Not a request

ELEANOR POV

Fucking a man is a humiliation ritual unless he’s worth something: beauty, money, influence... or a good dick. Banks has it all and he's quite good with them. All. My request for "time to think" isn't because I’m looking for a relationship. Men like him don't do "girlfriends." But being his fuck-toy comes with quite the rumor and backlash.

First: Johnny, my ex-boyfriend will notice since we work together. Yes—he's my supervisor. We only broke up three weeks ago. He’ll talk about it, name-call me, and I'll hate it. Banks supersedes him in every way no doubt, but Johnny is younger than Banks. Banks is probably in his early forties or late thirties.

Second: Men like Banks are brutal. I’m afraid being his toy means I’ll eventually be expected to "share." I’ve fantasized about a threesome, but with a man who runs casinos and clubs known for "unsavory" deals? Nope. I’m afraid I’ll be tied into things that aren't pretty.

Third: He’s proven aftercare isn't his style. I hate the idea of being treated like a prostitute. And lastly, I’ll be disposed of. When he’s done, I’ll be trashed like the rest. People who see us together during the periods he calls me in will know I've been discarded by him when he's done. My reputation will be stained. But then... I look at my bank balance.

Ten thousand dollars for one night. It’s life-changing, reputation be damned. Geez! Ten thousand dollars to fuck me. If I’m honest, this is the best job I’ve ever had. Getting satisfied by a man who actually knows how to use his dick? I can suck him all day. Huge, filling, and he doesn't even smell bad. My ex had a scent that made me stop giving blowjobs—part of why we failed. I get thoroughly wrecked and still get paid. I can turn my life around. Honestly, I'll wipe away the tears of people's backlash with the money he'll pay me, but still... I'm reluctant. The stain of being one of Banks’s used girls doesn't wash off easily. One just finished battling a court order of paternity tests and whatnot. It's quite the distasteful gossip online. I value my reputation because I'll make it big. In this city, I'll make that name and six figures. Surely. And, I might one day need help, I don't want my rendezvous with someone as unscrupulous as him to taint my hard labor. I take out my phone and text him:

"I appreciate the offer, but I’ll decline. Goodbye, Master. Sorry...Sir."

The last part is a bit of humor. A "fuck you" very much. It's past six a.m. and a part of me believes he's awake. Yet, no reply.

I head to work.

It's now Three p.m. The day is slammed. I’ve been standing for eight hours, and my feet are screaming. My colleague, Samantha, is finally here to take over but still unhelpful.

"Do you have another card, sir?" I ask the customer.

"I’m on...."

The customer’s words fade as a heavy gust of wind follows someone into the shop. My chest tightens and throat goes dry. Standing there is Banks. The same man I rejected eight hours ago. Hands in his pockets, face like granite, muscles spasming beneath his shirt. He walks closer, saying nothing, just stares and I hiccup.

"Welcome, sir," I manage to greet but get no reply. He just stares at me.

"Try this one," the customer says, drifting my gaze away from Banks. Card Failed.

"Maybe our network is poor."

It’s a lie. I just need this customer to leave so I can be alone with him... Or rather, so I can escape. Samantha is sitting beside me. Covered by the high desk, glued to her phone as usual, leaving me to handle the floor. I've shouted, fought, complained. It all ends with—I'll change. Three days of said change then she relapses and I'm tired. I conclude all I have to do is leave immediately it clocks three p.m. But as seen, delays happen.

"I need this. It’s an emergency," the customer insists.

"I’m sorry, sir," I say and Banks grimaces. I shouldn't be watching him, but I can't stop. My eyes unwillingly find him.

"Get your manager," the customer demands.

"I’m an old client here."

Of course, the familiarity card. I sigh and reach for my phone. Seconds pass with Banks glaring at the man, while rubbing the back of his neck.

"She’s not picking up, sir," I tell the customer.

"It’s not my fault your terminal is faulty!" Here we go with the voice raise.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

"I’ll pay," Banks cuts in, stepping closer to the man. His voice is low, deceptively calm, but edged with a terrifying finality.

"I’m not poor," the man snaps and there we are with the male ego.

"Not at all, sir," Banks says, his neck tight.

"But you’re taking the time I need with her."

What. The. Fuck. My pulse and cunt drop. The customer looks between us and Samantha finally looks up from her phone.

"This is my card. I’ll pay you back," the man says, passing a card toward Banks who doesn't collect it. He drops it on the table, grabs his bags, and flees.

"Mast..." Banks's eyebrows shoot up and I stop.

"His total was four hundred dollars, sir," I correct with a trembling voice. Banks passes me his card, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I’ll do it, Mr. Banks!" Samantha chirps, snatching the card.

"I’ll decline," Banks states, stopping her cold while still looking at me.

"I just wanted to help, sir," Samantha voices with a sad tone. I know Banks means the message I sent but it doesn't stop me from collecting the card and swiping it.

"Thank you,....sir." He grimaces and I stifle a laugh. What does he have against the word "sir"? Eyes on my lips, neck. He doesn't look away or collect the card and it suddenly feels cold. I gulp, the silence breeding totally heavy and loud.

"Get your things and follow me," he finally says and turns, walking away. Sam looks between us then back at me.

"You... him?" she stutters as I sign out and go for my bag from the back. When I return, Banks is by the drinks section while Sam hovers behind him.

"This has twelve percent alcohol and tastes like fermented apple," she’s pitching to a man who owns a vineyard. That said man fucked me. I close my eyes and shake my head.

"Add it with Greek yogurt," he replies dismissively, walking through another row. I remain standing behind them as I gawk at his broad shoulders. They're wide and he's currently wearing a black shirt and matching pants. He's probably six-foot-four or five. He reaches for something above and his back flexes. The same back that has my scratch marks. I clench my pussy at that dirty image. Then, he turns to me and stares straight past me.

"I'm ready," I say, adjusting my top and rubbing my palms on my jean pants. He keeps on staring. I look behind me to see what he's looking at. Oud fills my nose and I turn back... his hand grabs my neck and he pulls me into a deep, hot kiss. There goes my privacy. My eyes close involuntarily as I take in the soft, minty taste of his mouth. He pulls me closer, my stomach folds touching his abs. His tongue finds mine and I grab his arms.

"Hmmm," a moan slips from me as my jeans press into my cunt. Someone gasps and I regain sanity. I'm at work! I push him back, finding Samantha’s bewildered face staring at us.

"Leave us," he tells her without looking at her. His lips are now glossy, courtesy of my gloss that I applied when I went for my bag. Sam bolts past me. Banks's palm remains on my face and the other on my waist.

"People will talk and I sent my reply to you, sir." He closes his eyes and strokes his thumb on my puffed cheeks. His arm pulling my waist closer to him.

"I wasn't requesting you become my partner," he says, his thumb stroking my bottom lip.

"I’m telling you."

"This is my workplace... you can’t..."

"Go to my car." That statement is a command. The deepness of his voice and finality proves it. I head out into the sun. I don't know his car but maybe it's the Rolls-Royce that brought me to him yesterday. I don't see the Rolls-Royce but in this complex with different cars parked, one stands out. A pure black Lamborghini with a smooth front screaming Aura. I look at it and walk away. I've heard of arrangements. Three different old men once suggested it to me but, as always, I rejected. I don't like the sting of being cataloged as a woman who was used and abandoned. That's why I've always ended things with people I dated before they could do it to me. I feel him behind me. Before I can turn, I’m lifted off my feet, turned back, and tossed into the passenger seat.

"Mr. Banks! This is wrong!"

He snaps the seatbelt on me and locks the door. I sit back down, rub my palms together as he enters the driver's seat.

"I think we need to talk, sir." He closes his eyes. That is an involuntary use of sir.

"I’m not rejecting you... I just..." God! He smells fucking delicious but stares like a hound. When I say nothing, he drives off. The silence is suffocating and he's obviously taking me to his home.

"I appreciate the money, but I have no interest in an arrangement," I manage to rush out and he slams the car into park.

"Arrangement?"

"Yeah. Me fucking you when you want, and you paying me monthly."

"You seem familiar with the concept," he grinds out through clenched teeth.

"I'm not Miss World but I've captured quite a few men's attention." I don't mention they're older or that some were challenges to mock me. The fat girl.

"I see," is all he replies.

"I want something else. Respect. Long term."

"How many?"

I look at him and think back on my words. How many what?

"How many what?"

"Arrangements."

"None. I told you, I want more."

He leans forward and kisses me again, cutting off my breath.

"You taste so fucking good and I've no intention of letting go until I’m tired of it," he says, then drives off. Get tired. Tired. That’s the issue.

"Mr. Banks,"

"You get two million monthly and rules to follow," he says, passing me a folder that I don't pick up yet. JESUS. Two million.

"I’ll be busy or traveling, but make sure you’re ready when I call."

Two million. Even if he gets tired in a month, I’m set. If he lasts a year? I'll be facing twenty-four million dollars! I could buy a house, a car, a shop. I could take care of my parents. I’ll be rich. Fuck what they say. I’ll cry about their insults on a yacht.

"Why are you quiet?" he questions, taking a glance at me.

"When do you think you’ll get tired of me?"

He smiles and faces the road without replying. I pull out my phone and search: Banks Wellington longest relationship. Only two. Both last six months. Twelve million dollars. Still enough for the dream. But my dad’s words echo: Fucking a man is a humiliation ritual... make sure you hide him. I exhale then my body goes rigid as a thick palm finds the swell of my breast.

"You're mine, Anor," he says with a flicker on my nipple. I clench my pussy and gulp. He lets go. Two million dollars. The numbers stack themselves as he drives. I pick up the folder to see.

RULES FOR SUB

-𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘺𝘮𝘣𝘰𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 (𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘮𝘦, 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥)

What...! I close the folder and flip it over, look around me.. I'm in the car with Banks. I look at him. He's still driving. I'm really doing this? Me? I thought subs are slim. Maybe a tiny bit thick. Not someone who just reduced to ninety-four from one hundred and one kg! Pressure builds from the center of my chest, to my lower abdomen, to the hole between my legs, back up to my nipples... I'm in heat! With a deep intake of breath, I open it back to read. Ten minutes later, I'm done, scared and intrigued. I look at Banks. He’s already parked in front of a stunning penthouse, and he is staring at me, waiting. I have questions to ask.

"Why me?"

"Am I not too fat?"

"Is this a game?"

But I don't ask them... The logical structure of the rules clearly replies to it all, despite my pulsing heart. Lastly, I should run. I have $10,000 in my account. I can escape. But as I said... I'm intrigued, so I don't.

"Seems I’m your fuck-toy whether I choose or not," I say, undoing my seatbelt.

"Fuck-toy," he repeats, the title thick in his mouth. He steps out. I fix my braids, grab my bag when the door flies open. Before I can process the move, he hoists me over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"I’m going to vomit!" I yell.

He slaps my ass in response.