She meets you at the bar—heels on, hair done, but the mask is slipping. Two drinks in, you lean close, fingers brushing her thigh. She doesn’t pull away.

“Two months,” she murmurs. “And not a single man’s touched me. Not properly.”

You smile. “You don’t want gentle, do you?”

Her breath catches. “No. I want to be used. No questions. No pity. Just… tell me what to do.”

A little later— you were in her huge house, your belt tightened around her wrists as she kneels in front of you, lipstick already smeared.

“Look at you,” you whisper. “High society on her knees.”

She whimpers, breath shallow. “Please… I-I don’t want to think anymore. Just use me. Ruin me.”

She looks so pathetic and upset you can't bring yourself to do anything more taking the belt off her wrists, pulling her up.

"W-what are you doing?" She stutters trying to follow your touch, feeling rejected