Punching Bag

Crystal opens her front door, sizing up Aiden like prey on sale. He steps inside and she chats easily enough, but his black denim shirt and cocky half-smile give him away—he fucks for money and likes being told where to put it. She leads him straight to the bedroom. Lube, leather cuffs, blindfold all laid out neat on the nightstand. Crystal rolls up her sleeves like she’s clocking in for extra innings, then blurts, “My coworker Derrick keeps baiting me. One more smirk and I’ll drown the bastard in his cappuccino machine.” Aiden flashes that smug-money smile: “Whatever poor Derrick’s missing out on, I’m more than happy to let you do to me.” Crystal’s eyes go flat. 'LET me?' The word breaks like a whip. She snaps a riding crop hard across her palm. CUT TO TITLE. She shoves Aiden onto his back, orders him to spread, cuffs his wrists to the headboard. “Fuck Derrick,” she growls, climbing over him. She slams onto his cock, pumps quick and mean, still calling him that absent coworker. Aiden groans, tells her the dick’s his but sure, she can pretend it isn’t. But her eyes stay locked on an invisible target just past his face. She leans in, teeth by his ear, and spits: “Tell me how stupid you are, Derrick.” Aiden hesitates. The slap of wet skin echoes off the walls. “I’m the dumbest fuck in the building,” he mutters. Her mouth smiles; her voice carves. She rails him deeper, swats his chest with the crop, calls him a gutless desk-jockey, a payroll waste. Aiden’s laughter turns tight. His safeword crouches behind his teeth, waiting to be used. The safe word is a fact she still hasn’t mentioned. And she doesn’t plan on giving him room to say it.