The receipt

He said coat before he said hello. I had already looked the shop up. I know his ceiling. I do not pick past it unless I want to watch him decide I am worth the extra.

The dressing room had a real door. I put the camel coat on over the dress I came in, looked at the tag, and looked at him. He did the face he does when the number is high and his cock is already involved. I went to my knees on the little bench, coat still buttoned, tag scratching my collarbone, and I sucked his cock until he had one hand in my hair and the other on the mirror. He said we should wait for the car. I said the car is for fucking. This is for the price. He came on my tongue. I swallowed, stood, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and told the woman at the desk to ring it.

In the car I left the bag on the floor and opened the coat. He fucked me in the passenger seat with the dress pushed up, one heel on the dash, his cock in my cunt, city going past the glass like it had an opinion. I had the receipt on my phone and I read him the total while he fucked my cunt. Two thousand four hundred. He groaned like the number was a hand. I came when I said it the second time, my cunt clenched around his cock, because I like the math and I like him hearing that I like the math.

I wore it out of the car and into my building. The tag was still on until the elevator. I cut it off upstairs, put the coat on a hanger that cost more than my first sofa, and texted him the photo of it hanging up. Not my body. The coat. He sent back a heart, which is his version of filthy. I saved the receipt.