Flashback the date

I was twenty-six minutes late on purpose.

The bar was quiet, expensive. She was already there at a corner table in a black raw-silk midi dress — halter neckline with thick straps, fitted ruched bodice that clung to her waist, voluminous flared skirt. Black patent pumps with ankle straps. Diamond-and-onyx earrings. Thin infinity ring. Soft dewy makeup, peach blush, nude lips, kohl-lined eyes.

I sat down without apologizing and looked at her.

While she smiled and started talking, I was already measuring.

The thick straps sat on collarbones that would look good with my hand around her throat. The bodice hugged breasts I put at a full C, maybe D — heavy enough to bounce hard, soft enough to leave fingerprints. Waist looked narrow, maybe twenty-five, twenty-six inches. The flared skirt hid the rest, but the way it moved told me her hips were wider, ass round and full. I could already feel how it would look bent over, how it would spread under my hands, how deep I could push into her while I watched it jiggle. Ankle straps on the heels meant I could keep them on while she was on her knees. Mouth looked soft and full — made for stretching around me. Throat looked narrow. Eyes were big and brown; they would water easily.

She leaned forward a little, still smiling, soft Iranian accent warm on purpose.

“You’re late.”

“I know.”

I ordered a whiskey neat without asking what she was drinking. My eyes kept working. Shoulders soft. Tits would fill my hands and spill over. That waist would fit perfectly between my palms when I held her still. The skirt would push up easy. I already knew how I’d use every part of her — mouth first, then bent over whatever was closest, those heavy tits swinging, that ass taking the force of every thrust.

She kept the smile in place.

“Our mutual friend said you might be able to help me with something. A contact. Someone who’s difficult to reach.”

I watched her mouth while she spoke.

“People usually start with small talk.”

“I’m not very good at wasting time. And I was told you’re not either.”

“You’re good at this,” I said flatly. “The dress. The voice. The way you lean in when you want someone to look at your chest. Most men fold before the second drink.”

Her fingers tightened on her glass.

“And you don’t?”

“No.”

I took a slow sip of whiskey and kept cataloguing. Nipples would be dark. Cunt would be tight the first few times. She had the kind of body that would mark easily — handprints on the ass, bruises on the inner thighs, a red ring around the throat if I wanted it. I could already see her on her knees with the skirt pooled around her, those tits resting on my legs, eyes watering while I fucked her throat.

“Tell me what you need.”

She explained the contact, the door that needed opening. Professional. Careful. Every so often she brushed her hair back or let her eyes drop to my mouth. I let her finish, still deciding exactly how I would take her apart the next night.

“I can make that call. It’s not difficult for me.”

Her shoulders loosened. She smiled again, warmer.

“I’d be grateful. Truly.”

I tilted my head, still looking at the body in front of me like it was already mine to use.

“I don’t do grateful. And I don’t do the dinner-and-texting version of this that you’re clearly used to.”

“Then what do you do?”

“Tomorrow night. My place. Eight o’clock. Wear something you don’t mind getting wrinkled. We’ll talk about your contact then.”

She blinked. “That’s it? No more details?”

“You already know the details. You’re just pretending you don’t so you can keep smiling at me like that.”

Color rose under the blush.

“You’re very direct.”

“You’re very obvious.” I took another sip. “The dress is good, by the way. Makes it easy to see exactly how you’d look bent over something. Or on your knees with the skirt spread out around you. I already know your sizes. I already know how I’d use them.”

Her pulse jumped in her throat. I watched it.

“You’re assuming a lot.”

“I’m not assuming. I’m offering. You can say no. Door’s open. But if you show up tomorrow, you’ll already have said yes.”

I finished the whiskey, stood, and looked down at her one last time — measuring the straps, the bodice, the soft flare of the skirt, already planning where my hands would go first.

“Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

Then I walked out.

I already knew she would be there. And I already knew exactly how I was going to use every inch of her.