Gotta admit, it makes things a whole lot easier.
Still, I’m not here for a date, and I’m not here to be impressed. I’m here because even pretty men can be monsters, and this one is paying a premium for my… time.
I glance away from his face, trying to anchor myself in the bland opulence of the room. Every surface gleams. There isn’t a fingerprint or a dust mote anywhere. I feel grubby by comparison, even though I spent an extra hour at home scrubbing every millimeter of my body. Why does he have fantasies about a maid? This place is spotless.
He hasn’t even introduced himself, and yet already he has his cock down my throat. It’s… surreal.
He looms over me, his fingers tangled in my hair. His body is like a furnace in front of me, his grasp inescapable as he directs me where he wants me.
There’s a strange comfort in being handled this way, like I don’t need to do anything or second-guess what he wants. It’s oddly freeing to simply surrender to his will. Maybe I can float away and leave my body kneeling on the carpet, mouth open, eyes closed, just a vessel for someone else’s desire. It’s a disgusting thought, but also, for a moment, a relief.
His fist tightens in my hair, guiding my movements as I struggle not to gag; reminding myself why I'm here. The money. It's all about the money. If I can just get through this, I'll be set. I can save both Mom and me from the grip of whatever nasty little organization stupid Reggie works for and we can start to rebuild our lives.
Then as he begins to pound my throat in earnest, all my pondering goes out the window, and my focus is purely on how to catch my breath as he cuts off my airway, and vain attempts to blink away the tears now streaming down my face.
My chest burns as I struggle for air between his relentless thrusts. But just when I think I can't take any more, he pulls back, allowing me a desperate gasp. The reprieve is brief before he starts all over again. His fingers tighten painfully in my hair, yanking my head up to meet his gaze. Those icy blue eyes seem to bore into my soul, and they're filled with such hunger, I shiver in response.
"Good girl," he growls. "You're doing so well."
The praise shouldn't affect me, but an unexpected warmth blooms, nevertheless. I push the feeling aside, reminding myself this is just a transaction. Nothing more. Even if he is some sweet eye candy.
“Swallow everything I give you,” he demands, and that’s the only warning I get before he erupts down my throat. I struggle to swallow it all, fighting against my gag reflex again as his hot seed fills my mouth. Some escapes, dribbling down my chin. My eyes continue to water and my lungs heave as I try to catch my breath.
Finally, he releases his hold on my hair and steps back, tucking himself away and letting me suck in some much-needed air.
I remain on my knees, dazed and gasping. My throat feels raw and my jaw aches. I wipe at the tears, saliva, and cum on my face with shaking hands, feeling utterly debauched as I try to regain some semblance of composure.
"Not bad for your first time," he says coolly, straightening his tie. "We'll work on your technique."
I blink up at him, still processing what just happened.
My knees have started to ache, the floor is still hard, despite the carpet, after kneeling this long, and my jaw throbs.
Work on my technique? How can there be any technique to what basically boils down to some guy fucking my face?
Still, the thought has an unexpected effect, which I quickly try to squash. This is just business, I remind myself sternly. But there's also a building heat between my thighs I'm trying desperately to ignore.
But if I please him, that’s got to be better for me in the long run, surely? That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
"Stand up," he commands. I scramble to my feet, my legs wobbly. His eyes rake over my body once again. He seems to like doing that. Is he looking for something different this time, or is it just to unnerve me? I shove down the instinct to cover up, forcing my arms to remain at my sides.
"Turn around," he orders.
I comply, moving automatically at his command. As I rotate, I feel his eyes on me like a physical touch, assessing every curve and imperfection. My skin prickles with goosebumps. I'm not sure if it's from the chill in the room or his intense scrutiny.
When I complete the turn, I find myself face-to-face with him again. He's so close now I can feel the heat radiating off him. His scent envelops me - a heady mix of sandalwood, leather and raw masculinity that makes my head spin.
Then his hands are on me, roughly groping and squeezing, like he owns the right to touch me however and wherever he pleases.
I suppose, in this current reality, he does.
He doesn't hesitate or fumble, just grabs hold of my breasts with no preamble, squeezing hard enough that I yelp before I can suppress it. His palms are huge, warm and a little calloused as they roam over the curves of my body, manipulating and testing as if I'm nothing more than a commodity for sale. The contrast between the silk of his suit and the aggressiveness of his onslaught makes my skin tingle, and I wonder if this is howlivestock feels at auction - I’m reduced to a trembling animal, too aware of the hands appraising every inch.
He pinches one nipple, hard, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger until the jolt of pain spikes all the way through my abdomen and down into my core. For a second, my breath catches, then escapes in an embarrassingly needy gasp.
"Ah! Oh!"
He smirks at this, clearly reading every response as if I’m an open book.
