It started with a smug smirk over drinks — my friend leaned back, swirling his gin like he was about to change my life. “You know my mate Tom? Tradie. He reckons he could fuck half his clients if he wanted. Says the way they look at him, the flirting, the little hints — they’re all gagging for it.”
He grinned. “I told him he hadn’t met you.”
The challenge was simple: get him round. Seduce him. See if he’d take the bait.
So, I did more than set the trap — I designed the stage.
My bedroom was a quiet storm waiting to erupt. A sleek black flogger draped over the end of the bed like an invitation too daring to write. On the bedside cabinet, deliberately not hidden, sat my favourite glass dildo — glinting like it had already been warmed by skin and sin. Just the kind of thing a curious eye couldn’t help landing on.
He arrived mid-morning. Work boots. Hi-vis. Tanned forearms flexing with casual strength as he carried his gear in. “You must be H,” he said with a smile that hinted he’d already undressed me in his mind.
“Guilty,” I replied, biting the inside of my cheek. “Thanks for coming — I just had a truly shit date, so you’re already the highlight of my day.”
That got a laugh, low and knowing.
We moved through the house, talking about dating apps and horror stories, trading tales of chemistry and kink as easily as wallpaper samples. Every now and then, his gaze dropped — to my lips, my chest, the way I leaned just a little too close when pointing things out.
Upstairs, I let him walk into the bedroom first.
He hesitated for half a second. The air thickened.
I stayed breezy — asking about curtain rails like there wasn’t a dildo three feet from him. Like the flogger wasn’t draped just so. His breath hitched. He masked it well, but I noticed. And I knew then — he was going to break.
“Can you hold the measure for me?” he asked.
I turned my back deliberately, standing right in front of the cabinet as he stretched the tape out — the tip kissing the edge of the glass toy like he couldn’t help himself.
A pause. A beat too long.
When we finished the walk-through, I thanked him as casually as I could, voice smooth, playful. But just before he stepped out of my room, he stopped.
“H,” he said, voice suddenly deeper, more deliberate. “I’m going to be honest with you. The moment I leave here, I’m going to have a furious wank.”
I turned slowly, leaning against the doorframe, eyebrow raised. “Wow. Do you talk to all your clients like that?”
He looked me dead in the eye. “Only the ones who leave their toys out like a fucking dare.”
My lips curled. “Well, why waste your hand,” I whispered, stepping closer, “when there’s a tight, wet pussy ready and waiting?”
The next second was a blur — tools dropped, hands on my waist, mouths crashing like waves in a storm. He spun me against the wall, kissing me like he’d been starving. There was nothing gentle about it — it was raw, aching, like he’d been thinking about this since he crossed the threshold.
His hands were rough, confident, greedy — tugging up my top, cupping my breasts, pushing me onto the bed without asking, without needing to. He paused just long enough to ask, “Are you sure?”
“I want you to ruin me,” I breathed.
That was all it took.
Two hours blurred into a beautiful haze of mouths and skin, teasing and tension, the flogger eventually coming into play in the filthiest way. My sheets were twisted, my voice hoarse, my body limp with satisfaction by the time he finally pulled himself together.
He left with a smirk, hair messy, lips still swollen.
Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzed. It was my friend.
“You f*cking legend,” he laughed down the line. “He just called me and said, mate, you’re never going to believe this…” |
