Lollipop Pop Girl

It was my first time in Berlin.

I'd been sent there by the company to shadow the Berlin office for a week--something about investigating discrepancies across teams. Data wasn't aligning. Timelines didn't match. Someone in upper management wanted "eyes on the ground," which apparently meant me. I was excited at the prospect.

So I flew over with my laptop, a corporate hotel voucher, and a vague mandate to "see what's going wrong."

I wasn't alone. Karen came too. She's my colleague from IT--more on the systems side. She likes clean dashboards, color-coded checklists, and oat milk in her tea. She said the trip was a good excuse for a reset.

I said I was going because I needed to lose control.

She looked at me--sheepish, unsure how to respond.

That first night, after a little persuasion and a few cocktails at a rooftop bar, I made a suggestion. After all, I wasn't going home without at least some fun.

"Let's go somewhere with music," I said.

She blinked. "What kind of music?"

"The kind that pulses. The kind you feel in your spine."

Karen hesitated. "I'm not really a... club person."

I smiled. "Then you're overdue."

Two drinks later--and even more persuasion--we were in line outside a neon-lit doorway that throbbed bass into the street. It smelled like heat and sweat and all kinds of illicit possibility.

Inside, the music wrapped around me. Lights. Limbs. Heat. The bass like a second heartbeat. I let go. The floor was a sea of neon-drenched bodies, all rhythm and glow.

"Come and dance with me, Karen," I said.

But she stayed by the wall, wide-eyed, sipping her drink like it might accuse her of something.

So I danced. I needed to feel something--anything--even if Karen wasn't bothered.

I wasn't annoyed.

She was trying.

In her own quiet, cautious way--she came here with me.

And then I saw her. Looking in my direction.

Mid-twenties, maybe. Blonde bob gone wild. Black crop top. She moved like she'd never doubted herself a day in her life.

She danced toward me, close but not touching. A shared orbit. A slow, seductive rhythm. Her eyes glinted under the strobes.

A red lollipop twirled lazily between her lips--glossy, slick, hypnotic. I caught a glimpse of silver--a barbell piercing in her tongue.

She stopped in front of me. Leaned in, just a little.

"You are very pretty," she said, thick with a Berlin accent.

"Thank you," I said, eyes fixed on her lips as they caressed the candy. "So are you."

"Would you like some?"

Before I could answer, she pulled the lollipop from her mouth--slowly.

Her tongue was red-stained and gleaming under the lights.

She held the lollipop out to me.

"Open," she said.

And I did.

She slid it past my lips, slow and deliberate. The stick was warm from her fingers.

I closed my mouth over it--sucked, tasted.

Bright raspberry. Artificial sweetness cut with the faint salt of her.

She watched me, smiling.

Then took it back.

Licked it. Turned it. Slid it into her mouth again. Then offered it to me once more.

We danced that way--mouths, rhythm, sugar--passing the lollipop between us like a dare.

Sometimes it came with wet neon threads, fragile strings stretching from her lips to mine. Sticky and shining. Electric.

Then she leaned closer. Pressed the candy against my tongue with her own. Our mouths brushed. Our flavours mixed. She kept twirling the lollipop between our mouths as we kissed, only deepening our sticky, shared sweetness.

I began to crave the taste--not just of the candy, but of her. Her flavor. Her rhythm. Her tongue. Her slow, wet teasing.

The trail of wetness that strung between us when she pulled back.

Oh my God, I thought.

My tipsy brain spun in a blur of sticky mouths, pulsing beats, and strobing lights--drenched in erotic charge.

She moved in again--lollipop, mouth, lips.

And when she kissed me fully--tongue first, with no warning--I didn't pull away.

I let her flood my mouth with hers.

She tasted like gin, sugar, and something faintly metallic--pierced and dangerous.

Her tongue moved like choreography--slick, circular, deep.

My lips felt wet. Sticky. My face flushed, coated in sweetness and heat.

The lollipop was forgotten. But the taste lingered.

I think she said something like "You taste good." Or something close to that.

And then--she was gone.

Swallowed by the pulsing crowd. No goodbye. No name.

Just vanished.

I stood there under the strobes, dizzy, dazed, lips still wet. A little sticky. Glossed in someone else's raspberry.

I turned. Karen was still standing nearby--not judging, just waiting. Arms loosely crossed. Like she couldn't decide whether to ask what happened or pretend she hadn't seen it.

"You ready to go?" she asked, her voice soft.

I nodded, slow.

"Yeah," I said. "I think I am."

And in that moment, I knew--

I didn't want strangers who licked and left.

I wanted someone who'd stay long enough to taste me twice--slowly, deliberately.

Someone who stayed in the silence afterward.