Chapter 2: A Fun Drive
The engine was off, but the city sounds filtered in through the sealed windows of the sedan—a distant siren, the thump of bass from a passing car. The leather seat was cool against Dom’s back, but he was burning up. His phone, propped against the steering wheel, glowed in the dark cabin.
The video was short, a ten-second loop. Anisyia, filling the frame, those pouty lips slick with gloss, her tongue tracing a slow, deliberate circle. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and knowing, stared right into the camera, right into him. The memory of her mouth, the shocking, wet heat of it in Clara’s cluttered living room, crashed over him again. He could almost smell the cloying perfume, see the cheap painting askew on the wall behind her platinum hair.
Clara’s conversation over dinner had been a bland, distant hum. Sustainable agriculture. Her book club. He’d nodded, smiled, while his thumb had stroked the underside of his phone, feeling the phantom buzz of Anisyia’s incoming messages. The gallery of nudes—her arched back against the ornate mirror, the lace of her lingerie straining—had been a secret theater playing just for him.
His breath hitched, sharp in the quiet car. His hand moved with a frantic, practiced rhythm, his other palm pressed flat and sweating against the polished wood of the center console. It wasn’t about Clara. It was never about Clara. It was about the impossible curve, the engineered perfection, the blatant, unapologetic thereness of Anisyia. It short-circuited something in him, vaporized good intentions. The meaningful relationship he’d pictured—coffee shops, quiet conversations—seemed like a pale, insubstantial ghost next to this.
The loop played again. Her tongue. Her eyes.
A choked sound escaped him. His head thumped back against the headrest, the city lights outside blurring into streaks of neon and white. For a few pulsing seconds, there was only the physical release, a wave of shame-tinged pleasure that left him hollowed out and shaky.
Silence, except for his ragged breathing. The video ended, freezing on her smirk.
Disgust curled in his gut, immediate and acidic. He fumbled for a napkin from the glove box, cleaned up, and tossed it onto the passenger floor mat. He stared at the napkin, a crumpled white accusation in the dark.
He should drive home. Shower. Block her number.
Instead, he picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over the text chain. The last message from her, sent just as he’d pulled up to the restaurant to meet Clara, read: Hope ur hungry for something better than salad ;)
He scrolled up, past the photos, past the video. He typed. Deleted. Typed again.
"You still up?" He asked.
"Why? Are you still close? You dropped Clara off fifteen minutes ago." She replied, a picture of her cleavage attached.
He stared at the photo, at the shadowed valley between those perfectly spherical breasts. The city’s noise seemed to recede, replaced by a low hum in his ears. His thumb moved almost on its own, tapping the location pin icon, sending the dot on the map just around the corner from Clara’s building.
"Here. Five minutes," he typed, the words feeling like stones dropping into a well.
The response was instantaneous. A single eye-emoji winking back.
He waited, the leather creaking as he shifted. The earlier scent of his cologne was now underscored by something saltier, more intimate. He cracked a window, the cool air doing nothing to clear the thick feeling in his head. He watched the side mirror, the empty sidewalk stretching behind him. A part of him, the part that had nodded along to Clara’s talk of heirloom tomatoes, hoped Anisyia wouldn’t come.
Then she was there.
Materializing from the gloom between two streetlights, her stride was a deliberate, hip-swaying cadence. The thin silk robe she’d thrown over the lingerie was open, flapping like dark wings, revealing the same scandalous lace he’d seen in her texts. Her platinum hair was a mess, as if she’d just rolled out of bed, and her feet were shoved into tall, strappy heels she hadn’t bothered to fully secure. She moved with a jarring sense of ownership, as if the nighttime street was her personal hallway.
She yanked the passenger door open and slid in, bringing a cloud of that same overpowering perfume from the apartment. It instantly colonized the car’s interior, smothering the smell of leather and his own regret.
“You just gonna sit here all night?” she said, her voice a scratchy purr. She pulled the door shut, the solid thunk sounding final.
She didn’t look at him. Instead, she flipped down the sun visor, examining her reflection in the small mirror, tracing a finger under her eye. The robe fell completely open. The artificial curves of her body, so exaggerated and polished, looked surreal in the muted dashboard lights, like something from a dream he couldn’t wake from.
Dom’s mouth was dry. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“But you are.” She snapped the visor back up and finally turned to him, her eyes gleaming. She reached over, not for him, but for the ignition. Her fingers, tipped in sharp, glittering nails, brushed his thigh. “So drive. The longer we sit here, the bigger chance we get caught.”
The engine roared to life, too loud in the quiet street. He put the car in drive, his movements automatic. The tires rolled over the crumpled napkin on the floor. He just drove, the city lights beginning to smear past the windows, with Anisyia beside him, a fever dream made flesh, settling into the leather seat as if she’d always belonged there.
He just drove, the city lights beginning to smear past the windows, with Anisyia beside him, a fever dream made flesh, settling into the leather seat as if she’d always belonged there. The silence was thick, broken only by the whisper of tires on asphalt and the low hum of the climate control. He could feel the heat radiating from her, a different temperature than the cooled leather. Then she moved, a single, fluid motion that involved unbuckling her seatbelt, the click echoing like a gunshot in the quiet cabin.
“You look stressed,” she said, her voice a low hum that competed with the engine. Her hand landed on his thigh, fingers digging in just above his knee with a possessive pressure.
Before he could form a word, her head was in his lap, a weight both foreign and frighteningly familiar. The world outside the windshield—the traffic, the stoplights, the entire orderly grid of the city—suddenly snapped into a terrifying, high-definition clarity. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Then he started to relax, leaning back to give her better access.
"Finally. This i why I came back for you. You better make this worth it... I sacrificed my conscience for this." Dom teases, knowing there's a lot of truth to it despite his tone.
Dom teases, knowing there's a lot of truth to it despite his tone.
Anisyia laughs, a low vibration he feels through the fabric of his trousers. “Your conscience is boring,” she murmurs, her breath hot. Her fingers make quick work of his belt buckle, the metallic clink absurdly loud. “And I’m not.”
Then her head dips, and she obliges, eagerly sucking his dick.
The world outside the car dissolved into a watery blur of streetlights and shadows. His grip on the steering wheel became a desperate, white-knuckled thing, one part trying to maintain the car’s lane, the other anchoring him to any semblance of reality. A sharp, electric pleasure shot up his spine, short-circuiting the guilt that had been churning in his gut since Clara’s doorstep. He was both here and not here, a spectator in his own body as it arched against the leather seat.
“Jesus, Anisyia,” he gasped, the words torn from him.
She made a sound of approval, a hum that traveled straight through him. Her technique was relentless, a practiced, consuming rhythm that left no room for thought. It was all sensation: the slick warmth of her mouth, the scrape of her perfect teeth, the dizzying scent of her perfume mixed with something saltier, more primal. He forced his eyes open, staring at the green glow of a traffic light ahead, counting down from twenty. The numbers bled together.
His foot, almost of its own volition, pressed harder on the accelerator. The car surged forward, a physical echo of the building tension coiling in his abdomen. He was hurtling through the city, a man in control of a powerful machine, yet utterly enslaved by the girl in his lap. The contradiction was maddening. It was also the most alive he’d felt in months.
The car approached a busy intersection, the light a distant, glowing amber. His right hand, which had been clenched on the wheel, snaked into her platinum hair, his fingers tangling in the synthetic silk of it.
The light turned red. He braked harder than necessary, their bodies lurching forward. In the same motion, he pushed her head down, a firm, insistent pressure that wasn’t gentle. “Don’t stop,” he growled, the command ripped from a part of him he rarely acknowledged.
Worry about Clara, about his job, about the person he was supposed to be—it all condensed into that single, physical act. He took it out on her throat, holding her there, his hips moving in short, sharp thrusts against the confines of his seatbelt. The shame was still there, but it was fuel now, burning hotter.
Anisyia didn’t resist. A muffled sound, something between a gasp and a laugh, vibrated against him. She relaxed her jaw, accepting the frantic pace, her nails digging into the denim covering his thighs. She seemed to relish the loss of control, or perhaps the illusion of his dominance, turning his anger into her performance.
Horns blared behind them as the light cycled back to green. He released her hair, his foot slamming the accelerator. The car jerked forward, merging back into the stream of traffic. She came up for air, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a smear of lip gloss left behind. “Someone’s in a hurry,” she breathed, her voice ragged but amused.
“Just... focus on sucking,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. The city unfolded in a familiar grid, but every stoplight became a torturous promise. For four blocks, he drove in a buzzing silence, the only sound her quiet, steady breathing as she waited.
At the next red, he didn’t wait. His hand was back in her hair, guiding her down again. This time, she went willingly, eagerly, her earlier technique replaced by something raw and consuming. He watched the crosswalk countdown: 12… 11… 10… Her head bobbed in his lap, a relentless, perfect rhythm. The pressure built, a tight coil at the base of his spine, blotting out every coherent thought.
The numbers blurred. Five. Four. A low groan escaped him, tight and strained. He held her there, his whole body tensing as the release tore through him, wave after wave, leaving him shaking and spent against the leather. The light turned green. Cars began to move around them.
He finally loosened his grip, his hand falling away, limp. She pulled back slowly, deliberately, and settled into her seat. She didn’t look at him, instead staring out the window at the passing buildings, a faint, satisfied smile on her swollen lips. The silence that followed was different—hollow, charged, and complete.
Dom took a left turn, then another, driving without destination. The euphoria drained away, replaced by a cold, settling clarity. He adjusted himself, zipped his jeans, the mundane act feeling grotesque. The scent of her perfume and sex hung in the air, a monument to his mistake.
“So,” Anisyia said, breaking the quiet. She flipped the visor down again, examining her reflection. She licked a speck from the corner of her mouth. “You’re gonna get me those shoes, right? The Balenciagas I sent you the link to?”
Her voice was light, conversational, as if discussing the weather. It wasn’t a question. It was a settlement. The transaction was now explicitly on the table, laid bare between the leather seats. Dom felt the last of the fantasy dissolve, leaving only the polished chrome and dull ache of reality.
"You think one round of roadhead is worth a pair of Balenciagas? What the fuck? Absolutely not. You should still be face first in my crotch if you really want designer shoes. Christ." Dom chuckled at her, unsure whether she was testing whether he was easily manipulated or if she was joking, but surely she didn't think that was a fair trade.
She turned to face Dom, locking eyes with him as she leaned back over the center console, offering her mouth once again. Anisyia liked this dynamic, and happily would provide whatever sexual pleasure Dom asked for, especially for that pair of shoes. Her eyes, glinting in the intermittent streetlight, held a challenge that was all business. She didn’t wait for a second invitation, her head dipping back into his lap with a practiced ease that made his breath catch.
The car was still rolling, a dangerous, thrilling fact that narrowed his world to the wet heat of her mouth and the blur of traffic lights smearing past the windshield. He drove one-handed, his knuckles pale on the wheel, steering through turns he didn’t consciously register. Each flick of her tongue was a calculated promise, a down payment.
He found his street, his building, the familiar underground parking garage a cold, concrete cave. He pulled into his assigned spot, killed the engine. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by the soft, wet sounds coming from his lap. He didn’t stop her. He sat there in the dark, letting her finish what she’d started, the leather seat creaking under his weight.
When it was over, he leaned back, utterly drained. She sat up, smoothing her hair. “Your place is up there, right?” she asked, as if they’d just shared a coffee.
“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse.
“Cool. I need to pee.”
The normalcy of the statement was jarring. He led her to the elevator, then into his apartment, a clean, modern space that felt suddenly sterile under her gaze. She walked in like she was appraising it, her heels clicking on the hardwood. She didn’t ask for a tour. She found the bathroom and closed the door.
Dom stood in his own living room, listening to the pipes groan. The scent of her perfume was already colonizing the air, clashing with his citrus cleaning supplies. He poured two fingers of whiskey, drank it neat, felt the burn. The ghost of her mouth still tingled on his skin, a phantom brand.
The bathroom door opened. She emerged, having fixed her makeup. She’d taken off the ridiculous robe. Standing there in just the lace lingerie and heels in the middle of his tastefully muted living room, she looked like an alien artifact. A beautiful, baffling intrusion.
“This is nice,” she said, not really looking at the furniture. Her eyes landed on him. “So. The shoes.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re relentless.”
“You came twice.” She shrugged, a motion that made her augmented breasts shift. “That’s a down payment, at least.”
“A down payment?” Dom shook his head, the whiskey glass cold in his hand. He gestured around the apartment, a sweeping motion that took in the orderly shelves and the framed architectural prints. “This isn’t a negotiation. You don’t just… invoice for that.”
Anisyia’s smile didn’t falter; it simply hardened at the edges. She took a few steps, her heels ticking like a metronome on the floor. She stopped before a large photograph of a modernist bridge, tilting her head. “Everything’s a negotiation. You negotiated with your dick back in Clara’s living room.” She turned from the photo, her eyes locking onto his. “And won, by the way. So.”
The casual mention of Clara’s name was a needle to his gut. He’d successfully buried that guilt for the last hour. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low.
“Don’t what? Say her name?” She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “You think she’s not in her room right now, crying into a pint of gelato because her boring date ghosted her after dinner?” She drifted toward him, the scent of his soap now layered over her perfume. “You already picked a side, Dom. I’m just collecting.”
He finished the whiskey, the burn doing nothing to cauterize the wound she was poking. “The shoes are two thousand dollars.”
“I know exactly what they cost.” She was close enough now that he could see the tiny sparkles in her eye shadow. “I sent you the link. You looked.”
He had. Of course he had. He’d even clicked on the color options. The memory felt pathetic.
Silence stretched between them, thick and expensive. The city lights from his window painted her silhouette in neon and shadow, emphasizing every impossible curve. She was a glitch in his clean, controlled world. He thought about asking her to leave. The words formed in his throat but died there.
Anisyia watched him struggle. Her expression shifted, the mercenary gleam softening into something that looked like pity, which was worse. She let out a small sigh, as if dealing with a slow child.
Then, without breaking eye contact, she sank down.
The movement was fluid and startlingly graceful. She went to her knees right there on his pristine hardwood floor, the position somehow both submissive and utterly in command. She placed her hands on his thighs, her touch through the denim surprisingly gentle.
“Look,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re a nice guy. You have a nice couch. A nice conscience.” She rolled her eyes at the last word. “But you want the fantasy. The one that doesn’t talk about book clubs.”
Her hands slid up his legs. “So let’s stop pretending this is complicated. You want to feel like you’re not the kind of guy who buys a girl. I want the shoes.” She shrugged, the lace straps of her lingerie digging into her shoulders. “This is just… clarifying the terms.”
She held his gaze, her pupils wide and dark. “I’m ready to earn them. Properly. No car, no rushing.” A faint, professional smile touched her lips. “Consider it a signing bonus.”
His hand, seemingly of its own volition, lifted from his side. It didn’t go to her hair. It went to his own belt buckle. The click of the release was the only sound in the room.
“Earn that bonus then,” he said, the words tasting like ash and whiskey.
Anisyia’s smile became genuine, bright and triumphant. She leaned forward, her platinum hair falling like a curtain. As her head dipped, Dom’s eyes lifted to the ceiling. He wondered, distantly, if Clara really was eating gelato. The thought was drowned out by a wave of sensation, meticulous and deliberate, as Anisyia went to work on her new contract.
Outside, a siren wailed, fading into the grid of the city. Inside, the only sound was the quiet, steady tick of the designer clock on his wall, counting the expensive seconds.
Inside, the only sound was the quiet, steady tick of the designer clock on his wall, counting the expensive seconds. Anisyia finally pulled away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand again. She rose from her knees with a soft grunt, the muscles in her thighs flexing.
“Water?” she asked, already walking toward his kitchen as if she owned it.
“Glasses are above the sink.” His voice was rough. He fastened his jeans, the mundane zipper sound a period on the surreal sentence of the last hour. He watched her move through his space, her silhouette predatory against the stainless steel appliances. She filled a glass, drank it all in one long pull, and placed it in the sink.
She rummaged in her discarded purse, a small black leather thing that seemed incapable of holding anything. She produced a tube of lip gloss. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, applying it without a mirror. She smacked her lips together. “Or like you are one.”
“I feel like one.” He walked to the window, looking down at the traffic. The normal world was still out there, operating on its rules.
She dropped back to her knees, rolling her eyes. "Stop bringing her up or I'm going to stop. You've pushed back enough, now you're hurting MY feelings." Then she returned to sucking his dick.
Dom apologizes and closes his eyes, letting out another load of cum as she pushes him over the edge.