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Mark, bless his heart, shifted nervously on the edge of my worn velvet chaise lounge. His eyes, usually bright with a hopeful glint, were now clouded with a desperate hunger. He thought I liked him. He truly did. And maybe, in some twisted way, I did. But mostly, I liked the way the crisp hundred-dollar bills felt between my fingers after our sessions.
I moved with a practiced grace, as my many years of dance lessons finally started to pay off. I circled him slowly, my fingertips trailing lightly over the fabric of his neatly pressed shirt. He flinched at my touch, a tremor running through his body. He was so easy to control, a marionette dancing to the tune of my whispered commands. The rules were clear, etched in unspoken agreement between us. He could pump. He could stroke. But he could never, ever cum. He couldn’t touch me, but I could touch him. I was the conductor of this bizarre symphony of frustration, and he was my willing, albeit tormented, instrument. Nothing more than a plaything…A pet.
Mark thought I liked him
I knelt before him, my gaze unwavering. “Loser,” I whispered, the word a deliberate sting. His eyes darkened. “Simp,” I added, watching as a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He bucked slightly against the cushion, a small, involuntary movement that betrayed his mounting desperation. I took my time, relishing the power I held as I teased and taunted, leading him to the precipice of ecstasy and then, with a deft touch, pulling him back. His breath came in ragged gasps, his face flushed crimson. He was close, so close. I could feel it in the tension radiating from his body.
“Almost there, Mark?” I cooed, my fingers dancing just below the point of no return. “Just a little more…maybe…or maybe not.” He groaned, a sound that was both pleasure and discomfort. He leaked, a small, shameful stain spreading on his trousers. He was a mess, a pathetic, beautiful mess. And I was the artist, the architect of his undoing. The game was delicate, a high-wire act with no safety net. One wrong move, one moment of weakness, and it was all over. If he came, the spell would be broken. The money would dry up. And I’d be left with nothing but the echoes of his frustration and the uncomfortable silence of an empty apartment.
But I was good at this game. I was a master of control, a queen on her throne. And Mark, poor, infatuated Mark, was my willing, exquisitely tormented subject. He thought he was getting something out of this, some twisted form of connection. He was wrong. He was simply paying the rent. And as long as he kept paying, the game would continue.
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