The mirror in my bedroom stretched from floor to ceiling, reflecting every curve of my body in cruel, delicious detail. I had just come out of my bathroom. I stood there naked, my fingers tracing the swell of my hips, the dip of my waist, the way my 36Ds sat heavy and full, the nipples already tight little buds from the chill of the air—or maybe just the thought of what I was about to do. My skin prickled under my own gaze, fair and flushed in places where my hands had lingered too long. The dark blonde waves of my hair tumbled over my shoulders, messy from the way I’d been running my fingers through it, tugging at the roots just to feel the sharp little sting.
Pete hissed from the corner of the room, his yellow eyes locked onto me like he always did when I was like this—spread out, unashamed, touching myself like I was the only thing in the world worth worshipping. The cat knew the routine by now. Dress, undress, admire, touch, repeat. He’d seen me in every state—clothed, half-clothed, completely bare, fingers buried between my thighs while I moaned into the silence of my bedroom. Tonight was no different, except for the way my pulse thrummed a little harder beneath my skin, the way my folds already felt swollen, slick with anticipation.
“I know, baby,” I murmured to him, my voice thick, husky. “You like watching, don’t you?” My fingers slid lower, teasing the outer lips of my pussy, parting them just enough to let the cool air kiss the wetness there. A shiver ran through me, my back arching slightly, pushing my tits out further. “Fuck, I’m already so wet.” The words spilled out of me, filthy and unfiltered, because what was the point of lying to myself? My clit throbbed under the pad of my middle finger, begging for pressure, for friction, for more. I gave it to her—just a little, just enough to make my breath hitch, my thighs tremble. “Look at me, Pete. Look how fucking greedy I am.” My free hand cupped my breast, squeezing, my thumb flicking over the nipple until it ached. “I could come just like this, couldn’t I? Just from you watching me touch myself like the little slut I am.”
But I didn’t. Not yet. Tonight wasn’t about me—well, not only about me. Tonight was about them. The men at my dad’s business party, the ones who’d be staring, the ones who’d be wishing. And you never know. Fuck, especially the new sales team.
I turned from the mirror, my body still humming with need, and reached for the dress I’d laid out on the bed. It was barely a dress at all—more like a suggestion of one, a scrap of black silk that would cling to every curve and leave nothing to the imagination. The front split open from the chest down, just below my belly button, the fabric so thin it might as well have been painted on. I stepped into it, shimmying my hips as it slid up my thighs, over my ass, settling against my skin like a second layer. No bra. Why the fuck would I wear a bra? My tits spilled out the top, the nipples peeking through just enough to tease, the pink of my areolas barely concealed. I adjusted the waist belt, the diamond just below my navel catching the light, drawing the eye right to the dip of my navel. The dress ended just a couple of inches below my groin, high enough to reveal my back cheeks, ensuring eyes would be on me every time.
Then came the G-string. Pearl strands, delicate and cruel, tracing the curve of my ass, the string disappearing between my cheeks before looping around to the front, where a single, fat pearl rested right inside of my entrance. I shifted, feeling it pop a bit and press against my lips, the cool smoothness of it a stark contrast to the heat of my skin. The coverage was a joke—just enough to technically call it underwear, but really, it was just decoration. An invitation.
I turned back to the mirror, swinging my hips, raising my arms to test the limits of the dress. The movement made my tits jiggle, the cleavage deepen, and the fabric strain. Perfect. I could bend, I could reach, I could tease, and they’d all get a show. The thought made my pussy clench, a fresh wave of wetness pooling between my thighs. I could already imagine their faces—the way their eyes would drop, the way their breaths would catch, the way some of them would adjust themselves when they thought no one was looking.
Pete hissed again, tail flicking, and I grinned. “You’re jealous, aren’t you? Don’t worry, baby. You’ll get your turn later.” I blew him a kiss before grabbing my clutch and heading for the door.
The car Dad sent was sleek and black, the kind of thing that screamed money without being ostentatious. The chauffeur didn’t so much as bat an eyelash when I slid into the backseat, my dress riding up to flash the pearl G-string and the smooth expanse of my inner thighs. He didn’t have much of a view, though. I crossed my legs, then uncrossed them, letting the fabric part just enough to see if there was anything I needed to bother about.
The venue was one of those places that reeked of old money—high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and the kind of wood panelling that probably cost a bit more than my tuition.
I stepped out of the car, the cool evening air kissing my exposed skin, and immediately spotted John. Dad’s business partner. Tall, silver-fox type, always impeccably dressed, always with that smirk like he knew something you didn’t. Tonight, his gaze locked onto me the second I walked in, and—fuck, he didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes raked down my body, lingering on my tits, my waist, the way the dress barely covered my ass. When his gaze finally made it, just for a second, to my face, his pupils were blown, his jaw tight.
“Sara,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. “You look…” His eyes dropped again. “Stunning.”
I smiled, sweet as poison. “John. Always a pleasure.”
He didn’t offer his arm. Didn’t even pretend to be gentlemanly about it. Just stood there, drinking me in, his hands flexing at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch. The thought sent a thrill through me, my nipples tightening further, pressing against the flimsy fabric. I could feel the pearl between my lips shifting with every step, a constant, teasing reminder of how exposed I was.
I left him standing there and wandered into the crowd.
The party was exactly what I expected—men in suits, women in dresses that cost more than my rent, all of them sipping champagne and pretending they weren’t scanning the room for their next thrill. I mingled, laughing, touching arms, leaning in just a little too close when I spoke. Their eyes kept dropping. To my tits, to the way the dress clung to my hips, to the flash of thigh when I shifted my weight. Several actually gasped when I gestured with my hand, the movement making my cleavage deepen, the fabric threatening to slip.
I loved it.
Then my handkerchief fell down.
I bent to pick it up, slow, deliberate, my ass in the air, the dress riding up to expose the pearl G-string and the way the strands disappeared between my cheeks. I heard the sharp inhale before I even looked up. John was standing behind me, close enough, ensuring he had a perfect view.
I straightened, turning to face him, and his eyes were glued to my ass. Not even trying to hide it. His gaze traced the pearl strands, the way they framed my cheeks, the way the single pearl at the front was nestled right against my pussy lips. My skin burned under his stare. My nipples were so hard they ached.
Then I noticed his cock was a problem. A very obvious, very large problem, straining against his slacks, the outline of him thick and veiny, pressing against the fabric like it was begging to be let out. My breath hitched, and anger flared hot and bright inside me—how dare he look at me like that, like I was some piece of meat he could just take—but then my nipples tightened further, my folds swelled, and fuck, I was dripping.
John’s gaze flicked up, meeting mine, and the bastard smirked. His cock twitched, growing even harder under my stare. I knew he noticed me getting perked.
I wanted to slap him. I called Dad, as he was to come to pick me up, as the chauffeur went to pick Dad up at the venue.
He didn’t answer at first, and I had to fight the urge to throw my phone across the room. When he finally picked up, his voice was harried, distracted. “Silky, sweetheart, I’m so sorry—I’m running late. Traffic’s a nightmare. Can you—”
“I need to go home,” I said, my voice tight. “Now.”
A pause. Then, sighing, “Of course. I’ll make arrangements; maybe have John take you.”
My stomach dropped. “Dad—” But he kept me on hold, and when he again spoke, he said, “He’s already there, sweetheart. It’s fine. He’ll make sure you get home safe.”
I had no choice, as he didn’t let me complete my sentence; I gritted my teeth. “Fine.”
The limo was all dark leather and whispered luxury, the partition up, the world outside reduced to a blur of lights. John sat across from me, on his couch just in front of me. The silence was thick, suffocating, the kind of quiet that made me happy, as I didn’t have to worry about talking to John and bearing his hungry looks. After five minutes, I glanced at John. He was looking at me, the view!
His cock was hard, straining. The fabric of his slacks was pulled taut over the head, the outline of him obscene, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. My breath caught. The pearl strands must have shifted when I sat, the fabric of my dress riding up just enough to give him a view—the smooth, bare skin of my Venus, the way the single pearl rested right at my entrance, blocking his view of my inner folds but hinting at them.
In my anger at his unabashed behavior, I stretched my legs farther apart.
The pearl slipped, just a little, the cool air kissing my exposed flesh.
John’s breath hitched; he knew he was caught.
His eyes flicked up, meeting mine, for the first time that night, after the initial conversation. He was not repentant. Instead, he leaned forward, looking at me. His gaze darkened. “I want to explore your love cave.”
The words hit me like a slap, filthy and direct and exactly what I wanted not to hear. My pussy clenched, my folds swelling, the pearl pressing against my entrance in a way that made me whimper. “Oh yeah?” I breathed. “And what makes you think I’d let you?”
“Because,” he said, his voice rough, “for the first time in over a year, I want to have sex. And I want it because of you and your beautiful body.”
I should’ve laughed in his face. I should’ve told him he was delusional, that I had standards. But bluntly said, “I only make love to young, energetic, and long-lasting men,” my voice dripping with disdain, with challenge.
His eyes flashed. The businessman in him latched onto that word—long-lasting. “I’ll give up my sports car,” he said, his voice low, intense, “if I can’t last after initial penetration in you until you’ve had a couple of orgasms.”
My breath caught.
The offer was ridiculous. Insulting, even. Like he thought he could buy me, buy this. But —fuck, the business blood in me stirred.
I smirked.
“I’m a sport,” I said.
His eyes darkened, triumphant. Hungry.
The limo pulled up to my building.
He said, “We’ll meet at my winery,” he said, “My limo will be here to pick you up for our private jet ride,” his voice rough. “Next weekend.”
I walked into my house. I didn’t bother to respond to Pete’s greeting me.