Emily has Enough of Fantasy

She stood in the doorway of my office, one hand on the frame, like she was deciding whether to enter or not.

Emily. Always neat. Always a little too put-together for someone her age. Preppy, almost old-fashioned. That skirt that barely moved when she walked. Hair in place. But it was her expression that caught me -- that same quiet, lost look she always carried, like she had wandered into the wrong decade.

"You have a second?" she asked.

"Sure."

She stepped inside, hesitated again. "It's... not really a work thing. More personal."

I raised an eyebrow. "Want me to call HR so we're covered?"

She gave a soft snort. "No. God, no. Please don't."

"Alright," I said, leaning back. "Shut the door then. You've got me until lunch. But fair warning -- I charge for therapy."

Emily sat down slowly, smoothing her skirt over her knees. She looked out the window, then back at me, and said, "I need you to promise something."

"I promise a lot of things. Doesn't mean I keep them."

She didn't laugh. Just that same tight, serious look. "Promise you won't ever talk about this with anyone. If you think it's stupid, just... keep it to yourself, please."

I nodded, finally sensing the weight behind her words. "Alright. Safe space. No judgment."

She exhaled through her nose. "Okay. You remember that night a couple weeks ago? After work -- the bar. You were with the older guys, and I was with the boys. Alex started going off, talking about sex and threesomes and all that crap..."

"Hard to forget," I said. "I cut him off when he got too loud. But everyone seemed okay with it."

"Yeah, well..." she trailed off. "Later, when it was just the 'youngsters' as you called us, you started talking. Not like Alex. Calm. Matter-of-fact. You said something like... a threesome with two women and a man wasn't as balanced, that it usually just fed the guy's ego. And that the other way around -- more men, one woman -- actually made more psychological sense, for the woman."

I chuckled softly. "That? I only said that to shut Alex up. He's all volume, no depth."

She looked at me, studying me for a beat too long. "It didn't sound like you were just talking. You sounded like someone who'd... thought about it. Maybe lived it."

I shrugged. "Maybe I have, maybe I haven't. Doesn't change the point. But this... is this what you came to talk about?"

She gave the faintest nod. "Sort of. You also said something that stuck with me. About how when you were younger -- student age -- there were no phones, no Instagram, no judgment about sleeping around. You said people didn't overthink it. No body count shaming. No labels."

I smiled at the memory. "Yeah. It was simpler. You'd meet someone, maybe talk for a couple hours, and if it clicked... things just happened. No ten-step process. No public gallery watching your every move."

Emily leaned forward slightly, her voice low now. "And if one person wanted more, and the other didn't?"

"Then someone got hurt. I did, too, a few times. You learn. You move on. You don't build a thesis around it."

There was a long pause. Her eyes flicked to the door. Then to the floor. Then back to me.

"I went home that night," she said, "and I realized... I'm 24, and I haven't had sex in three years. And when I did, it was dull. Mechanical. Like something you're supposed to do just to say you did."

I stayed quiet. I knew she didn't need commentary yet.

She went on, quieter now. "I think I missed something. I'm not saying I want to go screw every guy at the bar. But... I don't know what it's like to be wanted. Not really. Not in the way I think I want."

"And you think I know something about that?"

She gave the smallest smile. "I think you know a lot about what people don't say out loud."

Then she paused. Looked down at her lap. Her voice was almost a whisper.

"I told two girlfriends once. Late night, wine, that kind of mood. We were talking about fantasies. Not experiences -- none of us were getting any -- just things we'd imagine, alone."

I leaned forward, just enough to signal I was still listening, fully.

"I told them a little of mine. Just a little," she said. "And they both laughed. Not cruel, just... surprised. One of them said, 'Jesus, Em. You sound like you belong in a sex club.'"

I didn't react.

"They weren't wrong," she added, finally looking up. "That's kind of the thing. Those are the only fantasies that feel real to me. Not candlelight. Not romance. Just... raw. And I've never told anyone that. Not until now."

I let the silence hold for a few seconds.

There was something electric in the air now -- not sexual, not yet -- but alive. Something she had been holding in for far too long was now out in the open, breathing between us.

She bit her lower lip and looked away. "God, I shouldn't have said that."

"You said it. And you're still here."

She laughed quietly. "Yeah. Not sure if that makes me brave or stupid."

"Could be both," I said. "But either way -- I'm still listening."

She nodded slowly, almost to herself. Then leaned back and crossed her arms tightly across her chest, like she needed to hold something in place.

"There's more," she said finally. "Something I haven't told anyone. Not even those girls."

I stayed quiet. She needed the space.

"A couple of months ago... I went to the red-light district."

She said it quickly, like ripping off a bandage.

"In Amsterdam?"

"No. Smaller city. Still busy, though. I took a train, didn't tell anyone. I didn't even know what I was looking for. I just... needed to be there."

I watched her. Her voice was steady now, more controlled than before, but her fingers were digging into the fabric of her sleeve.

"I walked around. For hours. Just... looking. There's this one street where you can rent a room for a few hours, you know? I stood in front of one. Thought about it. Like -- what if I just walked in? What if I really did it?"

"What stopped you?"

She smiled sadly. "Nothing. That's the worst part. Nothing stopped me. I just... didn't go in."

There was a pause. Her eyes flicked up to meet mine.

"But I stayed there. For a long time. And for a few minutes... I let myself feel it. Let myself imagine what it would be like. Not to seduce, not to flirt. Just to be there. Waiting. Not knowing who'd walk in. Or how many."

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn't look away.

"And last week... I applied for a job. At a club."

That got my attention. I sat forward slightly.

"What kind of club?"

She took a breath. "A sex club. Not in this town -- I found one 80 kilometers away. I didn't want to risk someone I know walking in. Or maybe..." She stopped herself.

"Maybe?" I echoed.

She laughed once, softly. "Maybe deep down... some part of me would want that. To be seen. To be caught."

I didn't say anything. I could feel something tighten in my chest -- not disapproval. Not even surprise. Just the weight of understanding.

"They offered me a job. At the bar. Afternoon shift. Sundays."

"So you're going?"

She nodded. "In two days."

Then, quieter: "But I don't want to pour drinks."

She looked at me now -- directly, eyes clear.

"I want to be on the other side of the bar. Waiting."

Another pause.

"I want to know what it feels like to be... chosen. Used. Not by one man. Not in a romantic hotel room. By several. In one of those rooms. However it works in a place like that."

I held her gaze, steady. She was watching my reaction closely, maybe expecting a flinch or a smirk.

I gave her neither.

Then she added, almost too softly to hear: "But I can't do it alone. I need to know I'm safe."

She took a breath, then another.

"I'm asking you," she said. "Would you come with me? Be there. Just... in case I go through with it."

I leaned back, gave her a long look, then said, "Alright. Who's car are we taking?"

She blinked, surprised. Then that faint, nervous smile broke through. "You're not going to ask if I'm serious?"

"I think you've answered that already."

She nodded, quiet. Then I added, more measured now, "But listen, Emily. You're not asking me to drive you to Ikea."

Her smile faded -- not defensive, just reflective.

"You're asking me to be your anchor. And I can do that. But there are lines I need to know. You said you want to feel safe. So let me be clear on what I can offer."

I leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

"As long as you're at the bar, where I can see you -- no problem. I'll sit, have a drink, keep an eye out. It'll be... unusual, sure, but just another strange chapter in a life full of them."

"But," I said, letting that word sit between us, "if you leave that bar. Go into a room. Or an outdoor area I can't see. That's different. That's a level I can't promise I'll be okay with. Not unless I know how it works. Not unless you know how it works."

She looked at me, processing. Not angry. Just... recalibrating.

Then, softly: "You could come into the room with me."

I raised an eyebrow. "So while other men are... busy with you, I just stand there and watch?"

She hesitated. Looked at the floor. A flicker of uncertainty, maybe embarrassment. But then her lips curved, faintly -- not quite a smirk, not quite shame.

"I didn't think that through," she said.

She looked up at me then, eyes clearer than before. "It's just... it's not about you."

I stayed quiet.

"It's about me. About being seen, taken. Not by a lover, not by someone I trust -- but by the opposite. Strangers. Not faceless, but... irrelevant. I don't imagine their eyes or their hands. I imagine what it feels like to be the thing they want."

Her voice was steady now. Not cold. Just certain.

"And honestly?" she added, "I never thought about whether you'd be in the room or not. And to be even more honest... I don't think I care."

That hit differently.

Not because it was cruel. But because it was honest in a way most people never allow themselves to be.

She didn't want me there to participate. She wanted someone to hold the edges of her reality in place while she stepped off it for a while.

Saturday, 22:48 PM

Her text came in with that little double vibration.

Emily: "You still okay with tomorrow?"

I stared at the screen for a second too long. My mouth said no. The rest of me didn't.

Me: "Yes. Unless you're not."

A pause. Then:

Emily: "No, I am. Just... checking. I'm nervous. But I'd be more nervous without you."

Me: "Emily, can I ask you something serious?"

Emily: "Shoot."

Me: "You do realize the men who go there -- they're not dating. They're paying. That changes things. It's not seduction. It's not kindness. You're there for them. It's different sex."

Another pause. Longer this time.

Emily: "Yes. I know. That's... the point. I don't want 'do you want to get coffee after' sex. Or compliments. Or some pretty boy trying to win me with words."

Emily: "If I wanted something sweet and careful... I'd have asked you. You'd probably be all gentle and respectful. You'd make sure I finished and then kiss my forehead. And on Monday we'd go back to work and pretend it never happened."

I smirked at the screen. Girl, you are so wrong.

Me: "Emily, can I be blunt?"

Emily: "God, please. Everyone keeps trying to protect me from myself."

Me: "These men. They don't ask. They expect. Because they've paid. That means no warm-up, no emotional buffer."

Me: "They'll expect you to deepthroat. Maybe take two at once. Be on your knees, in your ass, cum on your face, your tits, your mouth. They'll talk to you like you're theirs. Like they own you."

There was no reply.

I watched the three dots pulse. Then disappear. Then come back.

Emily: "You're not trying to talk me out of it?"

Me: "No. I'm making sure you're not talking yourself into something you're not ready for."

A few minutes passed.

Emily: "I want it."

Emily: "All of that."

Emily: "I want to be theirs. Just for a while. Just for a few hours where I'm not a person. I'm just... something they want to use. And I don't have to apologize for it."

Emily: "If that makes me fucked up... so be it."

I typed slowly.

Me: "Then I'll be there. Tomorrow. With you. I'll drive."

Me: "But one more thing."

Emily: "Yeah?"

Me: "If they touch you... if you let them use you... I need to know where I'll be. What I'll do. Will I be sitting outside the room? In the room? Watching?"

There was a delay.

Emily: "I haven't decided."

Emily: "Does it matter?"

I didn't reply right away.

Scene Three - The Arrival

Sunday, 11:24 AM

Her message came in just before I got in the car.

Emily: "This is what I'm wearing. Okay?"

Attached: a mirror photo -- casual, controlled. A short skirt, dark, just enough thigh to catch your attention but nothing that screamed for it. A simple blouse, tucked in neatly. Her hair tied, not styled. No lipstick, no jewelry. She looked like a girl going to a shift in a coffee shop, not a sex club.

I replied:

"Perfect look."

Then, after a beat:

"Panties or not?"

She didn't answer right away. Then another image popped up -- taken from the side, angled with precision. Hip, thigh, the soft curve of her ass under the hem of her skirt. Bare skin. Nothing underneath.

Emily: "Guess you'll find out soon enough."

I smiled.

"You're in the right mood."

I pulled up in front of her apartment at 11:50. She came out without hesitation, bag slung casually over one shoulder. She opened the door and slid into the passenger seat like it was any normal Sunday.

But this wasn't Ikea.

And that made everything awkward.

She fastened her seatbelt. "Hi."

"Hey," I said. Then, reaching for the first sentence that wouldn't make either of us combust: "So... last night I checked our sales numbers. Quarter's looking decent."

She turned to me with a look of absolute disbelief. "Are you serious right now?"

I kept a straight face. "Yes. And no."

I waited just long enough.

"The numbers are fine. But I jerked off four times last night thinking about today."

Her lips parted slightly -- surprised, but not offended.

"Four," I added. "New record. And for one girl."

She turned to the window, laughed, shook her head. "You're fucking unbelievable."

I smiled. The air was less stiff now.

We drove in silence for a few minutes. The road was empty. Just countryside sliding past.

Then I asked, "So... how do you plan to make it clear that you want more than just pouring drinks?"

She didn't hesitate. "That's your job."

I looked over.

"You tell them," she said. Confident. Matter-of-fact. "You're the one who came with me. You tell them I want more."

"You realize what that sounds like, right?" I said. "You're sending me in to explain to strangers that you want to be used."

She looked out the window. Calm. "Exactly."

We arrived just before one. A fenced parking lot tucked behind a non-descript building. No sign, no logo. Just a black steel door and two men in shirts too tight for their size standing in front of it.

As Emily stepped out of the car, her skirt rode up slightly. One of the men smirked. The other didn't bother hiding the way his hand brushed her lower back as she passed.

She didn't react.

Inside, it smelled like disinfectant, cigarette smoke, and something heavier beneath -- not dirty, but lived-in. A club with no performance. Just function.

The furniture was what you'd expect: red faux-leather couches, cracked in places but clean. A long bar, plain and bare. A few women behind it, all in their thirties maybe. No makeup. No effort. Just there.

Emily was introduced quickly, almost coldly. The man in charge barely looked at her. Another woman pointed out the machine, the glasses, where the coffee went, how to log drinks.

She nodded, taking it in. Like it was any other job.

I sat at the end of the bar. Just watching.

Two older men sat in the back corner. They'd been there when we came in. Still there now. Quiet. Still.

Emily ran the water through the espresso head. Pressed a button. Wiped the counter. All movements calm. Mechanical. Like this was just a job.

But I could see her eyes flicking.

She was watching. Feeling.

Not afraid. Not excited.

Ready.

Scene Four - The Shift

At first, it was just a bit of noise at the door. Then shouting. Then a wave of heat and motion.

They came in like a storm -- fifteen, twenty of them at least. Athletic types, loud, fresh off some regional cup win. Matching jackets. One guy still holding the trophy.

It didn't take long to piece it together: sponsor money, post-match high, someone had whispered the name of this place at the afterparty. A few hundred euros for an open bar, and the promise of something more.

The champagne orders started coming fast -- not the good stuff, just bottles to shake and spray and pour down each other's throats. Only three working girls on shift, and they were already being pulled across laps, spun around, groped like party favors.

Emily looked at me.

Not a word. Just that look.

She knew. This was the moment.

The door opened again. A few older men stepped in -- sponsors maybe, or club managers, riding the testosterone wave. Laughter, backslaps, deep voices. You could feel the air change. Testosterone and expectation.

I stood and moved toward the owner. He was already on his phone, probably calling in backups.

"We're full," he said, waving me off.

"You want to make money or not?"

He paused, finally looking at me.

I leaned in.

"That girl behind the bar? I brought her. She's not here to pour drinks."

He blinked. Looked past me toward Emily. She was rinsing a glass, calm, composed, too clean for the place.

"You sure?" he asked.

"I'm sure. She wants this. Right now."

He scratched his jaw. "How much?"

"500 for the afternoon."

"No deal," I said. "You've got thirty guys out there. You know what she'll let them do. This'll be a shift they talk about for months. Make it two thousand or we drive to the next place."

He didn't like it. But he knew I was right.

"Cash?" he asked.

"Of course."

He nodded. "Deal."

I walked back to the bar.

Emily caught the change in my walk. She stepped away from the coffee machine and moved toward me.

I sat down on the barstool, gave her a subtle nod.

She slid in beside me.

I took the hem of her skirt between my fingers and pulled it upward -- not all the way, just enough to feel the difference. Skin. Heat.

She didn't stop me.

I didn't smile. No joke. No smirk.

Just control.

"You need a drink?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No. I'm fine."

Her voice was low, steady -- but her body betrayed her. That little shiver, the kind that starts in the spine and ends everywhere else.

I leaned in. Spoke close to her ear.

"Move your ass back a little on the stool. Just enough. Now lean forward, elbows on the bar. Yes... just like that."

She obeyed.

And I watched her breathing change.

"Now," I said, softly, "imagine them behind you. You don't have to see them. You just feel it. The noise. The weight of their presence."

I lifted my chin slightly, a silent cue.

Three of them -- early twenties, full of beer and adrenaline -- peeled off from the crowd and drifted toward us. They didn't ask. They didn't introduce themselves. They just stood close.

Emily didn't move.

One of them put a hand on her hip. The other brushed against her thigh. A third leaned forward, his breath hot near her neck.

They didn't talk to her.

They felt her.

Because they had paid for her.

And she let them.

She stayed exactly where I told her to: ass pulled back on the barstool, elbows resting on the counter, head slightly lowered. Her legs weren't wide, not yet, but they weren't closed either. There was no mistaking what she was offering.

The three guys standing near her didn't ask permission. They didn't need to -- not here. One slid a hand up under her skirt. The other palmed her inner thigh, slow and greedy.

She didn't flinch. She let them feel her.

A fourth guy joined, brushing his body close as if testing whether she'd pull away.

She didn't.

The music in the bar was low, just a bassy background hum. But the voices of the men cut through -- louder now. Hungrier.

"Is this girl going to suck me empty?" one of them said, right next to her ear. His voice wasn't aggressive. Just slow. Dripping with expectation.

Another leaned in, his fingers pressing into the curve of her hip. "Are you going to let me cum on your lips, sweetheart? Hmm?"

Emily exhaled, a long, shaky breath -- not fear. Release. Her body shuddered slightly as one of the hands under her skirt spread her ass open, bare skin meeting the cool air.

I watched her eyes flutter closed.

She moaned. Soft. Almost involuntary.

It was a sound that changed everything.

They heard it. And more of them came.

Two more, then four. Within a minute, more than ten men were standing behind her, around her, circling like a slow, boiling tide.

One bent down slightly, peering under her skirt. "My God," he said, half laughing. "Look at that beautiful ass. And her pussy--fuck, you can tell she's already wet."

A hand grazed her entrance. Her back arched.

"She's dripping," someone muttered. "This isn't a girl who needs warming up. She's ready."

A taller guy with sleeves pushed up on thick forearms said to the others, "Are we sure we paid for her? Because, man... this feels like something else."

I leaned in close, just behind her ear. She was breathing harder now, caught in the center of it all -- no hands on me, no attention on anyone else.

Just her.

I whispered, "Oh, they paid. A lot more than normal."

Emily moaned again. Her lips parted, but no words came -- just that soft, aching sound that said she wasn't thinking anymore. Just feeling.

And the men around her knew it.

The owner hesitated, arms crossed, trying to hold onto some semblance of control.

"No sex in the bar," he muttered. It sounded weak, almost embarrassed.

The older man didn't even look at him. He reached into his jacket, pulled out another folded stack of bills, and held it up between two fingers like it was a napkin.

He handed it over without blinking. "Who's complaining?"

The owner looked at the cash. Then at Emily -- still held in the air by a wall of muscle and need, legs open, blouse torn, champagne drying on her skin.

He took the money and walked away.

The older man stepped forward. Not rushing. Just claiming the air around her.

He turned to one of the younger guys -- a thick-built type with cocky energy and a bulge that didn't lie.

"You're just going to stand there?" he said, almost amused. "Would you not offer this beautiful girl that big cock of yours on her tongue, Mark? That's an insult to her."

Mark's face lit up like a kid given permission to unwrap the biggest gift under the tree.

Emily looked up, flushed and wide-eyed, but didn't pull back.

Mark stepped forward, undid his jeans, and let it fall free -- hard, thick, already glistening.

He held himself just inches from her mouth.

"She deserves that," the older man added. "Let her taste what she does to us."

Emily moaned -- soft, like she wasn't even aware it escaped her.

Her lips parted. Just slightly. But enough.

Before he could even touch her, a man a few steps back -- one who hadn't spoken, just stared -- groaned, cursed, and stumbled forward. His hand was wrapped tight around himself, pumping fast.

He came.

Hard.

Right there in front of her -- a sudden burst, landing hot on her belly, between her breasts.

He gasped, shaking, stunned at himself.

"Fuck... I didn't even touch her."

The others laughed. Not mockingly -- in awe.

Emily looked down at the mess on her stomach.

And smiled.

Suspended in the air, champagne drying on her belly, cum already cooling on her chest, Emily turned her head and locked eyes with the older man.

She wasn't timid. Not breathy or polite.

Her voice came out rough, low, full of want.

"Come on. Show me how hard you can fuck me. Make me come on your dick."

That was it. That was the permission no one had needed -- but now no one could resist.

The men holding her shifted. One moved his hand, fingers slipping between her thighs, pressing over her clit with just enough friction to make her twitch.

She moaned, louder this time, her body arching into it, greedy now.

Another guy stepped in, stroking himself faster -- one foot on the floor, one knee on the barstool for balance. He came on the side of her tit, groaning like it was the best orgasm of his life.

Emily turned her head again, mouth open, tongue visible. Ready.

Mark was still hard, thicker than most. He guided her head back, cradled it gently -- and then let himself slide past her lips.

No resistance.

No gag.

Her throat took him like it had been made for it.

He grunted, grip tightening at the base of her skull, holding her in place as his hips bucked, slower at first, then harder.

Emily didn't flinch. She let him use her mouth. Her jaw slack. Her eyes half-lidded. Nothing about it was forced. She wanted him deep.

Mark gasped as he came, body tensing, cock pulsing against her throat.

He pulled back slowly, his hand still behind her head, lifting her face up.

Her lips were glistening. Her eyes dazed. But focused.

He looked down at her like he was seeing a dream he didn't know he had.

"That... I'll never forget," he mumbled.

The older man was still inside her, hips thrusting steadily now, his hand flat on her stomach, holding her steady as he fucked her -- not fast, not brutal. Just complete.

She gasped with each push, legs trembling in the air, moans layered with that soft wet sound of skin against skin.

Then his rhythm broke. He pulled out just in time -- groaning low, thick ropes of cum splashing across her belly, mixing with the champagne and the first man's earlier mess.

Mark tilted her head again, made her see it.

"Look at that," he whispered. "That's all for you."

Emily's breath was ragged, skin flushed.

Then she said it -- not weak, not desperate.

Just clear.

"Take me to the couch."

They didn't walk her to the couch.

They carried her.

Four men again, arms tight under her thighs and back, her skin already glistening with sweat and come and cheap champagne. She was boneless now -- not weak, just open, the way a woman gets when she's no longer holding anything in.

The couch was worn, deep red, the kind of leather that had seen a hundred bodies and still remembered everyone. They lowered her gently, like something sacred.

Two men moved between her legs immediately -- one already hard, the other still stroking himself, watching.

Mark stayed at her head, wiping a strand of hair from her cheek.

She looked up at him, smiling, dazed.

Then she turned her head and kissed the tip of the cock closest to her mouth, uninvited.

It twitched against her lips.

"You two," the older man said, gesturing to the guys kneeling between her legs. "Now."

They didn't hesitate. One lined up behind her, thick and ready, sliding into her pussy in one smooth thrust. Her body welcomed him -- no gasp, no pause.

She moaned like it was air.

The other pressed against her ass, slower, testing her tension.

She reached back with one hand and held herself open.

That was all the answer he needed.

With a groan, he pushed in -- her body stretching, taking him inch by inch. Her back arched. A growl tore from her throat.

Then she found her voice -- deep and cracked and soaked with need.

"Fuck me harder. Both of you. Make me feel it. As deep as you can."

And they did.

Rhythmic. Brutal. Perfect.

She was a body caught between them, every thrust driving her forward onto the other, over and over. Her hands reached blindly, found two cocks nearby -- both already leaking, hard as stone.

She gripped them. Not soft. Tight enough to make one of them grunt and pull back.

"Fuck," one said. "She's squeezing like she wants to break it."

She laughed -- wild and loose -- then shoved one toward her lips, dragging her tongue along the shaft as the others kept using her holes.

Her orgasm hit like a convulsion.

Her whole body seized, chest heaving, a long wail torn from somewhere between pleasure and annihilation. She collapsed forward, falling onto the man beneath her, still deep inside her pussy.

The one behind her didn't stop -- he kept pounding into her ass through her orgasm, groaning with every slam, as if her spasms were dragging him toward his own edge.

She clung to the man beneath her, nails digging into his chest. Her legs were trembling.

Still, her mouth found another cock.

Still, she moaned.

When the two men inside her pulled out, breathing hard, her hands were already busy -- stroking, guiding, inviting.

She dropped to her knees.

Two men stood in front of her. She took them both -- one after the other, alternating, lips swollen, jaw slack. Her hands never stopped moving.

One came on her lips, her mouth open like a chalice. The other across her cheek, forehead, hair. She didn't flinch. She leaned in.

A third came seconds later, gasping as he jerked himself over her breasts, spraying what little space was left on her skin.

She looked up at them all -- a mess of heat, and come, and satisfaction.

She was glowing.

Breathless.

Undone.

And perfectly complete.

Emily lay sprawled across the couch, slick with sweat, her body twitching from aftershocks. Around her, men were still catching their breath -- some leaning against the wall, some sitting on the floor, pants undone, dazed.

She tilted her head slightly.

There were more men watching. Half-dressed. Some naked. Some still hard, their fists wrapped loosely around themselves, waiting for another chance.

And beside her, on a nearby chair, another girl -- pale, dark hair, calm eyes -- watched her with a curious smile.

"You're new," the girl said.

Emily smiled back, slow, lips still glistening. She nodded.

"That comes naturally to you, doesn't it?" the girl added, voice low, almost respectful.

Emily didn't say a word -- just gave her a faint smile, chest still rising and falling like distant thunder.

And then--

"All of you! Get dressed! Now!"

The shout cut through everything. The owner's voice, sharp and panicked.

"The police are coming -- I just got the call. I don't have a permit for a sex club anymore, just a bar. So get dressed and act like you're having a fucking drink! Drinks on me!"

Instant chaos.

Men scrambled. Zippers. Shirts thrown on inside out. A few tripped over their own pants trying to move too fast. A girl in a thong grabbed someone else's top and didn't even care.

Emily sat up fast, suddenly aware of just how exposed she still was.

She looked around, then up at me.

I was still at the bar, half-standing, jaw tight, watching the room descend into something between farce and disaster.

She rushed toward me, barefoot, flushed, wearing nothing but her ruined blouse.

"There's no way I can pass for a guest like this," she whispered.

I didn't even blink.

"Jump behind the bar. Go to the showers. Now."

She didn't hesitate.

Within seconds, she was gone -- darting behind the counter, disappearing through the side hallway where staff changed, where reality lived.

The door swung shut behind her just as two uniformed officers stepped through the main entrance.

I took a deep breath. Rolled my shoulders. And walked casually toward the nearest stool.

The next five minutes were theater.

The police walked the floor, checking ID's, asking names, scanning faces. They didn't go far into the back -- just a visual sweep, a few questions. The older man who'd started it all was already fully dressed, leaning against the bar with a bored expression, sipping a beer.

Then--

"Here you go, gentlemen."

Emily came in through the service hallway, fully dressed again -- hair wet from the shower, cheeks flushed, a black apron tied around her waist.

In her hands: a large tray of snacks -- olives, chips, a few skewers of cheese and sausage.

She moved like she'd never left.

"We had a staff birthday earlier," she said to the officers with a professional smile. "Little messy, sorry."

They looked at her.

Young. Clean. Sharp.

She was every inch the bar girl she'd pretended to be when she walked in.

They nodded, uninterested, and moved on.

Emily glanced my way. Our eyes met.

Her face unreadable.

Except her eyes -- they burned.

She wasn't done.

Not even close.

The office was its usual Monday version of dull -- low chatter, the sound of keyboards, bad overhead lighting.

I was standing by the coffee machine, waiting for it to finish its slow hiss into the paper cup, when I heard her footsteps behind me.

Emily.

Her hair was up. Turtleneck. Clean face. Calm expression.

Too calm.

She stood next to me, didn't look up right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the kitchen counter -- on a coffee stain near the sugar.

Then, softly, like it cost her something:

"What do you think of me now?"

I didn't look at her. Just let the question hang a second longer than normal.

Then I said, clear and without hesitation:

"I think you're brave. I think you're willing to explore. Willing to take a risk."

"You trusted me."

I paused, then added:

"You're so much more than all those posing girls on Instagram combined. I applaud you, Emily. And I'm very proud of you."

She turned her head, staring at me like she wasn't sure if she heard it right.

"You're not joking?" she asked. Voice small.

I shook my head.

"No. I mean that."

She looked away. Swallowed. Something tight in her throat.

Then came the next question. Quieter.

"So why didn't you fuck me?"

I didn't smile. Didn't deflect.

I answered.

"Because you said I'd be gentle with you."

I took the cup from the machine, sipped once. Then:

"And there were two things wrong with that."

She waited.

"One: you didn't want gentle."

"Two: I can't be gentle. Not with you."

Her breath caught just slightly -- barely noticeable.

I leaned a little closer, kept my voice low. Flat. Not erotic. Just true.

"One of my fantasies?" I said. "You're tied down on the workbench in my woodworking shop. The one where I teach ex-criminals the basics on weekends."

"It's a busy afternoon. More guys than usual. But that's where that story ends."

She blinked.

Didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

I reached into my pocket. Pulled out a plain envelope and held it up.

"Three thousand," I said.

Then added, just as calm:

"But I guess you'd rather have me donate that, wouldn't you?"

She didn't even hesitate.

She nodded once.

"Yes. I don't need more money."

Her voice was clear now. Steady.

"But I do need more... ah--" she broke off, then smiled slightly. "You know now what I need."

I nodded once. She turned.

And walked back to her desk like nothing had ever happened.

But everything had.