#eroticromance

She tosses the robe onto the hook, peels the lace from her body like it’s skin she doesn’t want anymore, and stares at herself in the mirror. The makeup’s still holding—barely. Mascara smudged, red lipstick faded into something more bruised than bold.

She looks good. But she doesn't feel it.

Sometimes she thinks about quitting. Going back to just being a student. Full-time. Poor. Invisible. But then she remembers what it's like scraping together coins for instant ramen, or worrying if her card will decline at the pharmacy.

No one tells you how expensive thinking is. Philosophy doesn’t pay bills.

Sex does.

So she showers, scrubbing the scent of other people off her skin until it’s raw. Then she wraps herself in the oversized hoodie she always hides in after work—the one that smells like clean laundry and nobody but her—the uber drops her off in the middle of the strip-empty and trashed- she walks the remaining four blocks home, past neon signs and half-dead tourists. She doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. She never does.

In the apartment, she throws her bag on the counter, opens a bottle of cheap wine, and drinks it straight from the bottle. Her laptop's still open from earlier—an unfinished thesis blinking on the screen.

She doesn't touch it.

Instead, she curls up on the couch, knees to her chest, wine in hand, staring out the window at a city that never shuts up. Her phone buzzes again. This time, she doesn’t even look.

Maybe tomorrow she’ll feel something again.

Maybe not.

She drifts in and out of sleep, finally waking nearly twenty-four hours later, the world outside having spun on without her. The unmade bed beneath her is a tangled mess of sheets and pillows, the faint scent of sweat and lavender still lingering in the air. Slowly, she pulls herself upright, muscles stiff and aching from the long, unbroken rest. She slips out of the worn nightshirt she’d slept in and pulls on a pair of soft cotton shorts and a loose, casual shirt—nothing fancy, just enough to feel put together.

Today marks the beginning of a new seven-day cycle of work, a fresh start she insists on embracing. Her nails are freshly painted in a subtle shade—carefully manicured to perfection, a small but necessary ritual of control in a life that often feels chaotic. After that, she makes a quick stop to pick up her dry cleaning; the crisp blouses and skirts she wears need to be flawless. Then, she ventures into one of the many lingerie stores nearby, wandering the racks with practiced ease, selecting a few delicate pieces—lace and silk, soft pastels and bold blacks—that will become her armor for the week ahead.

When it’s time to leave, Karah doesn’t even think about using her own car. She knows better. There’s always that one weird guy who somehow manages to memorize license plates, lurking at the edges of the neighborhood, thinking he can track a girl home. No, a public Uber is safer—a stranger driving her through crowded streets, blending her into the anonymity of the city.

The brothel pulses with energy when she arrives. The afternoon light filters through stained glass, casting fractured colors across polished floors and dark wood panels. The hallways are alive with movement—girls clattering in heels, their laughter and whispered conversations bouncing off the walls as they hurry to their assigned rooms. The air is thick with perfume, smoke, and anticipation, a strange mix of desperation and excitement that Karah has learned to navigate with practiced ease.

She pulls out the worn schedule log from the small locker beside the dressing room mirror, her eyes scanning the cramped, handwritten notes. Dance rotation—her name circled in bold red ink for the week ahead. A small, relieved sigh escapes her lips.

“Thank God,” she mumbles under her breath, a weight lifting from her shoulders.

Just then, Lana, one of the more seasoned dancers, slides into the cramped space beside her, adjusting her sequined bodysuit. “You lucked out this week,” Lana says, flashing a knowing smile. “No rooms, no awkward ‘clients.’ Just lights, music, and the stage.”

Karah nods, fingers still tracing the schedule. “Yeah. Men throwing money at me, dissociating to the beat… I can do that. It’s safer.”

Lana laughs softly, the sound mingling with the distant thump of bass from the main hall. “Safer, sure. But don’t get too comfortable. You never know when the rotation changes up—or when one of those ‘clients’ decides he wants more than a dance.”

Karah shrugs, already feeling the familiar pulse of the music calling her. “Tonight, I’ll just focus on the stage.”

Lana grins, patting her on the shoulder. “Good. Catch you out there.”

Karah pockets the log, takes a deep breath, and gets herself ready to step toward the glowing neon stage entrance, ready to lose herself in the music and the lights.

***

He told himself it was just curiosity. A one-time thing. But he keeps coming back—telling himself lies he no longer believes. It's not just the way she moves, or the black lace that barely hides anything. It's the way she talks. Calm, sharp, unexpected. One minute she’s unzipping his jacket, the next she’s quoting Simone de Beauvoir like it’s foreplay.

Karah isn’t like anyone he’s met. She’s working her way through grad school—philosophy, literature, ideas that hit harder than they should in the low light of her room. Their time together is more than sex, though there’s plenty of that too. It's charged. Tense. Messy in all the best and worst ways.

She draws lines. Keeps things professional. He tries to respect that. Fails, more often than not. That's how he got her first name out of her. There’s a pull between them—part danger, part something softer he doesn’t dare look at too closely. And beneath it all, something raw is starting to show.

Noah sat slumped in the recording studio, the thick soundproof glass separating him from the control room. The music pulsed through the speakers, a steady beat under discussion by the band and producers. They were hashing out fluctuations, debating whether the snare should snap harder, if the bass should drop sooner.

“Hey, Noah, you good?” Nick, the bassist, leaned over, his brow furrowed. “You’ve been zoning out for like, ten minutes.”

Noah forced a nod, tapping his fingers lightly on the armrest, but his eyes glazed over. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Just thinking.”

“Thinking about the track or something else?” Folio, the drummer, asked, his voice edged with concern.

He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Just trying to focus, that’s all. This stuff takes time.”

The two Nick’s exchanged a look. “Look, man, we need you here. You’re the frontman. We can’t have you checking out mid-session.”

Noah’s jaw tightened, frustration flickering in his eyes. “I said I’m fine. Just give me a second.”

But his mind was miles away, replaying the last time he saw her—the scent of her perfume still lingering in his memory. The way she looked at him, distant but unmistakably familiar.

Sitting on her couch, thumbing the edge of a paperback she tossed at him—The Ethics of Ambiguity—while she moves through the room, barefoot, glass of wine in one hand. The robe she’s wearing barely qualifies as clothing. Black silk, falling open just enough to be distracting.

“Page 52,” she says, sipping. “You should read it. You’re arrogant enough to need it.”

He smirks. “You always insult your clients after sex, or am I special?”

“You’re not a client right now.” Her eyes meet his—steady, unreadable. “You’re a problem.”

She crosses the room slowly, her robe slipping lower with each step. The book slides from his hand, forgotten, as she sinks into his lap like she belongs there. Her fingers are in his hair, pulling just hard enough to draw a low sound from his throat.

He presses her back against the cushions, hands tracing over bare skin and silk and nothing at all. She gasps when he bites her shoulder—soft, then not so soft.

“Still think I’m a problem?” he mutters, lips against her throat.

Her nails drag down his back. “Absolutely.”

The robe falls. Her head tips back. And for a while, the only philosophy between them is the kind spoken in sighs, in heat, in bodies that don’t know how to stay away.

Nick sighed, exchanging one last look with Folio before turning back to the mixer. “Alright, but you better snap out of it soon.”

Noah gave a small, distracted smile but didn’t respond. Instead, he closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to remember the beat—anything but the ghost of her.

***

There was one thing she truly loved about working the dance rotation. It gave her a rare kind of control—control over when and how she could say no.

Sure, she could always decline an offer from a client, but those no’s never came without consequences. Word got around fast in their world. The moment a girl started turning men away too often, the whispers followed—“difficult,” “too picky,” “not worth the trouble.” And soon enough, the no’s piled up until she found herself standing alone, watching others—girls who said yes without hesitation—pocket the money she desperately needed.

Dancing was different. On the stage, under the hot, colored lights, she could set the terms. The rhythm was hers to command, the distance between her and the men clear and defined. Here, the clients were buyers of an experience, not of her body. It was a boundary she could enforce, a line that wasn’t crossed without her consent.

It gave her freedom—a fragile, precious freedom—not just from the physical demands but from the feeling that her body no longer belonged to her. When she danced, she was in control, moving to her own beat, not theirs. And for that brief time, the power was hers alone.

The music throbbed like a second heartbeat, bass vibrating through the floor and up into her bones. Karah moved with it instinctively, not performing, not thinking—just existing inside the rhythm. The stage lights bathed her in gold and violet, casting long shadows and shimmering across her skin as she twisted with the beat, hair spilling down her back like liquid ink.

This was the part she craved—the disconnection. The freedom. For these few minutes, she wasn’t someone’s fantasy or product or price tag. She was just motion and music. No demands. No voices.

Her eyes stayed soft-focus, barely seeing the faces in the crowd, just shapes in the dark. Men watched from velvet couches, drinks in hand, hungry and hollow-eyed. She didn’t care.

But then—

A shift.

A shape that didn’t blend into the rest.

Stillness in the chaos.

Her gaze, mid-spin, caught on a figure leaning against the far wall, mostly shadowed but unmistakable. Hoodie half-pulled back, jaw clenched in that familiar way. Hair a little longer than before. Eyes locked on her like he’d been waiting.

Noah.

For a moment, she forgot the music. Forgot the choreography. Her body kept moving, muscle memory carrying her through the next steps—but her mind slammed into that stare.

He looked different, and exactly the same. The kind of tired that goes soul-deep. The kind of yearning you don’t show unless it’s for someone who already knows how you break.

Their eyes held—just a second too long.

Just long enough.

She turned sharply, letting her hair veil her face, swallowing the hitch in her breath.

The lights changed. The beat dropped again. And she danced harder.

Because if she stopped, even for a second, she might walk right off that stage and into whatever mess still lingered between them.

And she wasn’t sure she’d survive it twice.

***

His manager was going to kill him.

They were supposed to make a quick appearance—just long enough to shake a few hands, pose for a few pictures, and remind everyone that they were still part of the production family. It wasn’t the main event, not by a long shot, but it was still important that they be seen. That Noah be seen.

And yet, somewhere between the open bar and the velvet ropes, he’d slipped away.

He couldn’t help it. The urge was too strong. Like muscle memory, his feet carried him through the familiar backstreets until he was standing beneath the crimson neon glow of the club’s discreet signage. His heart thrummed harder the moment he stepped inside. The bouncer didn’t even need to ask his name—just gave a tight nod and spoke into his radio mic, low and quick.

“The usual’s here,” the bouncer murmured.

Within seconds, Madame appeared from the shadows near the velvet drapes. Her sequined shawl shimmered like oil in the low light, and her expression was equal parts indulgence and exasperation.

“She’s not working the rooms tonight,” she told him before he could ask. “Selene’s on stage rotation this week. Dancing only.”

Noah’s chest sank, but he masked it with a polite smile. Of course she was. That’s how it worked here—rotations, rules, distance. You couldn’t get too used to anything or anyone.

Still, he nodded. He’d take what he could get.

The bass hits first—deep and slow, like a pulse under the skin. Noah walks in through the velvet-curtained doorway, the air thick with perfume and sweat and too much cologne. It’s late, or maybe early. He’s not keeping track. Vegas doesn’t tell time.

The room is lit like a dream: soft reds, shadows licking the corners, a stage glowing under a single spotlight. Men line the edge of it—drinks in hand, eyes hungry, bills already half-raised.

And then he sees her.

Up on the pole, back arched, hair loose like a sin slipping down her spine. She’s moving slow. Controlled. Every shift of her hips is deliberate, practiced, but there’s something behind it too—something that feels real. Or maybe he just wants it to be.

She's wearing black lace again. Of course she is. But here, under this light, it looks like armor.

His throat goes dry. He doesn't move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches.

She’s in command—completely. Twisting around the pole with an elegance that feels out of place in a room full of drunk men and dead-eyed lust. One guy near the front slides a wad of cash onto the stage. She doesn’t even look at him. Doesn’t need to. She knows exactly what she’s doing. And so do they.

Noah feels it in his chest. That sharp pull. A low burn of want and something darker—something possessive.

He hates it.

Hates the way the guy with the gold chain is leaning forward like he might reach for her. Hates the way her smile is just convincing enough to pass as real. Hates the fact that she’s here, on this stage, putting herself on display for men who will never get to know how brilliant she is. Or how careful. Or how alone.

She drops low—knees wide, fingers trailing along her thigh—and Noah has to clench his fists to keep from reacting. It's not the dancing that kills him. It's how easy she makes it look. How untouchable she is, even while they're all trying to buy pieces of her.

And then, just for a second, she sees him.

Their eyes lock. Across the lights, the crowd, the space where her body is currency and his presence is a secret. Her expression doesn’t change—still sultry, still in character—but her eyes go a shade darker.

He wonders if she's angry. If she knew he’d come. If she hoped he wouldn’t.

But she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. Just keeps moving, like he’s no one at all.

But the man remained silent, his expression unreadable behind those tinted shades. Undeterred, Karah rolled her eyes in a playful gesture and took a seat beside him, her movements fluid and graceful. Glancing down at the phone in his hand, she began scrolling through the various apps, her head strategically placed on his shoulder as she leaned in closer.

Gazing at her profile, the digital portrait she had taken just weeks after arriving stared back at her, a vivid and sensual representation of her online persona. She stared at it for a minute, reminiscing about the girl she’d been, nearly two years younger and platinum blonde with no piercings and barely any visible tattoos. With a quick double tap, the screen opened to reveal the full details of her profile - her stage name, gender, sexual orientation, and a schedule of her upcoming performances. She scrolled down to the large blue box labeled, "book now", clicking the tab with one tap of her acrylic nail.

"Everything is in here," she mused, scanning the options - private dances, personal services, and even the ability to submit outside requests. Pushing further into the "personal services" dropdown, she scrolled through a comprehensive list of add-ons her clients could select, each one tailored to cater to their deepest desires. "You can check off as much or as little as you want," she explained, her tone coy yet matter-of-fact, "and the total for all the services you've selected will be automatically pulled from your account." Standing up from the couch, she purposefully bent at the waist, smoothing her stockings as she continued, "Once a booking is made, I get a notification, and if I agree, you'll be texted a room number. But if I deny the request, your money is refunded, and you can try again." She paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Three denials, though, and you're locked out of my profile entirely, and Madam has to approve your renewal." Her silent companion continued to watch her, his gaze unflinching as she spoke.

Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she took a deep, steadying breath and headed for the stairs, her steps slow and measured, fighting the urge to rush. No need to seem overeager, she reminded herself. Let him come to her. Young clients were a rarity in her line of work, at least those who weren't the typical blonde trust fund babies in suits and ties, wasting their family's inheritance on cocaine and women because their pitiful personalities alone weren't enough to convince anyone to willingly share their bed. As she stepped back into the private confines of her domain, she furiously checked the drawers, ensuring she was fully stocked on all the necessities - condoms in a variety of sizes, flavored lubricants, and an assortment of toys to cater to any proclivity her clients may have. She wasn't quite sure what this new patron might be into, but she intended to be thoroughly prepared.

Feeling a sudden rush of confidence, she swiftly removed the delicate lingerie she had carefully selected and donned just moments before. The intricate lace and ribbons had seemed to overwhelm him, even behind those dark sunglasses she could see his eyebrows scrunch as he struggled to take in the complexity of the ensemble. Deciding to simplify her look, she opted instead to keep the sheer, seductive stockings in place, their deep crimson hue accentuating the pale, smooth skin of her legs. Pulling a flowing, blood-red dress over her head, she reveled in the way the fabric caressed her body, the hem grazing temptingly at the middle of her thighs while the neckline dipped low, revealing the gentle swell of her ample bosom. The dress seemed to move with a life of its own, the supple material skimming effortlessly over her plump, free breasts in a way that was both alluring and sophisticated.

Her mobile suddenly chirped to life, the sharp sound startling her for a moment before she snatched it up, heart pounding. For a moment, her breath caught in her throat as she snatched up the phone, tapping open the notification - "New client request: Sebastian. Services requested - vaginal intercourse, rough, dirty talk, fellatio, cunnilingus. Services accepted?" Her body immediately ran hot with a familiar anticipation, and she toyed absentmindedly with the delicate gold chain around her neck. Biting her lip, she pressed her thumb to the screen, sealing the deal, her pussy clenching around nothing in eager anticipation.

She paced her room slowly, waiting until the soft turn of the knob stopped her in her tracks. As she watched the doorknob slowly turn, her heart raced with nervous excitement. The tall, imposing figure of the man from downstairs came into view, his head nearly brushing the top of the door frame as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His sunglasses were tucked into the collar of his crisp shirt, and as he moved closer, she could hear the soft, vibrating sound of his calloused hands rubbing together - a sound that sent a shiver of electricity down her spine and a warm tingling sensation between her thighs.

When his gaze finally met hers, she was captivated by the striking contrast of his features - the sharp, high cheekbones, the plump, alluring lips, and the hint of rugged facial hair lining his upper lip and chin. His eyes deep and dark like endless pools that seemed to bore right into her soul, causing goosebumps to rise on her skin. The intensity of his stare had her unable to look away, her body already responding to his mere presence with a growing sense of anticipation and desire.

Her wide, captivated eyes were locked onto his, unable to look away from the sheer magnetism of his deep, soulful brown gaze. “On the bed.” His voice was like velvet, a mesmerizing melody that seemed to wrap around her, drawing her in deeper. She had never encountered a client so breathtakingly beautiful before - there simply weren't words adequate enough to describe his flawless features. Unable to contain her awe, her mouth fell open as she openly gawked at him, drinking in every detail.

With a slow, deliberate step forward, he closed the distance between them, her ample breasts pressing against the firm planes of his chest as she teetered on the heels of her foot. Reaching out, he grasped her face between his thumb and forefinger, gently squishing her cheeks until her lips puckered outwards. "I said, on the bed," he commanded in that same rich, velvety tone. Clumsily, she pushed herself back onto the mattress, resting on her elbows with her legs dangling off the edge.

Transfixed, she watched as he peeled off his t-shirt, revealing the intricate tapestry of tattoos that covered his muscular torso. An audible gasp escaped her lips at the sight, earning a self-satisfied smile from him. Slowly, he sank down to his knees, taking one of her legs in his large, calloused hands. Lifting her foot to his shoulder, he pressed a series of delicate kisses along the sensitive skin of her inner ankle, his touch igniting sparks of electricity that shot through her. Torturously slow, his hands slid up the length of her stocking-clad leg until he reached the top, peeling the sheer fabric down to her toes. "You won't be needing those," he purred, tossing the stockings aside.

Repeating the process with her other leg, he peppered tender kisses along the delicate flesh of her ankle and knee before carelessly dropping the limb. Then, with feline grace, he crawled his way up her body until his face was mere inches from hers, their noses almost touching. "Take off the dress," he commanded in a voice rough with barely-contained desire. Sitting up straight, she reached for the hem of her dress, shimmying it up over her hips and finally up and over her head, leaving her exposed before his hungry gaze.

He leaned in to kiss her, turning her face his lips caught the corner of her mouth lips trailing a tantalizing path across the delicate skin of her cheek and down the graceful column of her neck. She shuddered at the sensation, pulse quickening as he nipped and suckled at the sensitive flesh, intent on leaving his mark.

Driven by an insatiable craving, he continued his sensual descent, mouth fastening around the hardened peak of her nipple. The suction was deliciously firm, drawing a needy whimper from her parted lips as sparks of pleasure radiated outward, setting her nerve endings ablaze. His tongue flicked and teased, caressing the sensitive bud in a rhythm as old as time itself. She was quickly becoming lost in the haze of desire, rational thought slipping away as the building pressure within threatened to consume her. Every touch, every caress, stoked the flames of her arousal higher, until she was teetering on the edge of ecstasy, mind hazy and unfocused, reality blurring at the edges.

He released her delicate breast from his mouth, the soft flesh making a faint popping sound as it left his lips. Trailing his tongue in a sensual path across her sternum, he moved to the other breast, taking the hardened nipple between his teeth and repeating the delicate ministrations. Her breath grew ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly as she gripped the sheets with white-knuckled intensity, overwhelmed by the sensations he was eliciting. Slowly he kissed a meandering path down the smooth plane of her belly, gracefully sinking to his knees as he positioned himself between her trembling thighs. Locking eyes with her, he drank in the sight of her flushed, needy form, breasts heaving with each rapid breath.

"Can I taste you?" he murmured, voice thick with desire. Her breathless nod of approval was all the permission he needed. He buried his face between her thighs, using his strong hands to spread her open and grant him unfettered access. He flicked his tongue over her swollen clit in a steady, maddening rhythm, reveling in the whimpers and moans that spilled from her lips. Pulling her tender nub between his lips, he suckled it firmly, pulling a desperate whine from deep in her throat. Slipping his tongue into her slick heat, he lapped at her with single-minded focus, determined to commit every inch of her to memory. Her entire body quivered and writhed as he devoured her, lost in the feral ecstasy.

The intense, overwhelming sensations flooded her body as her thighs clamped down around his head, her orgasm pulsing through her with a primal, desperate force. Her fingers frantically tangled in his soft, brown hair, clawing at him as she tried in vain to pull him away from the overpowering stimulation that made her scream out in a mix of pleasure and discomfort. With a firm, unyielding grip, his hands pushed her trembling thighs open, allowing him to take one last, indulgent pull of her swollen, sensitive clit between his lips before she could no longer bear it.

Panting heavily, he commanded her to her knees, hastily kicking off his shoes and discarding the rest of his clothing as she settled her quivering legs on the bed. Wrapping his fingers around his throbbing cock, he pumped a few times, closing the distance between them as her mouth dropped open, her tongue sliding out in eager anticipation. With a deep, guttural groan, he dropped the weight of himself onto her waiting tongue, feeling the delicious, wet heat as she closed her mouth around him. Gathering her hair in both hands, he moaned as she slid her mouth up and down his shaft, her tongue circling the sensitive head as she withdrew before sinking back down. Her hands gripped his thighs for traction, and he threw his head back, consumed by the incredible sensations. Hollowing out her cheeks, she worked him relentlessly, until he had to summon all his willpower to pull her away.

With a gentle, caressing motion, he cupped her soft cheek in his hand, his thumb tenderly stroking the delicate bone underneath her skin. "Lay back down," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. Effortlessly, she complied, sinking back onto the bed until she was lying on her back. He positioned himself above her, sliding between her thighs like it was where he belonged. "Condoms are in...in the...drawer." she managed to push out the words between ragged breaths. He sat up straight, leaning back on his heels watching her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady her heavy, labored breathing. Gazing up at his muscular, tattooed body, she couldn't help but feel surprised that someone with his rugged good looks and undeniable charm would ever need to visit a place like this. Surely a man of his caliber could have his pick of any woman he desired, without having to arrange such clandestine trysts. But there was an intensity, a primal hunger in his eyes as he looked down at her that suggested this was about more than just physical gratification. There was a deep, unspoken need that drove him here, to this shadowy realm where the usual rules of courtship and propriety did not apply. Whatever demons lurked within him, whatever void he was trying to fill, she sensed he would not be leaving until he was thoroughly, thoroughly satisfied.

Glancing over at the closed drawer by the bed, his dark, smoldering eyes slid back to meet her gaze as he posed the question, "Are they required?" She could only nod her head slowly. Strict laws in the state of Nevada required all registered brothels to mandate the use of condoms regardless of the contraceptives already in use by the employees. He leaned over, the springs of the mattress creaking beneath his weight, and opened the drawer, carefully selecting the item he needed from within.

She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, never before having felt this way with a client. His touch was gentle yet firm as his large hands pet her soft hair, running his long fingers through the silky strands. Slowly, his hand drifted down, calloused fingertips grazing the delicate skin of her neck before he firmly gripped her, pushing her back into the plush mattress. Pinned beneath him, his grip tightening ever so slightly, he ripped open the foil packet with his teeth, nimble fingers expertly fitting the protection in place before taking himself in hand. With agonizing slowness, he teased her aching, sensitive flesh, the smooth head of his cock caressing her clit, making her shudder with pleasure. He slid himself into the hilt taking her leg, folding it up to her body as he pushed deeper into her.

With most clients she would stare at the ceiling or find something to focus on, anything to get through the evening, sometimes it was enjoyable, but that was rare. This. This was something else. His dick game was better than any client before, she felt like she should have been paying him instead of the other way around. The head of his cock hit her cervix and she felt the sharp pressure in her abdomen ready to break in two. Her hands gripped the sheets, pulling them to her as her grasp tightened.

She felt him withdraw leaving her empty, the pitiful whine she gave made her feel a strange sense of embarrassment. He rolled her onto her stomach sliding his hand up the back of her head to get a good hold of her hair at the scalp, he tugged pulling her head back. “Get up, baby girl.” She pushed herself up on her hands arching her back to keep from feeling too much tension on her scalp.

“All the way, that’s a good girl.” He praised her as she got up on her hands and knees. She felt him shift behind her on the bed pushing her legs further open with his knees, taking himself in hand he lined himself up bottoming out in her hard till his hips slapped against her ass.

She keened feeling him stretch her out again. Her body was hot and sticky from the sweat, muscles were already sore in all the right places. But she didn’t care, her client list was men that never were satisfying, never made her crave more. He was different. She rocked her hips back moving along his length to satisfy the tightness building in her abdomen.

“Such a needy, girl. Aren’t you?” She stopped when she realized that she wasn’t playing the role he wanted her to. He gave a sharp tug to her hair, making her cry out. “I didn’t say stop. Fuck me, like the needy girl you are.”

She resumed rolling her hips back onto him gripping the sheets for traction, she moaned feeling her toes curl. A sharp smack landed on her ass cheek fueling her to move faster, moaning and crying out as she clenched around his cock. She sighed, taking in the way her body came down from her orgasm.

His long arms reached around, hand wrapping around her throat before cupping her chin and lifting her face to look up. Her eyes met the clean glass of the mirror on the wall. She always avoided the mirror, kept her eyes off it, she did this with all mirrors. A quick glance to ensure she didn’t look disheveled was all she needed. Mirrors to her always meant self reflection, something she wasn’t always ready for.

“Look at you,” he growled, squeezing her cheeks in his hand. “Look how pretty you look taking all of my cock.”

Her walls squeezed around him at his words, her eyes locked on the mirror in front of her. She had never seen herself like this before. Eyes blown wide, mouth laxed and jaw dropped, her cheeks flushed and her forehead glowing in the light from the thin sheet of perspiration. Her hair was falling wild around her shoulders from all the pulling, her breasts bouncing with every thrust of his body behind her.

He pushed her face down into the mattress, turning her slightly so her nose and mouth were free to breathe. His other hand gripped her hip with a vice rutting his hips into her hard and fast, she could feel him at her belly button, her back stretching in places she didn’t know it could from the way he had her arched up. He moaned, grunted, even let out deep sighs when he hit just the right spot inside her. She wails feeling herself come against him all over again, faintly hearing him say something like ‘that’s it baby’.Her eyes were rolling back into her head as she continued to feel him rut into her. She felt the unsteady movement in his rhythm realizing he was close to his end, and she felt a pang of regret, she didn’t want it to end at all, it was so exhilarating. He gave one final thrust before going stiff behind her, she waited till he caught his breath. First letting go of her hair he relaxed pulling himself from inside her, she gave a whimper and winced at the feeling before pulling herself back up on her hands and knees.