Projecting cos i need money but payipig art ...need him to buy me shoes and ask me to step on him with them
art would absolutely spoil you. he’s got a lot of money from his tennis career, and he’d like nothing more than to spend all of it on a beautiful, dominant individual.
you two met through a kink website and now he’s your personal wallet. and he prides himself in that title ! he’s given you his credit card to keep when he’s off to train at the courts, or when he’s at a match, or when he’s doing press interviews for sports magazines.
his cock gets impossibly hard when you tell him how much money you’re draining from his bank account each day. you usually inform him through texts..
200 dollars down the drain, baby.. just got a new pair of heels 💋
he swallows and texts you back quick.
can i please see them?
a notification from you pops up a minute later.
attachment: one image
he fumbles with his fingers, desperately tapping the banner at the top of his screen, and he has to stifle a whine when he opens the photo in your guys’ chat. it’s a picture of your limbs from the calves down; a pair of sleek, tall, black heels slipped over your feet.
his lips part, drunk with lust, and he feels his mouth go dry in an instant. pulses of heat flood his gut and he lets out a shaky breath as he texts you back.
oh god… they’re perfect on you.
you’re perfect.
please..
the response from you comes a minute later, and art has to resist the urge the shove his hand down into his pants.
you like? xx
his brows pinch together and he replies quick.
are you kidding? i love them. i really want to see you later. can we meet?
two texts from you follow.
hmm. maybe. i’m pretty busy today, but i could probably squeeze you in after i make a trip to chanel and blow another 500 bucks ..
i can bring the shoes.
now he’s nearly panting like a dog as he spares a glance down to the tent in his clothes before his fingers are back on the screen. he blows up your phone.
oh please, yes.
yes, yes, yes… i want you to step on me when you get here.
kick me, spit on me, tell me what a worthless guy i am.. i don’t care.
tell me im only good for my money and that’s it. please.
i’m begging you, goddess.
his hips are twitching against the fabric and his lids flutter as he imagines all the things you might do to him later.. god, he needs you like air. his eyes roll back, and he lets a little moan slip out.
he wants you to use him.
a small *ding* from his phone sends his baby blues darting back down.
one text from you. one sentence. it gets him leaking copiously.
see you in an hour 💋
