The text came at 11:47 p.m. on a Thursday, from an unknown contact.
Unknown:
$100,000 wired the second you walk through the penthouse door, another $100k if you make me beg before sunrise.
Black lace, no panties, with six-inch stiletto heels.
Address attached, be here in forty minutes or the offer closes.
I stared at the screen, my thighs already clenching. Two hundred grand for one night of work?
I had done worse for less, I chose the set that made men stupid: black lace balconette bra that barely contained my t**s, with matching garter belt, sheer stockings with the seam running up the back, and a six-inch patent Louboutins that clicked like gunshots when I walked, with no panties on.
Just the thin strip of lace between my legs that was already soaked from the thought of knowing
