Sky Bar KL Sex – Hypnotic Heights For An Amazing Night
The Night That Changed Everything – The Arrival
Malaysia wasn’t where I thought my story would shift. But life has a strange way of steering you where it wants. Never did I expect Sky Bar KL Sex.
I moved here from India in 2015. Just another hopeful, chasing something better. A job. A chance. Maybe even a future.
Five years later, I’m still in Kuala Lumpur. I work at a rooftop lounge—the famous Sky Bar. It’s perched high above the city, with floor-to-ceiling windows that wrap around like glass skin. At night, the skyline stretches out in glowing veins of orange and blue, buzzing and alive. From here, the Petronas Towers shimmer like silver needles stabbed into the night sky.
The Setting
The air up here always carries a mix of lime zest, cold vodka, sweat, and ozone from the pool just behind the bar. There’s music too—low thumps from the lounge speaker, the kind of beat that crawls up your legs and sits behind your ribs. On weekends it’s louder, messier. But this wasn’t one of those nights.
It started quiet. I was behind the bar, polishing glasses, stacking them in neat pyramids. The usual crowd was scattered across the lounge—some couples taking selfies, some business types sipping slowly, half-talking, half-looking at their phones.
She Walked In
Then she walked in.
I noticed her the way you notice a door swinging open in a room with no breeze. She moved fast—didn’t stop to look at the view or scan the bar. Just came straight to the counter, sat down, and said, “Vodka. Double.”
Her voice was firm, clipped. A sound that had cracked before but had stitched itself back together.
I gave her the drink without a word. She took it in her hand, lifted it, and downed it in one clean motion. No pause, no flinch. Just swallowed and placed the glass back on the counter.
“Another,” she said.
Watching Her
I poured again. This time, I watched her. Her hands were trembling slightly, but the rest of her sat stiff—like a statue about to tip. The skin around her eyes was drawn tight. She didn’t look drunk. She looked like someone trying not to fall apart.
She drank the second glass faster than the first. Asked for a third. Same rhythm. No hesitation.
Now, I’ve worked here long enough to know what hard drinking looks like. We get our share of tourists trying to drown a divorce, businessmen with more regret than teeth, party girls on benders. But she didn’t match any of them. She wasn’t a regular drinker. She was drinking because something had come undone.
I didn’t ask questions. Not my job. I cleaned the shaker, wiped the counter, set more glasses. But I kept an eye on her.
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The Pick
She was staring down into the glass, not seeing it. Her breathing was shallow. One hand rested on the bar, the other flicked at the rim of the napkin. Then she reached into the drink, pulled out the tiny plastic pick—the one we stick olives or cherries with—and without blinking, jabbed it into the skin of her forearm.
I saw the dot of blood bloom on her blouse. Another drop landed on the marble bar top.
The First Intervention
For a second, I froze. My stomach tightened. Then instinct kicked in. I rushed around the bar and grabbed her wrist. “Stop,” I said, louder than I meant to.
She turned her head slowly, her eyes finding mine as if I’d just entered the room. She didn’t flinch, didn’t panic. Just brushed her hair back with a slow motion. Her pupils were dilated—dark, wet. Then, in a voice that felt like it had been dragged up from the floor of an empty well, she said:
“Leave me alone.”
It wasn’t a scream. It was worse. It was a command, raw and final. My spine locked. I stepped back. Walked away. Not out of obedience, but because the energy she threw at me was sharp and unfamiliar. It clung to the air.
The Second Time
I pretended to clean, but my eyes stayed on her reflection in the bar mirror. She was back at it. Another pick, another jab.
I dropped the cloth and went back. This time I didn’t ask. I reached for her hand. She jerked, but not enough to stop me. “Stop,” I said again. Firm. I pulled the pick from her fingers and tossed it to the floor. She looked at me—not angry now. Just tired.
Contact
I grabbed a napkin, folded it, and pressed it to the small wound on her arm. Her skin was warm. I wrapped the napkin tighter and held it there. She didn’t stop me. Didn’t say anything. Just watched. Breathing steady now, her hands limp in her lap.
For a moment, the room felt quiet—even though the music was still playing, and the lights were still flashing off liquor bottles behind me. She let me tend to her as if we had known each other longer than five minutes. As if this—her bleeding and me holding the napkin—was rehearsed.
I stood there, unsure what to do next.
And that’s where it started.
Sex, Money, and Something Else – The Offer
My first instinct was to call the manager — tell him we needed help, fast. Ambulance maybe, or someone who knew how to handle people in a crisis.
But then… I looked at her properly.
She wasn’t just the woman who had tried to hurt herself the night before. Under the haze of alcohol and blood, there was something else. Her blouse was slightly open, and from my angle, I could see the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The curve of her cleavage framed by loose fabric, skin soft like cream. One nipple peeked just barely past the lace edge of her bra, a sliver of pink that sent heat running down my spine.
I shifted awkwardly. My trousers were suddenly too tight. My body betrayed me.
I looked down, embarrassed. She was hurting, and there I was, thinking about how good she looked.
Still… I couldn’t unsee it.
Her breasts were full, like they had weight and warmth, and the way they moved under the thin silk of her dress made my stomach clench. She caught me looking again. Her gaze wasn’t surprised. It was deliberate. Controlled. She didn’t cover herself.
I turned my eyes away and forced my voice steady.
“It doesn’t matter how bad things are,” I said quietly, “this isn’t the way to deal with it… madame.”
She tilted her head slightly, eyes fixed on mine, saying nothing. The bar lights reflected off her irises — dark, stormy, unreadable.
I noticed her hair then. Long, layered, styled with a softness that looked expensive. Not salon fresh — better. It framed her jaw and glinted gold under the halogen spot above her stool.
“Where’d you get your hair done?” I asked, the question slipping out without planning.
She gave me a small, amused smile. “At the best,” she said. Her voice was low and smooth, like the final pour from a bottle.
And then, just like that, she stood, heels clicking on the tile floor. She didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t look back. She disappeared through the revolving door, her perfume lingering in the air — a scent like honey and cold metal.
I thought that was it. Just another strange story for the books.
The Return
The next day, I heard the sound of stilettos before I saw her. A deliberate rhythm, soft against the bar’s polished floor.
I turned, and there she was. Same confident posture. Same eyes.
She walked straight up to me and leaned slightly across the counter.
“Do you remember?” she asked.
I smiled. “Yeah. How could I forget?”
She tilted her head again. “Then you surely remember my name.”
I hesitated. “You never told me.”
She let the pause stretch a second longer than it needed. Then: “Oh… right. I’m Sarah.”
“Rohan,” I said, reaching across to shake her hand.
Her fingers were cool, smooth, with a grip that lasted half a second too long. There was perfume again — jasmine, maybe — but laced with something warmer, like skin and sweat.
She sat on a high stool, crossing her legs slowly. She ordered a drink. I made it.
Then, she leaned forward. “Can you take fifteen minutes off?”
I blinked. “What for?”
“There are some things I want to talk to you about. From yesterday.”
Her eyes didn’t blink. Her lips were just slightly parted. The air between us felt charged, heavy. I nodded. “Give me a minute.”
I told the other bartender to cover. Walked around the bar. She was already waiting by the couch near the rear wall — the one with the view of the skyline behind it.
We sat. Her dress shifted as she crossed her legs again — I caught a flash of thigh, skin tight and glowing in the soft blue bar lighting.
Sky Bar KL Sex
Then, she turned and said it — like ordering a coffee.
“I want you to have sex with me.”
The words hit my chest like a punch. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even breathe for a second. Her voice hadn’t changed. It was flat, matter-of-fact. Not seduction. Not teasing. Just real.
“I… what?” I finally managed.
She leaned in a little.
“I’m married,” she said, fingers grazing the top of her glass. “To a man who’s rich as hell and old enough to forget his own birthday. I haven’t been fucked properly in months. You helped me last night. That napkin, that moment — it woke something up in me.”
She paused. Her eyes scanned my face, then flicked down to my chest, my waist.
“I know you were hard. I saw it. Felt it. You want me. I know that. And I’m not here to play games. I want your cock. I want it in my mouth, in my cunt, wherever I feel like. I want it rough. I want it now. And I’ll pay you.”
I swallowed hard. My pulse was banging behind my ears. I could feel sweat breaking just under the collar of my shirt.
“Why me?” I asked, barely able to form the words.
She smiled, but it wasn’t sweet. It was something darker.
“Because you made me feel something when I was trying to feel nothing. You touched me like I mattered. I want to return the favour — in the way I know best.”
Her voice got lower, breathier.
“I want to taste your dick. I want to ride you like a goddamn animal. No strings. Just needs.”
She slid a card across the table. It had her name and a hotel address. “Come after your shift.”
I nodded. Not because I’d thought it through. Because my body said yes before my brain could argue.
The Hotel
The hotel room was cold — air con blasting, lights dimmed. Thick blackout curtains turned the world outside into a vague hum.
She opened the door in a silk robe, barely tied. Her eyes had that same focused look.
The moment the door clicked shut, her hands were on me. Lips hot and urgent. Her mouth tasted of whisky and lip balm. She grabbed the back of my neck and kissed like she was claiming territory. My hands moved down her hips, and the robe fell away.
She pulled me to the bed, shoved me onto my back, climbed over me like she’d rehearsed it. Her body was soft but firm. Her skin smelt like vanilla and heat.
She didn’t whisper. She gave orders.
“Take off your belt.”
“Harder.”
“Don’t finish until I tell you.”
I obeyed every word.
She pushed her nails into my chest, bit my shoulder, used me — and I let her. I wanted her to. I’d never been dominated like that, never felt this much heat in my blood. The way she moved… like she owned her body and mine.
She came hard. Twice. Then rolled off me like we were done.
She reached into her bag, pulled out an envelope, and handed it over. No words. I opened it. Cash. More than I made in a month behind that bar.
The Arrangement
After that, she’d call. Sometimes at midnight. Sometimes mid-afternoon. She never said “hi” or “are you free.” She just told me the room number.
I never said no.
We fucked like it was our last night on earth every time. She was wild. Filthy. She’d spit commands while pressing her heel against my thigh. Pull my hair. Tie my wrists. Ride me until I couldn’t feel my knees.
It wasn’t just sex. It was release. For both of us.
She paid. I took it. But it wasn’t about money.
There’s something about her body that makes my mind go blank. Her touch rewires my nerves. When she’s on top of me, the rest of the world falls away.
I don’t know what this is. But I know I don’t want it to end.
And I know one day, she’ll find someone else — someone younger, stronger, prettier.
Until then?
I’ll keep answering her calls.
And I’ll fuck her like it’s the first time. Every. Damn. Time.
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