I Stole His Used Condom

The hotel room smelled like cheap perfume and stale coffee—the kind of smell that sticks to your clothes long after you’ve left. My hands shook as I reached for the condom on the bedside table. Damon Ashford’s condom. I shouldn’t have been here. I shouldn’t have done this. But I couldn’t help myself. Damon Ashford, the youngest billionaire on Forbes’ list, was the kind of man who made people stop and stare. His name opened doors, and his presence made women trip over their own feet. And now, here I was, holding something that belonged to him—something intimate. “Go to school, Veronica,” my mom used to beg me. “Mama, I’m going to be rich,” I’d say, brushing her off. “Not just rich—*dollar* rich. I’ll marry a wealthy man, divorce him, and take half of everything. Aren’t you tired of being poor?” But here I was, cleaning up after rich men in America instead of studying. This wasn’t the plan. I wasn’t here to settle for scraps. I wanted it all. And Damon Ashford? He was my ticket out. The condom felt cool and slippery in my hand. It wasn’t just trash—it was an opportunity. A chance at the life I’d only dreamed about. My breath quickened as I stared at it, imagining what it must have been like to be with him. Damon Ashford. He could have any woman he wanted—rich, beautiful, elegant. But none of them could please him like I could. The thought made my heart race and my body ache. I leaned against the wall, my uniform clinging to my sweaty skin. My fingers brushed against my skirt, against the heat between my thighs. I bit my lip, hard, trying to ground myself as I slipped my hand inside my underwear. The condom in my other hand was a reminder of what I wanted—what I deserved. Power. Control. In my mind, Damon’s hands gripped my hips, pulling me closer. His lips brushed against my ear, his voice rough and teasing. “You want this, don’t you?” “Yes,” I whispered, my fingers moving in slow circles. My breath came in short gasps as the fantasy took over. Damon’s body pressed against mine, his touch electric. “You’re mine,” he growled, his teeth grazing my neck. I imagined him giving me a love bite. “Yes…” I gasped, pressing harder, chasing the release that built with every stroke. My thighs trembled, and when it finally came, I bit my lip to keep myself from crying out. My hands were still in my p***y, stroking it very fast, closing and opening my eyes as I swam in pleasure. I kept squeezing the condom inside of my p***y, determined to get everything in. For a moment, everything felt right. I slid down the wall, gasping for air. The condom was still in my hand, its contents now more than just trash—it was my weapon. The shame hit me fast, but I pushed it aside. There was no time for guilt. This was my chance. My one shot to escape the poverty I’d been born into. Damon Ashford was my target, and I wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away. I stood up, smoothing my skirt and tucking the condom into my cleaning cart. I caught my reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes gleaming with something dark. Power. I didn’t care what it took. For the first time, I felt like I was in control. And I wasn’t going to let it go. --- Later, I rushed back to my tiny apartment. The pipes groaned like old men, and the walls were so thin I could hear my neighbors arguing about their last beer. My heart was still racing from what I’d done at the hotel. In my purse, sealed in a Ziploc bag, was Damon Ashford’s used condom—my strange little trophy. The apartment smelled damp and musty, but at least it was mine—for now. I peeled off my work uniform, the rough fabric scratching my skin, and threw it into the corner. My legs ached from the fertility injections I’d been taking for weeks. It was a painful sacrifice, but $7,000 for donating my eggs could cover my rent for months. I glanced at the small box of leftover fertility meds on the counter. A dangerous idea had been swirling in my head ever since I learned the drugs made your body hyper-fertile. A stupid idea. But stupid ideas had gotten me this far. I walked over to my vision board, tacked onto the peeling wallpaper. Pictures of Black women dripping in luxury stared back at me: diamonds glittering on manicured fingers, designer bags dangling from toned arms, yachts, mansions, private jets. “This is going to be me,” I whispered, running a finger over a photo of a woman straddling a sports car. “One way or another.” The drugs, the condom, the man. I could see it all falling into place. If Damon Ashford knew I existed, if he knew what I had in my purse… would he hate me? Fear me? Or pay to keep me quiet? I smiled bitterly. The women on my vision board didn’t get to where they were by playing it safe. They schemed, plotted, and grabbed what they wanted with both hands. My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Amanda: We need to talk. Your boyfriend is here. I froze. That son of a b***h. His time was up. I was after a bigger fish now. Another text came through: He said he’ll release your nudes if you don’t come by 8 PM. I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound, before typing back: Tell him if my nudes go viral, I want 70% of the profits. ASAP.