Content Warning ⚠️ 🔞
(An ugly world)
The first appointment
Here, nobody talks about feelings.
We stay in control.
We do what’s necessary, what moves the needle, what keeps us climbing.
Love is a chain. Success doesn’t wear chains.
So we don’t fall. We don’t stop.
“I won’t stop for you.” That’s the quiet rule we all live by.
____
“I keep hearing Serin Raynor is worth the money,” Melanie says, digging through my closet like it’s her own. “Just book him already.”
I pull out the red dress I bought for the charity ball next week and hold it against me. These events are torture: everyone smiling like sharks, judging every seam, every step. I still can’t dance without looking like a robot having a seizure.
Melanie shakes her head. “Too loud. And you’ve dropped weight. It’ll hang wrong.”
She tosses me the latest Men catalog instead. I bought it on the way home. I’m not like the company manager who spends her every weekend with a new escort, but my life has been so hectic lately and I need to get rid of this tension properly before the ball if I want to have a healthy evening.
“Serin Raynor’s in there,” she says, pulling out a slinky black dress that’s basically four straps and a prayer. “Susan says he’s new but stupidly good. Follows rules, no surprise extras. Remember Ken? The asshole who tried to shove his dick in my mouth after I said oral was off-limits?”
I’m only half-listening. The pressure between my thighs is deafening tonight. Rules feel negotiable when you’re this wound up.
I flip to his page: Serin Raynor. 25 years old. 6'2" tall. 181 pounds. The photo stops me cold. Dark hair, amber eyes, lean muscle—no ink, no smug grin like most of them. He looks… quiet. Dangerous in a way that doesn’t need to announce itself.
I dial before I overthink it. Give my name, my address. That’s it.
A low, calm voice answers. “Good evening. Are you comfortable with me sending additional photos?”
Professional. Like he’s confirming a lunch reservation. Heat crawls up my neck anyway.
“No need,” I say, cringing at how tight my voice sounds. “I’ve seen enough.”
What the hell, Zoe?! I've seen enough?!
Silence. Then, “Very well. Ten o’clock all right? Till eleven sharp?”
“Yeah.”
“Any preferences I should prepare for? Toys, role-play, notable health issues, or particular things you enjoy?”
Jesus. He’s reading from a mental checklist. I swallow.
“Nothing complicated,” I manage. “And I don’t like being penetrated. That’s a hard line.”
“Understood. Your boundaries are mine. See you at ten, Miss Sosia.”
He hangs up. The way he said my name lingers like a fingertip dragged down my spine.
Melanie fans me with the catalog. “You’re already sweating. Good sign.”
---
Ten sharp. The intercom buzzes.
I check myself one last time: tiny red silk dress, no bra, heels that make my legs look illegal. When I open the door, the hallway light cuts across him like he ordered it himself.
Black suit, white shirt, company pin neat on the lapel. Eyes locked on mine, polite and unreadable.
“Miss Sosia?”
I nod, throat dry.
He steps inside, closes the door with a soft click, and only then lets his gaze drop, slow, deliberate, down the length of me. My nipples answer before my brain does.
I lead him to the living room. Suddenly I’m aware of every silly detail in my apartment and wish I’d taken down some of the paintings that look too cute for a twenty-three-year-old. But he’s quiet; his eyes bore into my back.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask when the silence gets too heavy.
He shakes his head. “No, thank you.”
“Not even a glass of orange juice?”
“If you like my kisses to taste like orange… of course.”
I don’t know if that was meant to be funny, but I smile anyway and pour him some.
“I know you’re not allowed alcohol during appointments. But I suppose you have to be careful with other drinks too, right?”
He sips, savoring it like he’s weighing his answer. “Yeah, kind of. Our clients’ preferences are always the priority.”
I chuckle. “Now you sound exactly like your agency slogan.”
He smirks. Finally. “You’re right. But it’s not always pretty. The rules protect us too. You never know what some clients might try.”
I wonder what a woman could possibly do to hurt a man like him, but I let it go.
“How long have you been doing this, Mr. Raynor?” Great. Job-interview vibes.
“Six months.” He leans back on the couch, one arm stretched along the backrest. “Call me whatever feels right.”
I bend to pick up the tray, giving him a full view of my cleavage. When I straighten, his eyes are exactly where I wanted them, but there’s no cheap smirk, just a dark gleam that says we’re moving to the interesting part.
I walk back from the kitchen slower, hips swaying. The air between us is thick enough to taste.
He watches me approach, voice low. “Here or the bedroom?”
The simple, professional question sends a shiver down my spine. He’s already standing, shrugging off his jacket. My gaze follows every movement, the way his shirt strains over his shoulders.
“Both, if you’re comfortable.”
I stop in front of him and reach for his shirt buttons. My fingers shake against his warm skin. He doesn’t help, just lets me undo them one by one until the shirt hangs open and I can see the sharp cut of his chest, the faint trail of hair disappearing under his belt.
His hand settles lightly on my hip, thumb brushing the bare skin above the hem. Careful, like he’s still waiting for permission.
I lean in, lips almost touching his ear. “You can drop the perfect-employee act now.”
A soft exhale against my neck. “And if I don’t want to?”
The words melt something low in my stomach. I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. They’re darker now, pupils blown wide.
“Then keep it,” I whisper. “Makes me wetter.”
His fingers tighten once, then slide under the hem, tracing the edge of my lace thong. Not pushing, just mapping.
“So you want me out of your private space too,” he murmurs, voice rougher. “Are you sure you want to remember us on your couch? Successful woman like you… what would colleagues or family think when they visit?”
That husky voice in my ear is the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. His hand kneads my ass under the skirt, his index finger deliberately brushing between my thighs every few seconds. My knees are getting weaker by the second.
“How do you know I haven’t had another escort on this couch?” I challenge, even as he tortures me so perfectly.
He smirks, amber eyes gleaming. “Babe, your couch is brand new. Tell me, do you replace it after every visitor?”
I strip his shirt off and close the last inch between us. He’s warm, solid. His chest is art; his abs beg to be touched. I trace them, loving the way his breath catches. His bulge presses hard against my belly.
“You’ve got good eyes,” I murmur.
His other hand slides up my back and tugs the zipper down. “You can say the same about my tongue.” The words brush my ear; then his tongue traces my earlobe. I shiver hard, and he groans in approval.
“No doubt about that,” I breathe, voice trembling.
He pulls the dress off my shoulders. It pools at my feet. He steps back just enough to look, eyes dragging over every inch.
“An hour isn’t enough for what your body deserves.”
Believe me, it’s not enough for either of us.
“You’ll make it work,” I say. “Or are your organizing skills not as good as your dick’s?”
He walks backward to the couch and sits, pulling me down so I straddle his lap.
“Shame you won’t see my dick’s work tonight.” Then he captures my mouth.
I kiss him back like I’m starving, hands framing his face while his palms roam every curve. He cups my breasts, squeezes gently; I moan into him, grinding harder. His thumbs circle my nipples and my grip tightens.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down my jaw, my throat. “Serin… please…”
Finally his hand slips between my legs, pressing the soaked lace. “Fuck, you’re dripping.” His fingers push the fabric aside and glide through my folds, spreading wetness, circling my clit with exactly the right pressure.
I bury my face in his neck, kissing, biting, tasting salt. “Do whatever you want, just do it.”
Two fingers slide over me, never inside, fast then slow, perfect rhythm. My hips roll against his hand, chasing. He watches my face like it’s his job to memorize every gasp.
I come hard, thighs shaking, a broken cry muffled against his shoulder. He keeps stroking gently until the last tremor fades, then brings his glistening fingers to his mouth and licks them clean while looking straight at me.
“Good girl,” he says quietly.
I’m still catching my breath when he stands, lifts me like I weigh nothing, and carries me to the bedroom.
He lays me on the bed, then climbs over me. Strong hands turn me onto my stomach first.
“You carry all your stress in your shoulders,” he murmurs. His palms dig in, slow, deep circles along my spine, my neck, the knots I didn’t even know were there. Every press of his thumbs melts another layer of tension until I’m liquid.
Then he flips me onto my back again, spreads my legs wide, and lowers his mouth.
His tongue is slow, deliberate, devastating. Long licks, soft suction, the occasional gentle scrape of teeth. He pins my hips when I try to buck, controls every second. The second orgasm builds even stronger than the first, crashes over me so hard I see stars and forget how to breathe for a moment.
When I come down, he’s kneeling between my thighs, eyes dark, lips wet.
I push up, hands already on his belt. He lets me open it, shove everything down just enough. He’s thick, hard, pulsing in my hand.
I stroke once, twice, then take him deep. He groans, fingers threading gently through my hair, letting me set the pace. I taste him, swirl my tongue, take him to the back of my throat until his thighs start to shake.
Close. So close.
I pull off at the last second, pumping fast with my hand. He comes with a low, raw sound, spilling hot across my chest, my neck, a few drops landing on my lips. I lick them away and watch him try to remember how to breathe.
For a moment we just stare at each other, air thick and electric.
Then the professional mask slides back on. He stands, tucks himself away, zips up.
“Bathroom?” he asks, voice steady again.
I point, still dazed. He disappears for less than a minute, comes back with a warm, damp towel, and cleans me gently, thoroughly, like it’s part of the service. Every swipe of the cloth feels almost tender.
When he’s done he drops the towel in the hamper, pulls on his shirt, buttons it halfway.
At the bedroom door he pauses.
“You were perfect, Miss Sosia.”
Then he’s gone. The front door clicks shut, and the apartment falls back into its usual cold silence.
Only now the silence smells like sex and orange juice, and I’m smiling at the ceiling like an idiot.
