He asks her to mount him

Chloe remained standing in the center of the dingy living room, the light blue pencil skirt and yellow cardigan still neat on her frame, diamond earrings and necklace catching what little light managed to slip past the heavy curtains. Her engagement ring felt cold against her finger. Harlan’s crude offer still echoed in her head, and the reluctant agreement she had given him sat heavy in her chest.

He watched her for a moment longer, that unpleasant smile lingering, then reached down and began undoing his belt. The sound of the buckle was loud in the quiet room. Chloe’s eyes flicked away almost immediately, heat rushing to her face, but she forced herself to stay where she was. She had already said yes. Backing out now would only bring the complaints down on her father again.

Harlan shoved his pants and underwear down just far enough. His cock was already half-hard, thick and veined, the skin flushed darker than the rest of him. The smell of him—stale smoke, unwashed body, something sour—grew stronger as he exposed himself. Chloe’s stomach turned. She kept her gaze fixed on a stained patch of carpet near his feet.

He lowered himself carefully to the floor, grunting as he settled onto his back on the matted brown carpet. His stomach rose and fell with each breath. He looked up at her, one hand loosely wrapping around his cock, stroking it once, twice, until it stiffened fully.

“My back isn’t so good,” he said, voice rough. “You ride me. Knees on either side. Do the work.”

Chloe’s protest came out before she could stop it. “I—I can’t. Not like this. There has to be another way. Maybe I can just… talk to the city myself, or—”

Harlan’s expression hardened. “You already agreed. You want the complaints to stop, this is how. Get down here and ride it. Or I pick up the phone the second you walk out that door.”

The threat landed exactly where he intended. Chloe’s throat tightened. She thought of her father—tired, soft-spoken, already stressed by the earlier issues—and the endless stream of new complaints Harlan could invent. The diamond necklace felt like a weight against her collarbone. Her yellow cardigan suddenly seemed too bright against the dingy room.

She closed her eyes for a second, drew a slow breath, and opened them again. “Yes,” she said, the word quiet and defeated. “All right.”

Harlan’s smile returned, satisfied. He kept his hand on himself, waiting.

Chloe’s fingers trembled slightly as she reached under the hem of her light blue pencil skirt. The fabric was smooth and fitted; she had to hitch it up a little to get her hands underneath. She found the waistband of her panties—simple, pale, chosen that morning without a second thought—and hooked her thumbs into the sides. She pulled them down slowly, the soft material sliding over her hips and thighs. When they reached her knees she had to bend carefully, mindful of the three-inch Mary Jane pumps. She worked the panties down the rest of the way, past her calves, and finally over the delicate straps of the heels. The small scrap of fabric dangled from her fingers for a moment before she let it drop onto the stained carpet beside her.

She straightened. The pencil skirt still covered her from the waist down, but the absence of the panties left her bare underneath. Cool air touched her skin. She felt exposed in a way that made her cheeks burn. The diamond earrings swung slightly as she moved. Her engagement ring caught the dim light again.

Harlan’s eyes tracked every motion. He stroked himself more deliberately now, watching her with open hunger. “That’s it. Come on. Straddle me.”

Chloe stepped closer, the Mary Jane pumps sinking slightly into the thick, dirty carpet. She stood over him, looking down at the heavyset man lying on his back, his cock hard and waiting, the smell of him rising up to meet her. The yellow cardigan still buttoned modestly over her blouse, the light blue skirt still neat, the diamonds still sparkling at her ears and throat—everything about her appearance remained polished and careful, completely at odds with what she was about to do.

She planted one foot on either side of his hips, the three-inch heels steadying her. The hem of the pencil skirt brushed the tops of her thighs as she prepared to lower herself. Her heart was pounding. Every instinct still screamed that this was wrong, that she should walk out, that there had to be another solution. But the image of her father dealing with endless city complaints kept her in place.

Chloe stood over him, skirt already slightly lifted by the position of her legs, ready to mount him.