She showed me her dungeon. She gets paid $200 an hour to humiliate rich men.
“Where do I sign up?” I joked, and she genuinely laughed.
We got fucked up and talked politics. We had both decided to reject consumerism a long time ago. We both thought America was a decaying bullshit story.
We talked. We nodded in agreement. We sized each other up.
She took me to a bar down the street from her office. We drank three drinks, quickly, and she stated dancing on the bar, shaking her ass in my face, presenting. I gestured for her to come down to me. She arched her entire body back, and bent her knees, holding the bar’s stripper pole, her spine parallel to the bar, and she was looking up at me — a sexual yogi from New York City. I put my hand on her throat and squeezed her jugular slightly more than playfully.
“I’m not the submissive type,” I whispered in her ear. I could feel her pulse quickening in my grip. Her pupils dilated. “If you make me want to fuck you,” I continued, “I’m going to try to fuck you.”
She giggled, kissed my cheek, and said, “We’ll see…” then returned to her dancing.
