to me. I felt my own eyelids do the same. We were two fucking animals eyeing each other up. It shouldn’t be sexy.
But it was.
Because it was dangerous and wrong and that was just the way I liked my sex. This was my favorite flavor.
“Rumor around the club was you only like women,” he said.
I shrugged, dropping my face toward my shoulder, a practiced look that men liked. My bisexuality and what I liked about women versus what I like about men was complicated and none of his business.
But when it came to sex, I was equal opportunity.
“I do like women,” I said. “But I like men, too.”
I let my fingers toy with the tiny scrap of fabric over my breast. I ran my thumb over my nipple so that it stood out hard and he could see it.
“You think your pussy is so special that it will convince me to risk my life to go get your sister?”
“I’m not asking you to risk your life and go get my sister. I’m asking you to make a phone call. That’s it. And yeah, I think my pussy is that special.”
I pushed myself off the edge of the dresser, but still leaned back against it, because I wasn’t stupid enough to get close to him. Not yet. I ran my fingers down from my breast to the white scrap of fabric of the bikini bottoms and I pressed my finger against my slit, pushing the fabric into it so he could see the outline of the lips of my pussy.
And the small damp spot, because I was turned on despite knowing better.
On the bed, his erection was pushing at the boxers he wore. He was turned on, too. Despite himself. Despite the pain or maybe because of it.
Maybe this was his favorite flavor, too. Desperate and mercenary and wrong.
“My pussy,” I said. “My mouth. My ass. I’m pretty special, Max.”
“Show me.”
I blinked.
“Show me that special pussy. Those tits. Show me your ass.”
A show. I was good at shows. But nothing was free.
“My sister—”
“You want a phone call? We can talk about that.”
“I need some kind of guarantee.”
“You’re not going to get it. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
Trust him? Impossible. There was no trust in me.
He stroked his dick with his free hand. “I want you, Joan. I’ve wanted you for months and you’ve wanted me. I promise I’ll talk to you about your sister. Now fucking show me something.”
I had no idea if I could trust him, but fuck it. This was a crack in his armor. A possible way in. My shot.
And if it didn’t work, if he refused, he was still chained to the bed.
I could find another way.
Resolved, I reached behind my neck and pulled the tie to my bikini top, but I kept my hands over my breasts, taking my time with the show. Max was still gripping his cock in his free hand, but he wasn’t jacking it. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed. I’d never seen him quite like this, and it was a huge turn-on. He was powerful and vulnerable all at once.
That wet spot on my bikini bottoms got bigger.
I dropped my hand and the cups from my bikini fell to my waist.
“Fuck,” Max groaned. “I want to come all over those tits.”
I smoothed my hands over them, touching myself the way I know looked good, holding them up for him. A show. For him.
A breath of cool air blew over my body. Not the air conditioner, but a memory. The past few months at the strip club. Outside of that one dance for him in the front row, none of that had been sexy to me. The show for men’s eyes. The falseness of it.
I eased away from my own excitement, and it was a relief in a way. To not be invested in this situation. To give him what he wanted, so I could get what I wanted. A transaction.
Yes, better. Better than something authentic. Better than showing him something real, the ragged edges of my own self. Only showing him what I liked, what I wanted, so he couldn’t find a way to use it against me.
I turned and pushed down the bottoms of my suit, showing him my ass, my pussy—all smooth because that was what made money.
Yeah, I thought. Think
But it was.
Because it was dangerous and wrong and that was just the way I liked my sex. This was my favorite flavor.
“Rumor around the club was you only like women,” he said.
I shrugged, dropping my face toward my shoulder, a practiced look that men liked. My bisexuality and what I liked about women versus what I like about men was complicated and none of his business.
But when it came to sex, I was equal opportunity.
“I do like women,” I said. “But I like men, too.”
I let my fingers toy with the tiny scrap of fabric over my breast. I ran my thumb over my nipple so that it stood out hard and he could see it.
“You think your pussy is so special that it will convince me to risk my life to go get your sister?”
“I’m not asking you to risk your life and go get my sister. I’m asking you to make a phone call. That’s it. And yeah, I think my pussy is that special.”
I pushed myself off the edge of the dresser, but still leaned back against it, because I wasn’t stupid enough to get close to him. Not yet. I ran my fingers down from my breast to the white scrap of fabric of the bikini bottoms and I pressed my finger against my slit, pushing the fabric into it so he could see the outline of the lips of my pussy.
And the small damp spot, because I was turned on despite knowing better.
On the bed, his erection was pushing at the boxers he wore. He was turned on, too. Despite himself. Despite the pain or maybe because of it.
Maybe this was his favorite flavor, too. Desperate and mercenary and wrong.
“My pussy,” I said. “My mouth. My ass. I’m pretty special, Max.”
“Show me.”
I blinked.
“Show me that special pussy. Those tits. Show me your ass.”
A show. I was good at shows. But nothing was free.
“My sister—”
“You want a phone call? We can talk about that.”
“I need some kind of guarantee.”
“You’re not going to get it. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
Trust him? Impossible. There was no trust in me.
He stroked his dick with his free hand. “I want you, Joan. I’ve wanted you for months and you’ve wanted me. I promise I’ll talk to you about your sister. Now fucking show me something.”
I had no idea if I could trust him, but fuck it. This was a crack in his armor. A possible way in. My shot.
And if it didn’t work, if he refused, he was still chained to the bed.
I could find another way.
Resolved, I reached behind my neck and pulled the tie to my bikini top, but I kept my hands over my breasts, taking my time with the show. Max was still gripping his cock in his free hand, but he wasn’t jacking it. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed. I’d never seen him quite like this, and it was a huge turn-on. He was powerful and vulnerable all at once.
That wet spot on my bikini bottoms got bigger.
I dropped my hand and the cups from my bikini fell to my waist.
“Fuck,” Max groaned. “I want to come all over those tits.”
I smoothed my hands over them, touching myself the way I know looked good, holding them up for him. A show. For him.
A breath of cool air blew over my body. Not the air conditioner, but a memory. The past few months at the strip club. Outside of that one dance for him in the front row, none of that had been sexy to me. The show for men’s eyes. The falseness of it.
I eased away from my own excitement, and it was a relief in a way. To not be invested in this situation. To give him what he wanted, so I could get what I wanted. A transaction.
Yes, better. Better than something authentic. Better than showing him something real, the ragged edges of my own self. Only showing him what I liked, what I wanted, so he couldn’t find a way to use it against me.
I turned and pushed down the bottoms of my suit, showing him my ass, my pussy—all smooth because that was what made money.
Yeah, I thought. Think
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