Dried and dressed... my torn panties discarded, replaced with a spare pair from his drawer that felt suspiciously like lingerie, he handed me a check. Fifty thousand, signed with a flourish.
'Deposit it tomorrow. And text me when you do. I want proof you're mine.'
I nodded, legs wobbly as I gathered my things. The city outside seemed brighter, sharper, but inside, a storm brewed. As I rode the elevator down, the plug's absence echoed, my body marked inside and out. What had I done? Sold my soul for art supplies? But the ache between my legs whispered otherwise... the thrill, the release, the power in surrender.
That night, in my dingy apartment, I lay awake, fingers tracing the bruises, replaying his commands. The money sat heavy in my purse, but so did the hunger for more. Ronald's dad
