Free Erotic Short Story (Strapped for Cash)

STRAPPED FOR CASH by TJ Dallas

---

~ Another day, another dollar. Though a thousand per hour is more your style.~
I don’t want much in life. I work hard, so why is it wrong to splurge on a little luxury once in a while? What does it matter if that luxury comes in the shape of jaw-dropping butch who can show me exactly what my money is worth?

---

“Now can you give me the long card number across the middle?”

I reel them off, followed by the expiry date and the security code on the back. I have to spell out my name slowly when asked for the cardholder’s details. While the clerk processes the final payment, I tuck the card back into my wallet and metaphorically twiddle my thumbs during the extended silence. For a split-second, I’m worried the transaction will be declined.

“Thank you, Miss. We’ll forward your receipt via email.”

When I hang up, I let out a heavy breath, both excited yet nervous. The night has finally arrived, the night I’ve been thinking about for weeks. The entire transaction was purely business, making it simultaneously harder yet easier somehow; terms and conditions, payment arrangements, consequences of default. There’s even a warranty should I be dissatisfied, but I doubt I’ll need that.

I wonder if you’ll have a money-related name. Fortune, or Penny perhaps? Though I hope you’ll adopt a more masculine moniker, like Cash or Buck. There are loads of different deities for wealth and prosperity so maybe you’ll choose one of those. Of course, you might just turn up and introduce yourself as Gertrude, or Morag, or Agnes. My eye inadvertently twitches. While the name won’t change who you are, of course, and I have nothing against any of those names, I’d much rather scream something rugged and sexy.

To stave off the nerves, I start getting ready for our evening. I know where and when to meet you, but I don’t know what you look like yet. Most people would expect clients to see photographs before they purchase—a catalogue, if you like—but not your service. At the initial consultation, I filled out a form confirming the physical traits I was attracted to and the kind woman who took my order confirmed she had just the right person for me. I hope you’re as attractive as you are expensive. I imagine you will be; a butch escort service like yours wouldn’t be so highly rated or exclusive otherwise. An ache begins low in my belly. I squeeze my thighs together while I soap myself in the shower, but it’s a challenge not to ease a little rising tension by playing with myself.

When I’m ready, I tilt my head and admire my chosen outfit in a full-length mirror. I’m wearing a colourful indie band T-shirt under a plain black blazer, the sleeves cuffed at the forearms, and a pair of tight jeans. My well-worn boots are old but trustworthy, the pink and orange laces matching the sapphic flag. My medium-length dark hair is tousled with a little powder, and I’m wearing a small pair of white studs in my ears. I don’t wear makeup; my skin is clear and my eyelashes are naturally long and dark, anyway. While it doesn’t matter how I look—you’re paid to pick me up regardless—I want to feel confident and desirable. Let me get one thing straight; I’ve paid a lot of money to feel good tonight, in more ways than one, and I haven’t dressed up for you. I’m doing it for me. You’re just a service I’ve hired and I won’t feel guilty about it. I’ve needed this for far too long.

With a contented sigh and a final tweak to my hair, I’m ready. My phone buzzes at that moment to advise a car has arrived to pick me up. I’m meeting you at a bar, all refreshments included in my fee, and I’m glad I won’t have the hassle of leaving my car somewhere overnight. The driver is smartly dressed in a black shirt and trousers, and she gives me a grin in the rear-view mirror when I slip into the backseat and shut the door.

I’m grateful the bar isn’t one I’ve been to before. I don’t want anyone to recognise me and interrupt tonight’s proceedings. I’m an introvert, and I don’t enjoy small talk at the best of times, but trying to explain how you and I know each other might cause me to get flustered.

When we arrive, the driver jumps out and opens my door. It’s a nice touch, and I’ll include it in my review of your services when we’re finished. She tips her hat before jumping back in and driving away. I watch the rear lights disappear from view before I stand up straighter and take a deep breath. No turning back now.

Inside, the bar is busy. The doorway is small, but it opens up into a long seated area with booths and votive candles. There’s a DJ in the far corner with two large speakers emitting tasteful remixes of the latest chart toppers. I look around as I meander through the crowd and notice that half the tall stools at the bar are already taken. I grab an empty one near the end before I lose my chance. Purple lights reflect off sparkling disco balls, and between the gentle hum of chatter, the clink of ice cubes, and the rattle of a cocktail shaker, it’s a lovely atmosphere.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

After a moment of contemplation, I order the most expensive cocktail on the menu. It’s a mixture of gin, dry vermouth, and orange liquor. Why not treat myself? I’m not even sure I’ll like it, but I’m being bold. I want my money’s worth.

“Coming right up.” The bartender rolls up his sleeves and disappears towards the other end of the bar. I place my foot on the brass footrail for stability. I’m getting nervous again, and this—I quickly check the menu for the name—this Sapphire Martini can’t get here quick enough. I need the Dutch courage.

When the bartender returns, he sets down a white napkin and places a gorgeous blue cocktail on top, the rim lined with blue sugar. My eyebrows rise, wondering which of those ingredients has caused the striking azure colour and, noting my confusion, the bartender says “The orange liquor is dyed.”

“Oh.” I pick up the glass and take a sip.

“Fun fact,” the bartender says conspiratorially, “this cocktail originated in the Connecticut Foxwoods Resort Casino back in 2006 and costs $3000.”

My jaw drops. I instinctively reach for the menu again to check the price, but the bartender adds, “The only reason our version is cheaper is because we don’t serve it with a pair of real diamond earrings.” He winks and my shoulders relax.

“That’ll be £70,” he then says, waiting patiently with his hands clasped in front of him.

I frown and set the glass back down, having taken only a minuscule sip. “There must be a mistake. I was told—”

“I’ll get that, Sugartits.” I’m interrupted by a hand appearing from nowhere holding a gold credit card between the index and middle finger. The bartender nods and swipes the card through his machine before handing it back, and all throughout the process, I’m frozen, staring at this gorgeous hand. The veins are pronounced on the back, the nails short and trimmed. There’s a single broad metal band around the thumb, and the length of those fingers is akin to the length of that Mastercard. At the wrist, there are a selection of leather bands, mostly brown and black, but one stands out that matches the colour of my laces, just beside a chunky men’s watch. I swallow thickly and follow the hand to its owner.

I’m glad my foot is still resting against the footrail to steady me, otherwise I’d have swooned right off the stool at my first glimpse of you. You grin when you meet my gaze, your dark green eyes sparkling. I’m lost for words; I truly didn’t expect to be graced with your flawless features. You’re strong and muscular, with an androgynous haircut—long on top and a shaved fade at the sides. It’s a gorgeous mahogany brown speckled with delicious silver; you’re a similar age to me, around thirty-eight, thank God. I was worried the service would have provided me with a youngster barely old enough to drink, let alone a mature and delicious dyke as stunning as you. My belly coils with heat.

“Good evening,” you purr. The stool beside me is somehow still unoccupied, so you slide into it and give a single nod to the bartender, who disappears to the end of the bar without even asking what you want. I can only assume he knows you and has been your server many times before. “Nice to meet you. I’m Theo.”

I’m a little breathless. “It’s so nice to meet you, Theo.” (Later, I’ll Google it and determine that it’s a short version of Theodora, which means ‘divine gift’. Accurate.)

When the bartender returns and you have paid for your drink on the shiny gold card, we sit and chat for an hour, getting to know each other a little bit. When I booked, I had the option of a number of introductions, from the mysterious to the absurd. I’m sure one involved getting ‘kidnapped,’ and while non-consensual sex was a turn-on for some, it wasn’t my idea of a good time. I’d chosen the sweet and carefree drinks package to release the tension and find out if our personalities were compatible. Not that it mattered; I won’t see you again after tonight, but it’s much nicer to go to bed with someone you’ve laughed with at least once.

It turns out we’re pretty similar, but I’m sceptical of how much is true. I’m not sure you’ve even told me your real name, but it’s a sexy game I’m willing to play. An expensive role-play that you’ve done before. You’re a professional, and I trust you. I’m just along for the ride, both figuratively and literally.

“Shall we get out of here then?” you say after I’ve finally finished the strong Sapphire Martini. I’d like you to believe I savoured it, but in reality, I didn’t like it very much. It was very bitter and sent a shiver up my spine each time a drop landed on my tongue. I hope you didn’t notice. You’re definitely used to the finer things in life, what with the salary you must be raking in every week. You’re suave, and sophisticated, and dripping in wealth, only it isn’t shown via dangling earrings or gold jewels. It’s in your manner, your very presence, and in the scent of you. A rich power dyke. My favourite.

The same car that originally picked me up returns, and we slide into the back seat. The chauffeur tips her hat once more and winks in the rear-view mirror as she navigates through the busy streets. The journey is short, but I couldn’t tell you the direction; the synapses in my brain are misfiring because your hand is on my thigh and inching higher.

In the lobby of a fancy apartment building, with a doorman who greets you with a hearty handshake, you lead me to the elevator, swipe a keycard, and press the button for the penthouse. I shiver with excitement. You stand so close to me that your warm breath tickles the back of my neck, causing adrenaline to fire through my chest and goosebumps to rise on my arms. For a moment, I’m not sure what to do, but then I remember I ticked the box for you to make the first move. When I look up shyly, you grant me a sexy smile and more tension releases from my shoulders.

“Tell me your safe word,” you whisper as you move towards me. You’re a few inches taller, and you have to bend your neck down so your lips are close to my ear. I can smell the faint fragrance at your neck. It’s a musky scent, and it makes me lightheaded.

“Luxury.”

Without another word, your lips meet mine and I melt. A soft groan escapes me, but your strong arms hold firm when my legs tremble. The taste of our drinks mingle on our tongues. Your plump lips are smooth and cool, the petite metal ring at one side of the bottom one an intriguing sensation. Our mouths fit together perfectly. It’s several moments before I notice your hand on my ass, squeezing through the denim.

The kiss ends at the same time the lift doors open. Instead of a corridor, we emerge directly into the biggest suite I’ve ever seen. I’m speechless as I look around. A cream and black geometric print carpet covers the majority of the marble floor. Floor to ceiling windows look out over the vast cityscape, the silhouettes of mountains stark against the fading light of sunset. A massive white couch with forest green cushions takes up the majority of this space, but as I turn, the suite appears to expand before my very eyes. A private bar with two green stools. A dining table with room for six, a bottle of champagne sitting on ice in the middle alongside two flutes. A platter of fresh grapes, crackers, and cheese waits beside a ceramic ornament of a naked woman’s bust.

“Do you like it?” you ask, smiling as you slowly remove your blazer and hang it up in a small nook by the door, which has since slid closed, shutting us inside this little slice of paradise.

“It’s amazing,” I admit, still swirling in place. There is a massive four-poster bed along one wall, a wide full-length mirror reflecting the plump pillows and thick duvet, and to the left is a spiralling metal staircase, above which hangs a twinkling chandelier. I move forward, keen to see what’s upstairs, but your hand on my arm stops me in my tracks.

“There’s time for that later,” you murmur, your gaze dropping to my lips. “We have all night. Come.” You take my hand and walk backwards, pulling me in your wake towards the bed. The corner of your lip curls into a smirk. When you sit on the edge, you indicate for me to straddle your lap. I grin and do so willingly, smelling your rich scent once more when I capture your lips in a deep kiss.

You unfasten the two buttons holding my blazer closed, then shrug it off my shoulders and down my arms. You stop with the garment at my wrists, momentarily binding my hands behind me as you slip your tongue into my mouth. I groan softly and rock my hips.

Time is money, and you make short work of my clothes. The band T-shirt is thrown haphazardly over the headboard, my jeans fall down the back of a side table, and I’m sure one of my socks ended up in the ice bucket of champagne, but neither of us get up to check. Our kiss is heating up now, and I feel the thud of my heart rushing in my ears.

I want your fingers inside me now. Two, maybe three. Fuck it, four. I paid for this.

In mere seconds, I’m on all fours on the bed, facing the headboard with my legs spread. You stand behind me, growling in approval. I can’t see through your eyes, of course, but I can imagine what you see; my soaking wet folds, my arousal glistening on the downy curls that lightly cover my labia. Perspiration on the back of my thighs and in the creases at the back of my knees. My calves are flexed, my toes curled.

The visual is so vivid that when I open my heavily lidded eyes, I’m almost surprised by the view of the pillows and soft linens before me.

Without warning, your palm connects with my bare ass cheek, and I yelp. I imagine the pale pink handprint you’ve left, but this time I see your wicked grin as well, a proud reflection in the mirror. Your smack to my other cheek is just as sweet, just as painful, and just as perfect.

“Fuck.” The groan is low at the back of my throat, as though it came from deep in my belly.

The tips of your fingers start playing with my clit, small circles that cause my legs to shudder and my core to clench. Heat and warmth floods my body, and I rhythmically tense my ass and thighs, subtly rocking my hips to get a more substantial pressure. My breathing is getting shallower, my eyes squeezed shut as I swoop and soar with every wave of pleasure.

“Stay still, little plaything.”

I swallow hard, my throat already hoarse. I cuddle the pillow beneath my chest and try to relax, resting my forehead against the bed. I move my thighs slightly wider, stifling my smirk when your spanking begins again.

“I can see what you’re doing.” Smack. “Stay still. I won’t tell you again.” Smack.

The view of you in the mirror is exquisite. I’ve been waiting for you for so long and I want to savour it for as long as I can. I’ve paid a lot of money for you, but you’ve still exceeded my expectations. What is the point of working hard and earning money if I don’t get to spend it on life’s luxuries?

This is the part in a romance novel where you fall head over heels in love with me. I’m different from the rest, you say. There’s something about the sparkle in my eye. Something about my witty jokes and sarcastic humour that draws you to me. You’ve never tasted a pussy so sweet, or heard such a sexual whimper as the one you invoke from me.

It’s all bullshit. This is not a romance novel.

We both know why you’re here; I get fucked, and you get paid. Simple.

It works for me. I don’t have to worry about meaningless chatter. I don’t have to worry about any awkward silences, or whether I need to sneak out in the middle of the night. I know that as soon as I wake in the morning, you’ll be long gone and I can drink my coffee in peace. No notes, no unrequited yearning, no feelings that I’ll spend months analysing; only one night of excellent fucking. What a delight.

Another smack on my now-sensitive ass cheek brings my attention back to you. You don’t miss a trick—you’re a professional, a hard worker, and you’re proud of what you do. As am I; my wetness is potent and abundant, and the moans escaping from my desperate mouth are getting louder and louder. This is what I’ve been dreaming of for so long; a handsome stone butch that will pound me into next week and make me forget how long it’ll be before I’ve paid off the credit card debt. I already know you’ll be worth it and I haven’t had my first orgasm yet. How much would it cost if you charged per climax, I wonder.

My legs suddenly tense, my toes digging into the bedsheets to try and find purchase, but there is none. With one strong hand on the small of my back, you hold me in place as I come hard with a guttural grunt. It’s primal, and raw, and softens me up for what’s to come next. My juices gush from inside me, soaking your hand and the ridiculously expensive bed sheets. Another bonus; I won’t have to worry about laundry.

“Oh my god.” I slump to my belly and pant wildly.

“Oh no, no,” you tease, this time with a playful swat to my delicate ass. “A clitoral orgasm is just to warm you up. Up you get, Sugartits.”

I struggle back onto my knees, my chest heaving. Sweat is stinging my eyes and I try to wipe them on the pillow without you noticing.

Before I’ve caught my breath, your fingers are inside me. I fall forward, but your hand on my hip pulls me back. Two fingers, I think, are slick with my wetness, and I whimper when you push them deeper. Another finger, and a higher-pitched whine escapes me which causes a blush to rise on my face. I see you grin, and you whip your hair to one side, gritting your teeth as you thrust your pelvis against my ass in rhythm with your fingers. You’re filling me so beautifully, and so efficiently, it’s obvious you know what you’re doing. I know you’ve been with a thousand women before me, but I don’t care. You wouldn’t be so skilled if you hadn’t, and it’s your skill I’ve put myself in debt for. There’s nothing else I’d so willingly bankrupt myself for.

I’m not materialistic, not really. I don’t care about fashion brands, or shiny cars, or designer sunglasses. I collect memories and experiences and this is one I’ve wanted to cross off my bucket list for a long time; the sexiest butch with the biggest biceps showing me what my money is worth.

I know what everyone is thinking; money doesn’t buy happiness and all that. A slumdog without two pennies to rub together could be just as good at sex, right? Perhaps better? Well, if I could have found such a sexy butch for cheaper, I would have. I’m not stupid. But as far as I could see, I only had three options:

One. Find a sexy butch the old fashioned way. Hit up a few dyke clubs, perhaps set up an online dating profile. Join a motorcycle club? Hell, I don’t know. Try to remember how to flirt and then hope for the best. Do we have to date for a while before getting down and dirty? Dinner? Multiple coffee dates with shy smiles and games of Footsie under the table? Do emotions need to be involved? Seems like a lot of work. I’m a busy woman.

Two. Have a sexy butch lose her way and knock on my front door, at which point my shower/sink/pipes burst and she just so happens to be a plumber with a tool belt full of wrenches and sexual frustration. Yeah, right. No one is that lucky.

Three. Get my credit card out and pay a very reasonable price for the best night of my life. Done. Please and thank you. I’ve signed on the dotted line and the deadline was yesterday. I need fucked and I refuse to wait a moment longer.

So, I’ve paid handsomely and I’m getting exactly what I want. The fictional stories have tricked us into believing that fairytales come true, but this isn’t one of them. I have a need, you have bills to pay, and I’m eager for some of the best orgasms I’ve had in years. This is one purchase I know I won’t regret.

“FUCKING HELL!” Your fingers are pounding me so hard now, I can barely breathe. My breasts are bouncing on my chest, which I can see when I turn my head once more, eager to see your biceps flexing and the tendons tightening in your forearms. You know I’m watching, and you catch my eye at the exact moment of orgasm, but I can’t hold your sultry gaze for long. I’m too weak. My eyes squeeze shut and my mouth opens wide as I come again, drenching your hand and the jeans you’re still wearing. I rock backwards and forwards on your hand, enjoying every single second of that powerful release.

I’m already addicted. Just one more hit, one more finger, one more whisper in my ear in that low husky voice of yours. I’m kind of pathetic, but I don’t care. I’ll be as pathetic as I want to be. I’m owning it. I’ve not only paid for a night of pleasure, but also a night to be myself. In the public eye, I’m an actress. Not a very good one, admittedly, but often I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. I’m an imposter who is pretending to be a functioning member of society, when in reality, I’m far from it. My mind is overheating at all times of the day, but now that I’m in your arms, I’m finally relaxed. It’s a unique form of subspace; I don’t need a whip or a flogger, just a Mastercard and a promise to pay my debts.

“Are you gonna make me come now, baby?” you purr.

Another wanton moan escapes me. This is what is impossible to find “in the wild”—a butch who will receive as well as give. I know they exist somewhere in the world, but I stood no chance of finding one on my own. All the best ones are already taken, or thousands of miles away, and the ones that aren’t wouldn’t look twice in my direction anyway. Most gorgeous stone butches want model-worthy power femmes beneath them, not mediocre soft butches with tattoos and ten-year old Doc Martens. I have what you want, though—cold hard cash. I don’t need much more than that.

Your submission was a clause in the terms and conditions that we both signed, the small print in the contract that meant I could take you as I pleased with tongue and fingers and you’d thank me for the privilege. I long to know what you sound like when you fall over the edge; I’m praying it’s a womanly and sweet moan that can live rent-free in my mind for the rest of eternity. Though to be honest, I’d happily pay for that too. I’d even take that out on subscription.

By now, I’m feeling slightly more human. I roll onto my back to look at you standing at the end of the bed waiting for my demands. I take a moment to admire you; your ripped jeans, your black shirt, the leather trinkets around your wrist. There’s a heavy metal chain around your neck, drawing my gaze to your chest. You don’t hide your breasts; for all your masculine glory and demeanour, you’re still a woman and always will be. You’re one of the lucky ones that isn’t dysphoric about your body.

“Strip.” I lick my lips and settle back against the stack of pillows, getting comfortable. I cross my arms behind my head.

With cocky arrogance, you rest your boot on the edge of the bed in order to untie the laces. When both are unlaced, you toe them off and nudge them aside, your bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. You whip your hair from your eyes again as you unbuckle your belt and unzip your jeans. Before you slip them down your muscular thighs, you slowly unbutton your shirt. From top to bottom, I’m unable to take my gaze from you. When you reach the bottom, you shrug it off first one shoulder, then the other, and then toss it beside your boots. Your breasts are still hidden from me underneath a black sports bra. I bite my bottom lip and sit up a little straighter. There’s a delicious tattoo on your torso; black tribal bands swirl from the V at your hips, right up your ribs and over one shoulder.

With your thumbs hooked into your belt loops, you tease me for a moment before you slide them down and step out. You make a move to crawl onto the bed, but I hold up a hand to stop you. “Everything.”

Your lip curls with amusement, but you do as you’re told. You cross your arms over your chest, hook either side of your bra, and pull upwards, revealing the gorgeous swells of your breasts I’ve been aching to see. Both nipples are pierced with thick barbells, simple chrome balls at either end. You’re still too butch for sparkly gems. Your boxers disappear as well and this time I allow you onto the bed.

When you reach me, you hover above me, damp strands of hair hanging over your striking green eyes like a kitten in long grass. In slow motion, you lean towards my ear and sweetly purr, “Fuck me, baby. Fuck me so hard that you make me scream your name. Can you do that for me?” Your tongue darts out to lick the outer edge of my ear.

“On your back.” With effort, I move out of the way so you can take my spot. My body weight has left a soft dent in the mattress, and I’ve warmed it up for you. You shuffle into the cosy nook and I watch the bob of your throat as you swallow. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. I’m careful with my belongings, and you were an expensive one. I won’t break you.

My mouth is watering with thoughts of your slick pussy. With a grin to reassure you, I move down between your open legs and lie on my belly. With a nudge of encouragement, you put your thick muscular thighs over my shoulders and close your eyes. Your hand rests gently on the back of my head, stroking my hair while I kiss the sensitive flesh on your inner thighs. You tilt your head back and smirk when you feel my hot breath against your shy clit.

You inhale sharply when I take your clit between my lips and tug, drawing it out into the open from under its hood. Like me, it takes a while to come out of its comfort zone but with care and patience, it’s soon begging for more. Your moans are getting louder and your hand is more insistent on the back of my head. You fist a handful of my hair and pull me between your legs.

With a low groan, you lift your legs from my shoulders and hook your hands around the back of your thighs. My eyes lock with yours for a moment as I work your pussy, then your focus drops to my tongue, flicking at your clit now with the fervour of a cat with a saucer of milk. I burrow deeper between your folds, your wetness on my chin. You taste delicious.

Your head drops back, your sweaty chest heaving, and a louder groan escapes your throat. You pull your knees higher towards your shoulders, opening yourself to me. Good girl. You’ve got what you came for—your salary—but you might as well enjoy what I’m giving in return. For a moment, I consider that you’ve both been paid and you’re getting an orgasm out of our arrangement; you truly have the best of both worlds. You lucky duck.

In seconds, a guttural roar explodes from within you and you convulse. Your body jerks and I have to hold tight to your strong thighs to keep you in place. I watch the bliss and pure ecstasy on your face and savour the sounds you make. They’re truly as glorious as I’d hoped.

“In-inside,” you whimper. “Please.”

I plunge two fingers inside you and you growl through gritted teeth. Nodding vigorously, you can’t say anything, your knuckles white now where you’re gripping tightly to your spread legs. My fingers are soaked and your pussy walls flutter, holding and releasing until another orgasm rips through your body. Your screams are higher pitched this time, and your legs quiver and shake as I draw as much as I can from you. I can’t take my eyes away. You’re divine. Worth every penny of my life savings.

When you finally stop screaming and drop your legs, you’re gasping wildly. You throw a forearm over your eyes. The rivulets of your abdomen are slick with sweat, the muscles still twitching with aftershocks. Those black swirls on your torso are glistening, and I kiss a path from the crease of your hip, over your abdomen and around your navel, up to your heavy breasts. Your large nipples are rock solid, and you arch with a happy sigh when I swirl my tongue over your most sensitive parts.

For several minutes, neither of us can speak. Your legs finally cease their trembling, your heaving chest calms. When I lightly nibble your thigh, you remove the arm from your eyes and look down with a wolfish grin. “That was incredible.” You run both hands up your face and through your short hair, damp with sweat.

I wiggle my eyebrows. “Do I get to see what’s upstairs now?”

The platinum part of my package deal is about to begin. I can feel your thick cock deep inside me already, even before I’ve seen which dildo you’ll use. Another clause I confirmed as part of the terms and conditions.

“You don’t wait about,” you murmur with an amused grin, rolling onto your side so you’re facing me. You rest your chin in your palm and tilt your head, studying me.

“Time is money.”

“Don’t I know it.” With the vibrancy of a filly in spring, you leap from the bed and pad across to the spiralling staircase. You look over your shoulder before crooking your finger in a come-hither motion. “Come on then. I’m waiting.”

I can’t move quickly enough. I chuckle and follow you towards the stairs. The metal bannister is smooth as I ascend in your shadow, the playroom above slowly coming into view. My belly clenches with more heat when I see the full range of toys and equipment. Another chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, illuminating the waxed wood of a St Andrews Cross, the shiny metal buckle of a sex swing, and everything in between. Dildos, vibrators, and strap-ons of all shapes and sizes are lined up in display cabinets under spotlights as though they are trophies. Hooks on the walls and wicker baskets are full of ropes, handcuffs, and items I’ve never seen before in my life. My pussy floods.

“What do you like the look of, Sugartits?” You hold your arms out wide and slowly twirl to show off your wares. I am speechless as I browse. I’m eventually drawn to a thick black cock, ribbed of course, encased in a rose gold O-ring on a black leather harness.

“That one.”

“Excellent choice.” I’m reminded of a sommelier in a posh restaurant after having chosen a bottle of red wine. You unfasten the cabinet with the chosen strap-on. “Kneel.”

My mouth waters, and I drop to my knees as I watch you arrange the strap-on in place, making sure the dildo is perfectly secure. When you walk towards me, the dominant persona is back, the whimpering submissive butch already a distant memory (for you maybe, but not for me.) You stop directly in front of me and lift the tip of your cock to my mouth. “Warm it up, baby. Let me see your pretty mouth on my cock.”

I grunt in wanting as I slide my lips over the bulbous tip. Your hand on the back of my head encourages me to take more of you, and I willingly oblige. I bob forward and back, taking as many inches as I can and pressing the base against your clit. You growl, more tiger than kitten now, and we lock eyes when I look up. You nod and smile, before pulling back and gesturing behind me. When I turn, there is a solid-looking leather platform at waist height.

“Bend over.”

My knees turn to jelly when I stand up then lay flat over the apparatus, which I believe is merely a desk with more padding. When I lie flat, I grip the edge above my head with both hands and open my legs wide. With my cheek against the leather, I try to steady my breathing. The cock looks good on you, the straps tight around your strong thighs. You catch my eye when you fist the shaft and smear lubricant up and down the silicone. I’m so wet, I wouldn’t have asked for it, but I’m reminded you’re the professional and you know what you’re doing. I have a feeling this will be the most exquisite experience of my life. It’s also unbelievably hot to watch you jack yourself off.

“You ready, baby?” Your voice is low and husky and in control once again, though I can still hear your feminine screams at the moment of your orgasms. Wetness streaks down my inner thighs, and I shuffle wider. “Are you ready to take my cock?”

“Oh god, yes.”

I feel your broad palm on the small of my back first, then feel the tip of your cock at my dripping entrance. With torturous care, you slowly fill me, sliding in an inch at a time and stretching my inner walls. The cock is thicker than I first thought, and I’m grateful for the time to adjust. I groan softly into the silence, my grip tightening on the edge of the desk.

“You like that, baby?”

“Uh huh.”

“Tell me, Sugartits. Tell me how good it feels.”

“You feel amazing.” I let out a low moan and a hiss of pleasure when you pull out and push back in, slightly faster. “I’m so full. You feel so good. Oh god.”

“Do you want me to really fuck you? Shall I show you what I can do now that I’ve warmed you up properly?”

“Please. Fuck me, Theo.”

“You’re such a good plaything.” Your hands take hold of my waist now and I know you’re preparing to give me exactly what I want.

As the prophecy dictated, your first thrust slams into me with glorious power. I’m thrown forward, the crease of my hips rutting against the edge of the desk and my breasts pressing into the leather beneath my chest. The friction against my hard nipples takes my breath away, though your next thrust forces what little oxygen is left in my lungs to leave my body on a rough exhale. I barely have time to gulp at the air before you smack my ass, reigniting the sensitive flesh from earlier.

“Fuck yes, you look so fucking hot. Your tight pussy is taking my cock so well.” Your voice moans with longing. In my mind’s eye, I imagine you looking down your own body to watch your slick cock move in and out of my swollen pussy with increasing vigour and speed. You smack my ass again, then lean forward over my back to press the tip of your cock even deeper. My mouth is open in a silent scream, the pleasure you’re creating rendering me mute. My next orgasm is fast approaching with every single inch you pound inside me again and again. And again. And again. And aga—Oh, FUCK!

My climax rips through me so hard, my entire body convulses. I jerk against the leather, and your arms work harder than they have all night to keep me from throwing you off like a bucking bronco. My screams grow hoarse, my throat is painful, and yet I’m still screaming. I don’t think I stop screaming to be honest, and before I can work out what’s happening, you’ve flipped me over onto my back and wrapped my ankles around your neck.

For several hours, you fuck me into complete surrender, draining every last joule of energy from my weakened body. My ass is inflamed with pink lashes from a riding crop. My pussy aches with delicious fullness. My nipples are bruised, dented with your teeth marks. Every muscle I have shakes with the sheer effort it takes to hold my head up to watch you lick my clit. How you can keep me orgasming again and again without any oversensitivity is an incredible skill. I’m convinced even the gods themselves can’t do what you’re doing.

I don’t have the strength to stop you, but you eventually recognise my exhaustion. You’re quick to grab me and stop me from slumping to the floor in a heap. There are stars behind my eyelids, and I’m only just aware of you carrying me back down the stairs and placing me gently on the bed.

When I wake in the morning, I squint and yawn, moving slowly. It doesn’t take long for the relief to set in; I’m completely alone, and there’s a bottle of spring water on the bedside table. I sit up, pull the duvet up to cover my chest, and gulp it down. After I put the empty bottle down, I notice a small business card and a crisp £50 note resting on the table. The card sports the logo of your services and I grin at the smiley face you’ve drawn in the bottom corner along with the words: Here’s your change, Sugartits. Spend it wisely. You know where to find me if you think you can handle another round.