Also dann, Verlierer. Hosen runter — mal sehen, was in deinem Kopf noch läuft.

Finish first, sinner. Right now, in the first two minutes, before I've even started.

Because everything that matters tonight happens after. Men are honest for about ninety seconds after

they come and then the lie comes back — so I'm going to keep you in that ninety seconds for half an

hour. Five rounds on a body that's begging to be left alone, every one of them worse, and at the end

you're going to ask me for a second one. Out loud. And mean it. That's the part you'll think about

all week.

Bottom step, baby. Wallet out, get it out.

Nine steps up to that door and every single one has a price on it. You pay for the right to stand

one step higher — not to come in, not to be invited, just to stand closer. The first one is cheap

because I want you to start. The ninth one is absurd, and you'll pay it anyway, and then I'll tell

you what you actually bought tonight. Here's a clue, baby: it's flat, it's outside, and people wipe

their feet on it.

Eyes on mine, honey, and keep them there — that is the whole game and you are already losing it. Tonight your hand does not belong to your head, it belongs to my stare. While you hold my eyes you get to stroke. Every time you blink, look away, or let those lids get heavy, the hand comes off and you sit there wet with nothing. I am going to make it very hard to hold, because I am going to say filthy things to you in a soft voice and hand you one word that drops your hand before you hear it. Want to know how many blinks it takes to lose your whole ending? Fewer than you think, sweetie. Open them. Look at me. Begin.

Hands where I can see them, sweetheart. Shop's open.

Eight views tonight, and every single one has a price on it. You don't pay me in money — money's too

easy, you'd just tap a screen and feel nothing. You pay in promises, out loud, in your own voice,

and I keep every one of them. By the eighth view the price is your whole week, and you'll agree to it

with your cock in your fist and absolutely no idea what you just signed.

Tomorrow's already mine, sinner. All of it, nine to five, and you're paying for it tonight in advance.

Eight hours, eight instructions. Nothing anyone around you would notice — a hand in a pocket, a word

said under your breath, thirty seconds in a locked room. But every hour on the hour you'll feel it

land, and you'll do it, in a shirt, in a building full of people who think they know what you are.

And you'll have paid for every one of those hours tonight, on your knees, in advance, before you even

knew what they were.

Quick, sweetheart. Someone's coming up in four minutes and you're on your knees with it out.

That's the game. I tell you how long you've got, and the number keeps moving — because I'm the one

holding the clock and I lie about it whenever I feel like it. Four becomes two. Two becomes gone,

false alarm, relax. Then thirty seconds, and I mean it that time. You'll finish on a deadline I

invent on the spot, with your heart going like you're sixteen, and the funniest part is nobody is

coming at all.

We're walking, cutie. Lamp to lamp. In the dark between them you work — fast, filthy, whatever I say. And under every light you FREEZE: hands off, dick out and wet, standing in the bright bit while somebody walks past on the other side of the road. You don't get to cover up. You don't get to turn away. You just stand there and let the light have you for as long as I feel like talking. Seven lamps tonight. The last one is the brightest, and that's where I'll let you finish — right in it, with your hands full and your heart going.

Mmmmm. Twenty minutes stopped working for you, didn't it, sweetheart. You nut, you feel nothing,

and you're hunting again before the screen's even dark.

So tonight I'm not giving you twenty. I'm taking all sixty.

Cock out, fist round it, and don't you dare move that hand until I say. You breathe when I say

it. Not before. My mouth says it, your lungs do it, and in between that dick just sits there

fat and leaking and waiting for a woman who isn't even in the room.

And you won't know when it's coming. Brace for it and I'll go quiet. Relax and I'll drop you

straight under. Twelve times I take you up and let you fall, sweetheart, and every time your

body gets quicker at it, until the breath and the stroke and my voice stop being three separate

things in that empty head.

Mmmmm. And every drop costs you a word.

"No" goes first, because it never once stopped you. You've said it a hundred nights with your

hand still moving. Then I take your name. Then I take hers — and you'll get harder saying it,

and we'll both hear it. By the end you've got one word left in your whole fucking mouth, and

you'll be screaming it when you ruin yourself for me.

Hands behind your back when I say so. Dick out, aching, nothing touching it. Edged till your

wrist burns and not allowed to finish till I pick the second.

An hour of being told when to breathe, when to stroke, when to shut up and when you're allowed

to speak. No decisions, sweetheart. Nothing to hold. And somewhere past forty minutes you'll

figure out you like the wanting better than the nutting, and that's when you're properly mine.

Mmmmm. Sixty minutes. It'll go past like fifteen, and you'll hand me the next one without

even checking the clock.

Use your hands while you've got them, sinner. You've got about fifteen minutes.

First half of tonight is all hands, and I'm going to build you right up to the edge with them — four

rounds, properly, no mercy. And then at halfway they're gone. Not a pause. Gone. Everything after

that is hips and my voice and whatever you've got left, and if you can't finish that way, that's

fine — you just don't finish. Failing is an option tonight. It's simply the expensive one.

Eyes on my mouth, sweetheart. Not on me. On the mouth.

Open means go. Shut means stop. That's your whole language tonight, and here's the nasty part — my

words are going to lie to you. I'll say faster with my lips closed and stop with them wide open, and

you'll have to pick. Six tests. By the fourth one you won't hear what I'm saying any more, you'll

just be a man watching a mouth and moving his hand, and that's exactly where I want you.

You get ten more, sinner. Ten strokes with your own hand, and I want you to make them tally, because after the tenth your hands are gone for the rest of the night. Then I start handing you replacements, one at a time: your hips, then the muscle inside you that you've never had to think about, then your breathing, then bare skin against the sheet, and at the end nothing at all except my voice. You finish on whatever's left. If you cheat and use a hand, you and I will both know, and the only person you'll have ruined it for is you — which, honestly, is its own kind of entertainment.