Becoming His Expensive Plaything (10/12)

Samantha practically lived at Victor’s house now.

She still had her own apartment—technically. But lately, it felt more like a pit stop. A place to shower, change, and reapply her lipstick before heading back to Victor’s. The envelopes had stopped coming a while ago, and she didn’t care. She wasn’t pretending anymore. Being his—serving him, pleasing him—that was the reward now. Most nights, she was at his place, curled up on his couch with her glossy lips wrapped around his cock—or bent over his bed, his cock buried deep in her ass, moaning into the sheets in whatever outfit she had picked out that night. Always short, always slutty.

She’d started to notice it lately—his cock didn’t get as hard, didn’t stay as hard. He didn’t finish inside her as often, didn’t grab at her the way he used to. His touches were slower… distracted. She was starting to get nervous. That’s why, tonight, she’d gone all out.

Her dress clung to her like it had been poured on—thin, glossy snakeskin that shimmered with every tiny movement. The hem barely covered her ass, rising dangerously high with every step, while the open back and delicate straps left almost nothing to the imagination. She wasn’t wearing panties. There wasn’t room. Her tiny, useless cock dangled beneath the fabric, tucked and twitching helplessly every time her heels clicked across the floor. Her makeup was flawless, layered with care: soft shimmer on her lids, thick lashes, winged liner sharp enough to cut, her lips plumped and glistening in a deep, ripe berry gloss. She’d even curled her hair into those soft, bouncy waves Victor always liked, the scent of his favorite perfume clinging to her neck like a promise.

She thought putting in a little extra effort would get him going again. The more dramatic makeup, the skimpier dress, the way it clung to her ass when she walked—something had to catch his attention. But when they sat down, his hand didn’t slide up her thigh. He didn’t toy with the hem of her dress, didn’t trace lazy circles against her bare skin like he used to. His eyes didn’t slowly drink her in the way they once did.

A pit formed in her stomach as she watched his gaze wander—first to the hostess with the deep neckline, then to the woman at the next table whose breasts looked like they were seconds away from spilling out. Even the waitress earned more of his attention. Samantha watched helplessly as his eyes lingered on the girl’s full, bouncing chest every time she came by to refill their drinks.

Big tits. Cleavage. Curves she didn’t have.

Her own chest felt suddenly... inadequate. She looked down at her smooth, flat front, pushed up prettily by her dress but ultimately still small. Boyish. Fake.

She didn’t say anything at the restaurant, but back at Victor’s place—when she was on top of him, riding his cock hard, moaning just the way he liked, desperate to win back his attention—she saw it again. That flicker of disinterest. He reached up to her chest, fingers brushing over the padded cups of her dress… and sighed.

Then, without a word, he grabbed her waist and lifted her off his cock, dragging it from her ass inch by inch until she was left empty.

Her ass clenched, aching, empty. “W-why’d you stop?” she whimpered, breathless.

Victor hesitated. “Just not feeling it today, baby.”

“…Is it because I don’t have boobs?” she asked quietly, her voice cracking at the edges.

Victor’s silence was answer enough.

The next few days were torture. Samantha tried everything she could to get him going. She showed up in her sluttiest outfits, piled on the makeup, bent over his lap whenever she had the chance—moaning, grinding, begging under her breath. But nothing worked. Every time, he just gave her a soft smile, maybe a kiss on the cheek, and said the same thing in that calm, quiet voice.

“Not feeling it today, baby.”

At home, she didn’t even try to resist. The moment she walked through the door, she grabbed the biggest dildo she’d bought and shoved it deep into her ass, thrusting hard, fast, desperate. Her eyes squeezed shut, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she slammed it in over and over, hips twitching, body shaking. She wanted to come so badly it hurt—but it just wasn’t working.

No matter how deep she pushed, how hard she moaned, it wasn’t the same. It didn’t stretch her like Victor’s cock. Didn’t own her the way his did. After ten minutes of sweaty, furious thrusting, she dropped the toy and collapsed onto the sheets, panting, flushed, and more frustrated than ever.

She needed Victor’s cock.

And she knew what she had to do to make him want her again.