Paying Up

You knew Amy was competitive. What you didn't know was that she'd been waiting three months for you to lose a bet. "Remember the terms," she says on the drive over, scrolling her phone with one manicured nail. "One day. Anything I say. No complaining." "I didn't think you'd go full war criminal with it." "Baby, I've been planning this since March." She grins at you sideways, green eyes wicked. "There's a bag in the back seat. Put it on when we park."

The bag contains a muscle tank with SMOOTH OPERATOR glitter-printed across the chest, sunglasses shaped like hearts, and a fanny pack. Neon yellow. "Oh no," you say.

"Oh yes." Amy leans back against her door, arms crossed under her impressive chest, watching you change in the parking lot like a director admiring her work. The sundress she's wearing is doing incredible things to the concept of fabric, and she knows your eyes keep dropping. "Stop staring and finish accessorizing." "Stop having cleavage and I'll consider it."

She laughs—loud and delighted, the laugh that made you lose the stupid bet in the first place, because you were distracted by it. "Fanny pack. Now. You look like a divorced DJ and I love it."

Inside the store, she hands you the shopping list. It reads: whipped cream, cherries, chocolate syrup, plastic sheet, rope. Just rope. No elaboration.

"Amy." "Milk's on aisle six," she says serenely, walking ahead of you on those five-inch heels, her sundress swaying. People are staring at you. People are staring at her. People are trying to figure out how you, in a glitter tank and heart sunglasses, are with her.

She grabs the whipped cream, holds it up, and looks you dead in the eye over the shelf. "Two cans. I'm an optimist."

At checkout, she makes you wear the fanny pack in front, which she keeps loading like it's a joke and you know, you *know*, it's not empty. "Ma'am, did you find everything okay?" the cashier asks her.

"Oh, we're still shopping," Amy says, and squeezes your ass on the way past, right there in front of the register and the gum display and God himself. You yelp. She winks. The cashier decides very hard to look at the belt.

In the car, she doesn't start it. She just looks at you across the console, and her whole energy shifts—less game show host, more predator settling in.

"Fun's over," she says quietly. "New orders. Take out your cock." "Amy, we're in the parking lot—"

"That wasn't a question." Her eyes don't leave yours. "Show me what I've been betting on all day. You've been half-hard since I put on this dress. I can always tell. You get this polite little face, like you're trying to think about baseball."

You do it. Of course you do it. Your hands are shaking slightly and she watches every second of it with open, greedy attention, like you're the entertainment and she bought a front-row seat. "Good boy," she murmurs, and the words go through you like electricity. "Look at that. All day you've been mine, and you didn't even know how much you liked it." She wraps her hand around you—warm, sure, slow—and strokes once, twice, getting the shape of you, thumbing the head until your hips lift off the seat.

Then she lets go. "Drive," she says, starting the engine for you, eyes forward, smiling like a cat with feathers in her teeth. "My place. Both hands on the wheel. If I see one of them wander, we start over."

The drive is fourteen minutes of the worst sweet torture of your life. She narrates. "Here's what happens when we get inside," she says, reapplying her lip gloss at a red light, glancing at your lap. "You're going to stand in the living room and take off every stupid thing you're wearing. Sunglasses first. I want to watch your face the whole time."

"Then?" "Then I sit on the couch and you kneel, and you eat my pussy until I say stop. That's the whole itinerary. I'm a simple woman." You grip the wheel so hard the leather creaks. "Say thank you, Mommy," she adds. You say it. Your voice cracks. She smiles like she just won the bet all over again.

Inside her door, she doesn't even make it to the couch before she changes her own plan—she's impatient too, you realize, and that undoes you more than anything. She shoves you against the wall, kisses you hard, all soft pink lips and filthy intent, her hands pinning your wrists above your head like it's nothing. She's strong for someone who looks like a perfume ad. "Heels stay on," she breathes into your mouth. "Everything else goes. Yours first."

You strip while she watches, arms crossed, chest heaving. The glitter tank hits the floor. The heart sunglasses. The yellow fanny pack, which she picks up, unzips, and empties: a bottle of lube and a single condom, which she sets on the hall table like a centerpiece. "Planning this since March," she says again.

She takes you to the couch and makes you kneel, and she means it—she hitches that sundress up over her hips, no underwear underneath, this whole time, and pulls your face in. "Eyes up here," she orders, and you look up the landscape of her while your tongue does its work. She's vocal, bossy, obscenely encouraging, one heel planted on your shoulder blade like she's claiming territory. Her fingers are in your hair, guiding, correcting, demanding. "Slower. There. *There.* Don't you dare stop—" She comes with a curse and a shudder, thighs tight against your ears, and she doesn't even let you come up for air before she's pulling the condom toward her.

"Bet's not over," she pants, gorgeous and wrecked and grinning. "I said all day. I intend to collect."

Later—much later, after the whipped cream justified both cans and the rope went unused because you ran out of daylight and energy—she lies across your chest in her messy hair and nothing else, tracing the glitter text she made you wear. "For the record," she says, "I threw darts badly on purpose in March. I wanted you to bet me." "You *rigged* it?" "I invested in it." She kisses your jaw, soft for the first time all day. "Best money I never spent. Same bet next month?" "You're going down." "Mm. I certainly hope so." She grins against your neck. "That's the plan, anyway."