The rental desk

The rental desk is a membership, not a shift. I do not fuck the authors I ghost for, and Warner is not one of them. He is thirty-eight, from an app, and he met me after the room had emptied. I had a key because I pay for the desk. I was not working. The laptop was closed. I sat there in a grey sweater and black pants, glasses on, and that is how I looked before I said the words: quiet, dressed, already wet.

We had written the rules before he arrived. He could call me a slut. He could call me a hole. He could say I was used. No other names in that set. The safeword is delete, and if I say it while he is fucking me, he stops. I put the phone on the desk, voice note open, and said I wanted the file. He said he wanted it. I hit record.

I stood, pushed the chair back, and bent over the desk with my cheek near the closed laptop. I told him to take my pants down and fuck my cunt, and to use only the words I had given him. His cock was out when I looked back. He dragged my pants to my knees and rubbed his cock along my cunt. I was soaked. He said I was a slut for bending over a desk I did not even work at. The word landed where I wanted it. He fucked his cock into my cunt and I grunted, glasses clicking the wood. He held my hips and fucked my cunt in steady strokes, talking close to the phone. He said my cunt was a hole. He said I was going to be used. I said yes to both. I reached under and rubbed my clit. His cock filled my cunt and the words made it worse in the direction I like.

I came with my mouth open, a short cry, cunt gripping his cock, and I told him not to stop fucking me. He kept fucking my cunt until I was shaking. I told him to cum in my cunt. He did, cock shoved deep, cum hot inside me, his hand flat on my back. I stayed bent over and felt it. Then I stood, pants still down, and we listened to the note once. My voice on it was filthy. His was worse, and only in the words I had allowed. The sex had been real. Delete had stayed unused while he fucked me. After, I pointed at the phone and said delete, and I meant the recording, not the night. He deleted it in front of me. I watched the file go.

I pulled my pants up, put the glasses straight, and locked the room. I wrote nothing down. That was the point of killing the file. I went home alone and slept like a person who had gotten the exact filth she ordered and left no copy of it.