrace curtains. The air held jasmine and damp silk.

“Tell Ja’far,” he said at last, voice low, “that I want a Zoroastrian shaman. Tonight.”

Mikael gave the slightest nod—no questions, no judgment—and reached for his phone. Outside, Tehran moved in layers: the visible city, the official city, and the one beneath, where a request like that could be fulfilled before dawn.

Hana Boutique Hotel – Tehran

Perfume lingered—jasmine, skin, silk ghosts—but whatever charge the room had held vanished when the door shut behind the women. Their breathy laughter, almost perfect, echoed and thinned. His hollow chest confirmed how little had truly touched him.

He sat forward, elbows on his knees, robe open, sash slack where her fingers had left it. For a moment he simply stared at his cock, still hard. Then he rose and let the robe slide from his shoulders.

The bathroom light was low, warm cones against black-veined marble. Steam curled into the air like incense. He stepped in, breath catching at the shock of heat, palms flat against the slick wall.

Water hammered his neck, shoulders, spine—heavy, insistent—until his skin flushed red. He closed his eyes, dropped his head, letting streams coil around him like hands. One hand slid over his chest, down his stomach; the other braced against tile.

Memory came on repeat: Elena, lamplight sulking across her back; Sandi’s mouth between her thighs; the sound—low, unselfconscious—of two people utterly oblivious to the world beyond that locked door.

It hit him in the solar plexus, a sharp, aching pull that had nothing to do with Ja’far’s women and everything to do with absence.

His breathing quickened. One hand wrapped around his cock, slow at first, matching the pulse of the water, then faster as the remembered scene sharpened. He could almost smell Elena’s perfume layered over Istanbul’s night air, steam carrying the same note.

It built quickly, almost involuntarily—hips driving, back muscles taut—until release crashed through him, forehead pressed to the wall. A shout, hot water, hotter breath, then the slow unwinding—all of it sliding away, vanishing down the drain before it could cool on his skin.

He stood there for a beat. He could do it again. Instead, he turned off the tap, letting the last of the water strip perfume from his body and violence from his thoughts, softening everything back to quiet—the kind of quiet that makes decisions inevitable.

He stepped out and wiped steam from the mirror just enough to see his eyes. They looked clearer than when he had arrived.

When he re-entered the suite, Mikael was already there—jacket buttoned, posture solid, phone in hand. Tarmo did not need to ask how long he had been waiting; Mikael had the patience of granite.

“I’ve got one,” Mikael said simply. “He’s waiting for you.”

Tarmo nodded—no questions, no hesitation. The women, the emptiness, the steam—all of it was already slipping into prelude.

What came next was the real destination.

I.Ph.