The bigger the man, the bigger the ego. Or is it the bigger the bank account, the bigger the ego?
In either case, it’s been my experience that the flashier the clothes, the smaller the cock. They are all compensating for something, and I’ve no doubt that when I get his clothes off, there will be no surprises. This one looks like a Ralph Lauren catalog threw up on him.
I yank his Burberry wallet from the back of his khaki trousers and dump the contents onto the bed. A part of me wishes for something shocking and unexpected.
But, alas, it’s always the same. Even with Teddy the III.
Country club memberships and credit cards with exorbitant limits. A Porsche keychain because clearly the car isn’t enough for this asshole. And a condom to fuck the whores with. Razzle fucking dazzle.
They can never be original. I swear the whole lot must be mass produced in a factory somewhere.
The WASP cookie cutter doesn’t break the mold. These Ken dolls are all assembled in the same fashion. Posh clothing and secret societies and Ivy League educations. Humble beginnings sold separately. They sail and have luncheons and charity benefits all while stuffing one skeleton into their closets after another. Never short on arrogance but long on pretentious diatribes and entitlement.
These guys think the world owes them. Whatever they want, they take. No fucks given.
It’s an epidemic in the upper crust.
And there’s only one antidote for such an affliction.
The little monster they created.
C’est moi.
Debutant turned deviant.
Captain shitforbrains here paid me for a good time, and I’m about to rock his fucking world.
First things first, I relieve him of anything of value and shove it into my purse. Watches, rings, cufflinks. They are always found in abundance on these name brand jackoffs.
It isn’t about the money, for me. The humiliation of being robbed by a call girl is just the cherry on top.
At the heart of my scheme, there’s only one thing I desire from him.
If he gives it to me, well it’ll just tickle my little black heart. If he doesn’t? Again, that’s unfortunate for him.
But either way, he’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t.
Once I’ve disposed of all his valuables, I retrieve the duffle I stash in my rented room before I meet with a client. It’s good to be prepared. And I’m the best goddamn girl scout they’ll wish they never crossed paths with.
His wrists and ankles are already bound with zip ties. The clothes come off next.
A pair of craft scissors does the job in a jiffy, saving me from blunting my favorite knife. Stripped of his clothes, trust fund Teddy looks ridiculous slumped against the bed frame, his flaccid cock squished between his thighs.
It only gets more outlandish when I add some fishnets and heels to my pliable little doll.
It’s all so easy breezy. That might suck the wind from my sails if I stop to think about it. So I don’t stop to think about it.
Because now comes the fun part.
From my bag, I choose a big blue dildo and shove it into his slackened mouth. Next comes the nipple clamps.
I fetch my camera and toy with the settings, really hamming up the role of fotog. Now that I know where Teddy likes to play, his upper echelon haunts will be plastered in flyers come Monday.
That’s right, housewives.
Guard your children. Lock your doors. There’s a creep just next door.
If only they knew they were all creeps.
