Your Money, Her Moans
you're still here?
I almost forgot. You're so quiet when you're not useful. Like furniture. I'm texting him. You know that, right? The one I told you about. Tall. Works out. Actually fuckable. Unlike you. And you're sitting right there while I do it. That's the saddest part. You're watching me get ready for another man and you haven't moved. Haven't left. Haven't even looked away.
Good. Stay right there. I need an audience.
Mmm… he just sent me his hotel room number. Downtown. Suite on the top floor. He booked it. Not me. A real man pays for the room, not just the girl.
But you know what you're paying for? The lingerie I'm going to wear for him. This set? Forty-eight dollars. And I didn't spend a dime. One of my little wallets covered it last week. He gets to take this off me. You get to look at it on a screen. That's the deal. That's your deal, anyway.
And tonight? Tonight I want something extra. I want a new pair of heels. The red ones I showed you last week. Three hundred and twenty dollars. And you — right now, before I walk out that door — are going to buy them for me.
That's your role. That's your purpose. You pay. He fucks. I enjoy.
When I said he was texting me — when I told you another man is taking me to a hotel tonight — what did you feel? Not anger. Not jealousy. Something else. Something lower. Something that made your stomach drop and your cock twitch at the same time.
He's going to bend me over that hotel bed. The one in the suite he paid for. And the heels — your heels — are going to stay on. I always keep my heels on. He likes that. And what he likes is what matters.
And you? You're going to be at home. Alone. Staring at your phone. Wondering what I'm doing. Checking for a text that won't come. Maybe — maybe — I'll send you one photo. Just one. After. Just to remind you what you paid for and what you'll never touch.