Paper pile, all red and final, urges me to call this number now.
She’s breathy. I’m breathier.
“Credit extension?” I beg in my best whimper.
“You’ll have to wear more clothes,” she unflinchingly retorts.
“I’m sure you’d prefer me in less,” I flirt hopelessly and hopefully by reply.
“Less than what?” she enquires.
“Pearl’s,” I moan. “A pearl thong. Pulled tight. Parting my petal lips. Slick with my essence. Smooth beneath my fingertips. Hard and insistent across the blood-swollen, throbbing nub of my clit.”
“Three months,” she says, “I’ll phone daily to check your progress.”
“Please do,” I gush.
