FACT
Chapter 4.8 — Grant
I finished my cuck duties on Mistress with the nasty, perverted satisfaction of a trained sissy who knows his place. I was down on my knees between her sprawled legs, my face buried right in her well-used pussy, and I worked thoroughly, lapping up every thick, creamy trace Evan had left inside her. His cum was still warm, mixed with her own slick juices, and I moaned like a whore while I cleaned her out, my tongue pushing deep to get every drop. I loved the taste. It was humiliating and perfect, that musky salt of his massive load mingled with her sweetness, and my little clitty strained against my lace panties while I worked.
I sat back on my heels finally, panting, my chin shiny and my mind foggy with arousal. Mistress was deeply unconscious now, sprawled on the living room floor, her body slack and thoroughly spent. I looked at her for a moment with filthy adoration, muttering under my breath about her being her mother’s daughter, which I meant as the highest compliment. Her pussy was still slightly open, glistening from my work, and I spread her legs apart gently to give her room to air out, my heels clicking softly against the floor.
I disappeared briefly, my sundress swishing around my smooth thighs, and returned with a throw pillow. I tucked it under Mistress’s head with real tenderness, smoothing her hair back from her face with my manicured nails catching the light. Then, because I was Grant Halloway and a complete pervert who could not help myself, I lifted the hem of her top and exposed her left breast. I stared at her nipple for a moment, my mouth watering, and then I leaned in and traced around it slowly with my tongue in teasing circles, watching it stiffen. I gave it one long, reverent lick from base to tip before letting the fabric fall back. I stood, adjusted my sundress at the hip where the skirt had caught on my thigh-high lace, and followed Evan out of the room.
In the other room, I was immediately treated to the sight of my goddess wife, and my breath caught. Kana was there, flushed and loose-limbed, and she began adjusting herself right in front of Evan with the casual entitlement of a woman who knew exactly what she owned. She reached into the neckline of that crimson babydoll and lifted each heavy breast back into the cups, her fingers working the lace until the fit was perfect, then smoothed the fabric across her chest. I watched, mesmerized, my clitty throbbing in its satin prison, as she reached behind herself and worked the thin strip of her panties back between her plush cheeks with deliberate, obscene fingers.
I was in the same room as both of them, and I loved it. I loved watching Kana present herself for Evan, my brilliant, beautiful wife reduced to a flirty, shameless showpiece for his pleasure. She leaned against the couch and found her own nipple through the lace, rolling it slowly until it stiffened, holding Evan’s eyes the whole time. Then she turned, planted her feet apart, and smacked her own ass with a sharp crack that sent a ripple through her enormous flesh, moaning high and breathy. I was practically drooling. My goddess was putting on a lewd display for her real man, and I got to witness it.
I arrived a few beats behind them, smoothing my sundress skirt as I entered in my heels. I took in the room, took in Kana looking satisfied and Evan looking comfortable, and settled into the space with the easy acceptance of a sissy cuck who had stopped questioning the shape of his own life. I was exactly where I belonged: watching my wife flirt and perform for the man who actually satisfied her.
Evan picked up the coin from the counter where he had left it. I watched him close his fingers around it, the metal catching the light. I opened my mouth to ask about it again, the same question I had circled twice without getting a real answer, but Evan spoke first.
“Fact. You both will stand there quietly while I prep you both and then you will forget what I said and go about the rest of your day. You will not hear what I say to the other person, only what I say to you.”
I went still mid-reach for the hem of my sundress, my hand suspended in the air. The room was very quiet. The coin hummed softly in Evan’s palm. I stood exactly where I was, one hand at my hip, my heels together, the sundress draping around my smooth legs, and waited for whatever came next.
I could see Evan’s mouth moving but I could not hear a single thing. The silence was so total that even Kana’s heavy, deliberate breathing didn’t reach me. The world was muted, all sensation compressed into the tightness between my legs and the dizzy anticipation of whatever was about to happen.
Evan’s gaze flicked past me to Saki, who was still sprawled out in the other room, and then back to Kana. He crossed the room with slow, predatory steps and stopped in front of my wife. He looked her up and down, his face unreadable, and without a word he reached out and ran his hand down her side, from the edge of her tit to the curve of her thigh. Kana shivered and arched into his touch, her lips parting. She was so fucking needy, I could only watch in awe and envy.
Evan stepped behind her and rested both hands on her hips, squeezing once, hard. Kana’s eyes fluttered and she let out a soft, helpless moan. He turned her by the shoulders to face him, and then, with the same calm authority as always, pulled her close and kissed her ionately. His hands roamed her body, sliding up her midsection, tracing the curve of her waist, the softness of her belly, mapping her flesh with deliberate, worshipful strokes. Kana melted into him, her whole body yielding, her hands clutching at his shoulders as their mouths moved together, hungry and deep.
I was transfixed. Kana’s entire body was on display, and I realized with a jolt that I was completely, helplessly still. The command was ironclad: I could not move, could not speak, could only stand and watch as Evan took his time appreciating my wife’s curves. His hands continued their slow exploration of her midsection, palming her softness, thumbs tracing the valley of her navel, until Kana was trembling against him, breathless and flushed. Evan broke the kiss, his fingers lingering on her hip.
Evan turned to me. As soon as his eyes locked on mine, the silence shattered. I could hear everything again, every tiny sound: the tick of the wall clock, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the pounding of my own heart in my chest. Evan crossed the room and stopped less than a foot from me. He took my chin in his hand and tilted my face up, studying me like a jeweler inspecting a flawed diamond.
He didn’t speak first. He just stared, and I could feel his eyes stripping me bare, cataloguing every ounce of desperation and need. Then, without warning, he slid his hand up my leg, under my sundress, and found the bulge of my pathetic little clitty through the thin lace of my panties.
The sensation was electric. I gasped and almost came on the spot, my knees going weak. Evan’s fingers were rough and certain, pinching and rolling my nub between his thumb and forefinger. My whole body trembled. I wanted to drop to the floor and beg him to use me, to fuck me, to finish humiliating me in front of my wife and daughter, but I was frozen, caught in the web of his command.
Evan leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “Now I know what I want to do to you. It is a fact…”
He stopped stroking my clitty and gestured at my chest. “…that you your interest in women will disappear each time you cum. Soon they will go from the obscene things you desire to touch sexually to things you worship to be with no sexual attraction. The clothes and the curves and all the femininity, these desires will grow in you each time your pathetic clitty explodes. Even more so, your love of men will grow until it is all you really can think about. You will be fully gay and committed to penis. Your love for Kana will seem a completely strange thing to you. Why would you ever marry such a creature? You will be a full female in mind, but not body. You will forget what I just said and go out to eat, somewhere very public. Now go.”
I left the kitchen and went straight to the master bedroom, my mind still ringing with Evan’s voice and the memory of his hand sliding between my legs. Every nerve ending buzzed with humiliation and anticipation. I closed the door behind me, locked it on autopilot, and sat on the edge of the bed, letting the hush of the room wash over me.
I could still taste them, Kana’s sweet pussy, Evan’s cum at the back of my throat. Even that memory made my clitty throb in its silken cage.
The room looked exactly as Kana had left it: immaculate, scented with her perfume, her brushes and palettes laid out on the vanity like a soldier’s arsenal. A lacy bra lay draped over the velvet chair, the straps dangling, cups still warm. My chest clenched with a dizzy longing to bury my face in that fabric and forget the world. But that wasn’t tonight’s assignment.
I opened my dresser and reached for the pastel sundresses and delicate wrap tops, the frilly bralettes that did nothing for but everything for the look. I loved them, every impractical, silky piece of them. My fingers trembled as they hovered over a pale-blue fit-and-flare, a lemon-print wrap, a blinding pink crop top so tiny it might have been stitched by a mischievous tailor.
No. Not tonight.
I slid the closet open and found the uniform of Authority: gunmetal slacks, a crisp white shirt starched so stiff it could cut glass, and a matching jacket cut for Grant Halloway, CEO, Father, Husband… Man. The tie felt absurd, but I tied it out of ritual, letting the knot sit high at my collar. I pulled the shirt on over my shoulders, the fabric stretching slightly across my chest and over the lacy underwire bra hidden beneath.
I slipped into my Italian leather shoes, their polish gleaming. As I bent to tie the laces, I caught a flash of hot-pink lace at my waistband, cute tiny panties barely containing my arousal. A shiver shot down my spine. I tucked the lace back into place and finished the knot.
One look in the mirror told the truth. To the world, I was Grant Halloway—landowner, CEO, patriarch. Underneath, I was achingly vulnerable: lace, shame, and an aching want that no suit could hide. And that, I thought, was exactly how I liked it.
I took a moment, smoothing my hands down the front of the slacks, and squared my shoulders. The suit still fit. I found a pair of sunglasses, slid them on, and checked the effect in the mirror. Not bad. If you ignored the faint outline of a lacy bra at the chest, and the way the slacks traced a smoother curve than I ed, I almost ed for my old self. Almost. Downstairs, Kana had vanished. The house was quiet, save for the distant hum of the fridge and the occasional creaks as it settled into night. I lingered in the kitchen, restless, wiping down an already-immaculate counter in a span of two minutes because I couldn’t stand still. The taste of Evan’s manhood still lingered on my tongue, sweet and salty. I needed a distraction. I needed to be out of this house for a while, get some food.
A dull thud rattled the ceiling as something crashed against Saki’s bedroom floor. The bed frame squeaked in protest, a low curse trailed after, and then her boots thundered down the steps two at a time. She hit the bottom landing like a wrecking ball. Clad in an oversized gray hoodie and bike shorts so taut they looked painted on, her red-streaked hair framed her face in wild defiance.
She stormed past me without a glance, yanked open the fridge door as if it owed her an apology, and rummaged through its contents. I slipped out the greeting I knew she hated to resist. “Evening, Mistress.”
Her eyes snapped back at me with the chill of a steel blade. “Save it, little clitty.” Her tone was sharp, accusing, as if my tongue still tasted of her last sweetness. And fuck, it did. I could still taste her sweet nipple on my tongue.
She snatched a sports drink from the shelf and flung herself onto a stool. The fabric of her hoodie strained against her chest. Jesus, her nipples were hard, pressing insistently into the thin cotton like they were trying to drill through. She kept pressing her palms to her ribs, then clenching them into fists, her breath coming short and fast, cheeks flushed pink.
My cock twitched at the sight. She was squirming on that stool, thighs pressing together, shifting like she couldn’t get comfortable in her own skin. Those fat tits of hers looked even bigger somehow, straining against the cotton, nipples dark and angry and right there.
“Enjoying the view, little clitty?” She took a long draw from the bottle, eyes never leaving the countertop.
My breath caught.
She shifted again, a soft sound escaping her-cut off immediately, buried in a cough. One hand drifted back to her chest before she caught herself and slammed it on the counter. “Fuck,” she muttered.
“Something wrong, Mistress?” I asked, eyes locked on those nipples straining against her shirt. God, I wanted to suck them. Wanted to peel that hoodie off and bury my face between them.
“Nothing’s wrong.” But her voice was breathless. She rubbed her palms over her ribs again, up toward her breasts, then forced her hands down. Her thighs squeezed together on the stool, hips giving a little involuntary rock. “Stop staring at my tits, little clitty.”
“Can’t help it, Mistress. They’re... distracting.” I let my gaze drag over her chest, hungry and obvious. “You cold or something?”
She laughed, sharp and broken. “Something like that.” She took another pull from the bottle, but her hand was shaking. “Go away, little clitty. I don’t need you drooling all over me right now.”
“But I like drooling, Mistress.” I took a step closer, close enough to smell her, sweat and musk and something else that made my mouth water. “You sure you don’t want me to... help?”
She turned to look at me then, and for a second her eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide. Her lips parted on a shaky inhale before she caught herself, snarling, “I said go, little clitty.”
I went, but my eyes stayed on her chest. Those nipples weren’t going down. If anything, they looked harder, angrier, like they ached.
She caught me looking and cursed under her breath, hugging her arms across her chest as she slid off the stool. “Get out of here. Now. Go get the car ready. We’re going to dinner.”
I left the kitchen, equal parts disappointed and hard as a rock, wondering what had her so worked up.
I got in the car and adjusted the mirrors until they framed my best features: jawline, sunglasses, high-collared shirt. The CEO effect. I flexed my hands on the steering wheel and felt the tightness of the leather driving gloves, Kana’s gift, black, fingerless, soft as a lover’s tongue. I’d once thought them absurd. Now I wore them everywhere, even in summer. They just felt right. Like a suit of armor. Like a set of panties.
Saki came out a few minutes later, yanking her hoodie down every three steps, like she thought she could strangle her own tits with sheer force of will. Her walk was all frustration and athletic grace, thighs pumping, ass flexing out the back of those bike shorts, and even in my current state I had to ire the engineering. She folded herself into the enger seat, slamming the door, eyes already on her phone.
“Where to, Mistress?” I purred, grinning at myself in the mirror. I liked the sound of it. I liked the way it made her flinch.
“Anywhere with food. I haven’t eaten since morning. Just drive.”
I started the engine and pulled away from the curb. Saki kept her eyes on the phone, but every time we hit a bump her arm would dart up and press against her chest. It was subtle, unless you were looking for it. Which I absolutely was. Her nipples were still hard. I could see them through the hoodie, dark and sharp, twin points poking through cotton every time she breathed.
After a few blocks I said, “So, you’re into the nipple thing now? You want advice on how to handle them in public, Mistress?”
Her fingers twitched on the phone. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll take away your phone privileges for a week, little clitty.”
I made a show of pouting, but inside I was grinning. She was deflecting. Which meant I’d gotten to her, and nothing made me happier than knocking her off-balance. That was our whole game: she tried to be the hardass, and I tried to see how fast I could get under her skin.
We pulled into the valet circle at The Oak & Blade, a steakhouse with a dress code and windows overlooking the designer outlets. Saki chose it without hesitation—the kind of place where they bring you a silver-plated meat cart before you’ve even sat down.
Inside, the air hummed with low conversation and the scent of seared prime rib and expensive cigars. Saki beelined for a leather booth in the corner, positioning herself against the wall to surveil the dining room. Classic. I slid in opposite her, crossing my legs just so to let the silk of my panties whisper against the seat. I caught the eye of the waitress—mid-twenties, severe bun, black sheath dress—and flashed a smile that had closed boardroom deals.
“Two sparkling waters. Twist of lemon in one, lime in the other. And the menu. She’s hangry,” I said, pitching my voice to carry over the clink of crystal.
Saki’s glower could have curdled the béarnaise.
The menu arrived, and I grabbed it before Saki could, flipping through the steaks and sides with a deliberate, showy confidence. I could feel the waitress watching me—her eyes lingered just a second too long on the knot of my tie, probably trying to decide if I was a high-roller or just another asshole in a suit. The answer, obviously, was both.
Saki didn’t say a word. Instead, she pressed her palm to her chest, fingers splaying across the fabric like she was trying to put out a fire. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing shallow, fast little gasps that almost made me forget what a fucking handful she was.
“So,” I said, “did you ever want to go braless when you were her age?” I gestured at a teenage hostess gliding by, her tits barely contained by the corporate-issued blouse.
“Don’t project your perversions onto me, little clitty.” She didn’t even look up from her phone.
I shrugged. “I’m just saying, it runs in the family.”
Saki glared up, her eyes narrow slits of emerald flashing murder. “I will take away your credit cards for a month.”
“Just acknowledging the genes, Mistress.” I put the menu down and leaned in, dropping my voice. “You know, you could end the torture by letting me do something about it.”
“I’d rather die,” she replied, and then she pressed her arms tighter across her chest. Her nipples were begging for freedom, two angry points threatening to rip through the hoodie.
The waitress reappeared with our waters and a bread basket. I flashed her a smile and she melted a bit, her posture softening, but her eyes kept flicking between me and Saki, probably wondering if we were lovers, siblings, or something criminal she’d need to report after her shift.
Saki turned the laser of her attention to the waitress. “We’ll have the bone-in ribeye. Rare. Roasted brussels. No sides for him.” She jabbed a thumb at me like a mob boss ordering a hit. “And bring a bottle of whatever you would never serve your own parents.”
The waitress nodded, scribbled furiously, and shot me a little wink. I grinned back. Saki caught the exchange and let out a disgusted snort.
“She’s going to spit in your food,” I said.
“I’d pay her to spit in yours, little clitty.”
I mimed zipping my lips. We sat in silence for a moment, the room’s noise cocooning us. The Oak & Blade was the kind of place that had its own gravity: everyone inside was trying to out-power-move everyone else, and the only thing heavier than the steaks was the atmosphere. I loved it. It gave me a chance to perform, to bluff and preen and play pretend, which was the closest thing I had to a talent.
Saki, though, was always herself. She didn’t bother with the theater. She just sat there, radiating restless energy, rolling a knife between her fingers and staring holes through the salt shaker.
I broke first.
“You know what this place is missing?” I said, swirling my sparkling water like it was a forty-year scotch. “A wet t-shirt contest. Half the trophy wives in here could double their husband’s net worth with one pitcher of ice water and a sprinkler system.”
“Little clitty.” Saki didn’t look up from her phone. The knife stopped rolling between her fingers, which was the only warning I got.
“I’m serious. Look at the blonde by the bar. That’s not a woman, that’s a trust fund with nipples. Her tits have their own area code.”
“Shut up.”
“—and I’d like to request a tour of the—”
The knife point pressed into the back of my hand, dimpling the skin. I shut up. She held it there for three long seconds, then went back to fidgeting, pressing her forearm across her chest and wincing like her own body had filed a restraining order against her.
And that’s when my pervert brain finished the math it had been running all night. The squirming. The nipples punching through cotton. The way she kept touching her ribs and catching herself. She wasn’t cold. She was aching. Those nipples were so sensitive she could barely sit in a chair.
A good father would have offered sympathy. I reached across the table and pinched both of her nipples through the hoodie.
The sound she made wasn’t human. It was a moan—deep, filthy, pulled up from somewhere south of her dignity—her eyes rolling back, mouth falling open, spine arching into my fingers like a cat finally scratched in the right spot. For a glorious second and a half, Mistress was gone and there was only a body saying thank you.
Then her brain rebooted.
I’ve been slapped before. I’ve been slapped by professionals. The crack she laid across my face made the couple at the next table drop their forks in unison.
“You…” she hissed, chest heaving, face crimson, one hand clamped protectively over her tits. “You absolute fucking maggot.”
“Worth it,” I said, rubbing my cheek. It was.
“Stand up.” Her voice dropped into that , the one that rearranged my skeleton. “You’re going to the bathroom. You’re going to take off those precious little panties—you will hand them to me when you come back—and then you’re going to pull up that picture of your wife you think I don’t know about. The naked one. You’re going to look at her with your clitty bare, and you’re going to find out what happens without your little medical device.” Her smile was all teeth. “Consider it a science experiment.”
“Mistress, that’s… she’ll… the panties are load-bearing.”
“Now, little clitty.”
I grumbled the whole way across the dining room, loud enough for the maître d’ to frown at me, but my feet never once considered disobeying. They never did.
The bathroom was marble and brass and mercifully empty. I locked myself in the stall, dropped my slacks, and peeled the hot-pink lace down my smooth thighs. The moment the satin cleared my clitty it bobbed free, already hard, already optimistic, completely unprotected. I sat on the cold porcelain and thumbed open my phone.
The photo. The photo. I’d taken it two weeks ago and it had ruined my productivity ever since.
Kana on our bed, naked, on her hands and knees, shot from behind at a three-quarter angle. Her back was arched so deep it looked impossible, that tiny waist cinched down to nothing before exploding out into those enormous hips, her ass—God, that ass—two huge, perfect globes pushed up and back like an offering, glistening where she’d oiled herself for the camera. Her tits hung beneath her, so massive they pressed into the mattress and spilled out around her ribcage, and she’d looked back over her shoulder at me with that sleepy, knowing smirk, lips parted, one strand of black hair stuck to her cheek. Every inch of her said you could never handle this, and we both know it.
She was a fertility idol. A pornographic miracle. My goddess, my wife, the center of every filthy thought I’d ever—
My hand found my clitty on its own. Three strokes. That was all it took without the panties. Three strokes and my eyes crossed, my thighs snapped shut, and I erupted like a shaken champagne bottle, ropes of cum arcing out of me and splattering directly across the phone screen, striping Kana’s oiled ass, her hanging tits, her smug beautiful face in pearly white. I bit my fist to keep from moaning, hips bucking at nothing, my whole body clenching through wave after humiliating wave.
When I came back to myself, my wife was still smirking up at me from under a glaze of my own shame.
“Perfect,” I muttered, breathless. “Absolutely perfect evening.”
I wiped the screen down with toilet paper, licked one stubborn streak off the corner because I was me and waste offended me, tucked my clitty away bare against the wool of my slacks, and carried my wadded pink panties out of the bathroom like a deserter’s flag.
Saki held out her hand without looking up. I dropped them in her palm. She stuffed them in her hoodie pocket and gestured at the bench seat. “Sit. Eat your Brussels sprouts. Don’t speak.”
I sat. I ate. I was, I told myself, completely fine. Totally unchanged. The same old Grant.
On the way out I ed the blonde from the bar up close, and I opened my mouth out of pure habit. “Honey, that dress is criminal,” I told her. “The way it moves when you walk? Those heels? I’d kill for that silhouette.”
She laughed and thanked me. Behind me, Saki went quiet in a way I didn’t catch at all.I leaned back in the booth, letting the leather creak beneath me, and watched Saki across the table. She was still pressing her palms into her ribs, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and those nipples were still hard enough to cut glass through the hoodie. The waitress had just cleared our plates, leaving a smear of béarnaise on the white tablecloth like a crime scene. Saki’s eyes were glassy, her cheeks flushed, and I could practically see the tension radiating off her in waves.
“Get up,” Saki said, tossing cash on the table. “We’re walking around the mall.”
“The mall?”
“Did I stutter, little clitty?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She never did. I followed her across the valet circle and through the glass doors into the fluorescent sprawl, because that was the evening she had decided on, and my opinion on the matter had been filed in the same place as my panties—her hoodie pocket.
Friday night crowds. Teenagers in packs, couples drifting between storefronts. Saki walked like she was trying to outrun her own body, arms crossed tight over her chest, wincing every few steps and pressing her forearm up under her tits before catching herself.
“Jesus, Mistress,” I said, watching her fight a losing war with her own hoodie. “Maybe your bra’s too tight.”
She stopped dead. “That’s your observation?”
“What? If the band’s digging in, the fit’s wrong. That’s just garment science.”
“Not one word about my rack. No ‘motorboat.’ You ask about my bra.” She narrowed her eyes like she was interrogating a suspect, then gave up and kept walking.
Honestly, the bra wasn’t even the strangest thing happening. The strangest thing was my clothes. Somewhere between the valet stand and the food court, my suit had turned to garbage. The slacks hung off me like cardboard, boxy and shapeless, doing absolutely nothing for my legs. The shirt billowed at the waist like it had been cut for a filing cabinet. The jacket—my beautiful, expensive jacket—just hid everything. And the shoes. Clunky brown leather bricks. I’d paid eight hundred dollars for them and suddenly I wanted to apologize to my feet.
“These clothes are shit,” I muttered.
“Then take them off,” Saki said absently, palming her ribs again. “Actually, don’t. We’re going in here.”
She grabbed my shoulders to steer me toward a storefront, spun me around, and her tits—those enormous, hoodie-straining tits—brushed flush against my back for maybe half a second.
Half a second was all I needed.
My clitty, bare against the wool, traitorously unprotected, went off like a fire alarm. I bit my tongue to strangle the sound, knees buckling, and came hard, flooding the front of my boxy, garbage slacks with hot ropes of shame. Warmth crawled down my thigh.
“Did you just…” She felt me shudder. Looked down. The dark stain was already blooming. “Oh my God. You came. From that? You disgusting little.” She shoved off me like I was radioactive. “That’s it. I’m going home. My tits hurt, I’m losing my mind, and my father just jizzed himself against my back in a public mall.”
“Mistress, I can explain.”
“Stay here.” The command snapped taut like a leash. “Walk home. Crawl home. I don’t care. Stay at the mall until you’ve earned the right to exist.”
Then she was gone, storming toward the exit, leaving me in wet slacks outside a candle store.
Fine. I was a very successful adult. I could survive a mall.
That’s when she walked past. Some woman, early thirties, gorgeous, all legs, in a fitted summer skirt that swayed when she moved and strappy heels that made her calves look sculpted by a horny Renaissance master.
“Fuck me sideways, would you look at that,” I muttered as she ed.
Except I wasn’t actually looking at her ass. I mean, it was right there, and it was a great ass, but my eyes kept sliding to the skirt. The way it moved. That little swish against the backs of her thighs every time a heel hit the tile. The whole outfit was a machine for making people stare, and it was running perfectly.
I’d look fucking fantastic in something like that.
I let the thought sit. It didn’t feel weird. I had the legs for it now, smooth as glass from the wax, and my waist had been cooperating lately. Of course I’d look good in a summer skirt. I’d look incredible.
Which raised the obvious question: what the hell was I wearing?
I looked down at myself and almost booed. These slacks were boxy as hell, hanging off my hips like they’d been tailored for a man with a secret second ass. The shirt billowed at the waist like a sail catching wind. The jacket hid everything, and not in a sexy, mysterious way, in a “give up on life” way. And the shoes. Brown. Clunky. Boring. I looked like a middle manager on his way to apologize to HR.
“These are shitty clothes,” I announced to the mall at large. A woman with a stroller glanced over. “Objectively. These are objectively shitty clothes.”
Nope. I wasn’t spending one more minute of this evening dressed like a filing cabinet.
House of CB was twenty feet ahead, all warm lighting and racks of garments that actually understood the assignment. I walked in like I owned the place, and got to work. Polyester, . That neckline, criminal. Whoever designed that cut had clearly never met a human body. Then I saw it.
“Oh, hello.”
The Nyra. Summer piece, fitted through the bodice, little flirty skirt that promised to move exactly like the one I’d just watched walk past. I grabbed my size and headed for the fitting rooms.
The dress went on like it had been waiting for me. I turned in front of the mirror, watching the skirt flare and settle, and that’s when I noticed the couples drifting through the store.
Or rather, I noticed the men.
Broad shoulders under a fitted polo. Pecs actually shifting the fabric when one of them reached for a hanger. And, my mouth went a little dry, the outlines. More than one of these guys was packing enough that you could read the shape of his cock right through his jeans, thick and heavy against his thigh.
I licked my lips. Didn’t even clock that I was doing it.
The fantasy arrived fully formed, no assembly required: me in this exact dress, down on my hands and knees, ass up, while one of those big-shouldered bastards flipped my skirt over my back, dragged my panties aside, and fed his cock straight into my asshole.
I came all over the dress. Well, I was going to buy it anyways. It is gorgeous.
I bought the Nyra on the spot, didn’t even take it off. Plus two more dresses, a nighty I absolutely did not need, and a purse that cost more than most people’s rent because it matched the sandals I’d also decided I now owned. The salesgirl rang me up with the polite terror of someone watching a mid-40s CEO demolish a fitting room and emerge reborn in a summer dress. I tipped her two hundred bucks for her silence, which I immediately voided by asking if these heels made my calves look good. She said yes. Smart girl.
In the bathroom I pulled new hot-pink lace up my thighs and sighed like a man coming home. Saki wasn’t here. Mistress had stormed off with my panties in her pocket and her rules in her mouth, and she’d failed to for one crucial fact: I’d bought replacements. Satin settled against my clitty, snug and civilizing, and the world made sense again.
Then I walked out of House of CB, dropped my slacks, shirt, jacket, tie, and those hideous brown bricks into the trash can by the pretzel stand, and didn’t look back. Eight hundred dollars of shoes, gone. Good riddance. You couldn’t pay me to dress like a filing cabinet again.
The mall opened up before me like a runway. I walked the way the dress wanted me to walk—hips leading, skirt swishing against my smooth thighs, purse swinging off my shoulder, heels clicking out a rhythm that turned heads I didn’t even . I felt incredible. I felt expensive. I felt, for the first time all evening, correctly dressed.
And then I saw him.
Kind of Asian, maybe thirty, built like a personal trainer who actually practiced what he sold. Tight, defined muscle under a form-fitting polo that clung to every ridge of his torso. Jeans tailored enough to . And Jesus Christ, the ment. The outline of his cock ran thick down his left thigh, heavy and unmistakable, and my mouth filled with saliva so fast I had to swallow twice.
I didn’t think. I just walked up to him, purse on my shoulder, and said, “Hi. Would you be interested in an exchange?”
He looked at me the way men look at pop-up ads. “I’m not gay.”
“Neither am I,” I lied automatically, and then reconsidered. “Actually, who cares. Five thousand dollars. Cash, right now.” I opened the purse and let him see the cards, the clip of hundreds. “All you do is stand there and let me suck your cock. And if you want, you can fuck me in the ass after. You never have to take it out. You never have to call me. It’s the easiest money you’ll make all year.”
He stared at me. His eyes flicked down; the dress, the purse, the platinum cards winking in the mall light. I watched him do the math. Straight guys always do the math; it’s the one thing I genuinely love about them.
“Ten thousand,” he said.
“Done.”
Gene—his name was Gene, I learned in the elevator, which was the only conversation we managed. He followed me out of the mall with the bewildered energy of a man who still couldn’t believe the numbers involved. Ten grand. He kept touching his pocket where I’d already transferred half, like the phone might bite him.
The Meridian was across the street, five stars and a lobby that smelled like money and orchids. I handled everything, because handling things was the one old skill I hadn’t thrown in the trash with my slacks. I valet-parked nothing, tipped the concierge fifty to stop looking at us, ordered a steak and a Caesar salad up to the room because a man burns calories, and booked the penthouse suite without blinking. Gene stood in the marble lobby in his fitted polo, looking like a personal trainer who’d wandered onto a movie set.
“You’re really rich, huh,” he said.
“Baby,” I said, looping my arm through his and pulling him toward the elevators, “you have no idea.”
He let me do it. That was the thing about ten thousand dollars, it bought a remarkable amount of tolerance. I pressed into his side as the elevator rose, and because the moment seemed to demand it, I lifted one leg behind me, heel pointed, leaning my whole body into his arm like a fifties starlet greeting her sailor. Gene glanced down at me.
“You’re really committed to this.”
“I’m committed to your cock, sweetheart. The rest is presentation.”
The suite was obscene. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a bed the size of a helipad, a bathroom with a tub you could drown a regrets in. The food arrived while Gene stood at the window pretending to ire the skyline and actually composing himself. I tipped the bellhop, arranged the steak with my own two hands, and watched Gene eat half of it standing up, which I found weirdly charming. Men fueling up. Like a pit stop before a race where I was the track.
Then he wiped his mouth, exhaled through his nose, and crossed to the little speaker dock by the TV. He fiddled with his phone until something slow and bass-heavy started playing, and turned around with his jaw set like a man psyching himself into a cold pool.
“Okay,” he said. “Before I do this. I want a show.”
“A show.”
“You paid for the fantasy, right? Strip for me. Like…” he gestured vaguely, “like a girl would.”
I almost laughed. Gene had no idea who he was talking to. I had studied femininity the way I’d once studied quarterly reports, and I had a body waxed to glass and hips that had learned their assignment.
“Music’s a little fast,” I said, and I started to move.
The Nyra came off one shoulder first, then the other, the fabric whispering down my arms while I swayed. I didn’t rush. Rushing was for amateurs and teenagers. I let the dress catch at my hips, let him wait, rolled my body to the beat like the bass line had a hand on my spine. The zipper went down my back with a sound like a secret, and the dress pooled at my heels and I stepped out of it and kicked it aside without breaking rhythm.
Black lace bra. Hot-pink panties. Thigh-highs. Heels. I watched his face do something complicated, confusion wrestling arousal in a phone booth, and I turned around, bent forward at the waist, and unclasped the bra with my ass pointed at him. When I turned back, the bra was dangling off one finger, and my nipples were already hard in the cool air.
I took them between my own fingers and rolled them, and the moan that came out of me was not performed. It escaped. They were stupidly sensitive now, every tug sending a little electric line straight down to my clitty, and I let my head fall back and played with them, pinching and sighing, dancing in nothing but panties and stockings and heels while a straight man watched me with his mouth slightly open.
“Jesus,” Gene muttered.
The panties came down last, slow, bent over again, lace sliding down my thighs until I stepped out of them completely bare, smooth everywhere, my little clitty hard and absurd and ignored by absolutely everyone including me.
“Jeans off, handsome,” I said, dropping to my knees in front of the couch. “Let me earn my money.”
He hesitated one last second, some final straight-guy firewall, and then ten thousand dollars walked through it. The jeans came down. The boxers came down.
Nine inches. Nine thick, heavy inches, rising out of him already half-hard and getting harder by the second, veined and flushed and gorgeous, and my mouth was watering before I’d even touched it. Not Evan—nothing was Evan, Evan’s cock lived in my memory like a religious artifact—but a very respectable deity of the second tier. I took him in my hand and felt the heat of him and something in my chest went quiet and happy.
I started with my tongue. Flat against the base, one long slow drag up the underside of the shaft to the head, then circling the ridge while he hissed through his teeth. I licked him like I was learning him, mapping every vein, and then I sank my mouth down over him and took him deep in one smooth, practiced motion that made his whole body jerk.
“Holy fuck,” he said. “How are you…”
I pulled off slowly, letting him feel every inch of suction, and smiled up at him with wet lips. “Sweetheart, I have skills that would end marriages. Lie back.”
He lay back. I went to work like a woman with a calling. I sucked him deep and slow, then fast and shallow, tongue pressed flat against the underside where it counted. I cupped his balls, rolled them gently in my palm, tugged just enough to make his thighs tense. I pulled off and ran my tongue down to lick them, one then the other, humming while I stroked his shaft, and Gene made a sound like a man losing an argument with God.
I felt him swell in my mouth, that telltale pulse along the underside of his shaft, and then Gene grabbed the back of my head and unloaded. Thick, hot ropes flooded my tongue, and I swallowed greedily, milking him with my throat while he groaned like a man dying happy.
I pulled off slowly, licking my lips, and gave my honest review.
“Not bad. A little bitter. Evan tastes better.”
Gene stared down at me, chest heaving. “Who the fuck is Evan?”
“The gold standard, sweetheart. You placed. Congratulations.” I patted his thigh and stood, turning toward the bed. “Now for the encore.”
I climbed onto the mattress on all fours and wiggled my ass at him, looking back over my shoulder with what I hoped was devastating invitation. “Well? Ten grand includes the full experience. Come get it.”
Something in Gene finally snapped past whatever straight-guy resistance he’d been nursing. He crossed the room in two strides, and I heard him spit on his hand, felt him slick himself, and then the blunt head of his cock pressed against my asshole. I pushed back before he could overthink it, and he sank into me in one long, stretching glide that punched the breath out of my lungs.
“Oh, fuck yes,” I moaned into the duvet. “There it is.”
Gene grabbed my hips and started pounding. No warmup, no ceremony, just hard, deep thrusts that rocked my whole body forward, his hips slapping against my ass with every stroke. He fucked like a man exorcising something, and I took it like a woman possessed, pushing back into every thrust, my thighs trembling, my useless little clitty barely swinging beneath me.
It didn’t take long. The pressure on my prostate, the friction, the sheer degrading glory of being railed by a straight man I’d bought in a mall, my clitty erupted untouched, and I came sobbing into the sheets, ropes spilling across the expensive bedding. And it didn’t stop. Every few thrusts another wave hit me, my body clenching around him, cumming again and again in shuddering little aftershocks until there was a constellation of my shame soaking into the duvet and my arms gave out entirely.
Gene finished with a grunt deep inside me, held there for a moment, then pulled out and exhaled like a man completing a transaction.
I lay in the wreckage for a minute, face down, humming with satisfaction. Then I peeled myself up and headed for the shower. “Be out in twenty, handsome. Feel free to order dessert.”
The water was glorious. I scrubbed, I hummed, I moisturized, and I slipped into the nighty I’d grabbed at House of CB, soft champagne silk with lace trim that made me feel like the leading lady of my own film. I stepped out of the bathroom ready for round two negotiations.
The suite was empty.
Gene was gone. Food tray cleared, jeans and polo gone, not even a note. I stood in my new nighty with wet hair and felt a small, surprising pinch of disappointment.
Men. No loyalty. I paid that man ten thousand dollars and he couldn’t even stay for cuddles.
Whatever. His loss. I climbed onto the helipad of a bed, silk nighty whispering against my thighs, and pulled the sheets up to my waist. The duvet was still a disaster zone from my performance, but a lady doesn’t dwell on details. I grabbed my phone to unwind, thumbed into my photos, and immediately recoiled.
Jesus Christ. What was all this?
Kana. Hundreds of photos of Kana. Kana bent over the kitchen counter. Kana’s tits spilling out of some halter. Kana’s ass in that cream skirt, shot from below like I was praying to it. Which, apparently, an ignorant past-me had been. I stared at one where she was oiled up on our bed, all hips and cleavage and that smug little smirk, and felt... nothing. Worse than nothing. A vague, oily revulsion, like finding someone else’s leftovers in the fridge.
God, she was kind of gross, honestly. All that... everything. Just hanging out everywhere. Who found that appealing?
I started deleting. Swipe, trash. Swipe, trash. Swipe, look at the egregious amount of underboob, shudder, trash. It was like cleaning out a hoarder’s garage. I had a whole album titled “Goddess” with four hundred entries. Pathetic. Embarrassing. Had I really been one of those guys, hoarding pictures of some woman like a teenager with a crush?
My thumb paused over one photo, Kana laughing at something off-camera, hair falling across her face. Something in my chest twitched, faint and confused, like a radio station losing signal. Then, swipe, into the trash where it belonged. New Grant was awake finally, and dick was all I could think about.