The Lust Journal

Her nails dug into my back, and I shoved my dick deep into her wet pussy. Our bodies slapped together, and the sound bounced off the marble walls in her fancy top-floor apartment. Cara wasn’t the type to beg, she ordered. Even with her legs hooked tight around my waist, she moved me like I was her toy.

“Harder, Cole, harder. Fuck me like I’m the last one you’ll ever screw, boy,” she moaned loud, and her voice was full of power, full of money, full of that raw hunger only a woman who owned the world could have.

I did what she said, like a good little boy. Of course I did, and I always did. Because every thrust and every wild fuck with her meant another week of bills paid, and another thick envelope of cash slid into my hand when she was happy.

Sweat rolled down my temple, and her perfume? Some pricey stuff I couldn’t even say, mixed with the sweaty smell of sex, so it made my head spin. She bit my lip when I leaned in to kiss her, sucked my tongue, and then laughed right into my mouth. That laugh reminded me she owned me, just like she owned the killer view of the city skyline outside those glass walls.

I fucked her harder, and the bedframe shook like it might break. Her tits bounced with every thrust, full and heavy, and her nipples rubbed my chest like bullets. She dragged her nails down my back, giving me a tingling sensation, I felt the warm drip, and the sting mixed with the ache in my balls. “That’s it, boy,” she hissed, and her pussy squeezed me like a fist, pulling everything out of me. “Give it to me. All of it.”

I grabbed her hips, dug my fingers into her soft skin, and drove my dick deeper in her. The wet slap of her taking me filled the room, louder than the traffic hum going on thirty floors down. She threw her head back, neck bare, and moaned like a damn siren. I latched on, sucked hard to leave a mark, my mark, for once. She liked that, the fake idea that I owned her before she turned it around.

Her pussy walls fluttered, squeezed tight, and I knew she was close. “Cole! fuck! don’t you stop.” I didn’t, so I pounded her through it, and her body locked up, thighs shaking around me as she came with a deep yell that shook the windows. Her cum soaked my cock, dripped down my thighs, and that broke me and I lost it. Buried deep, I shot off, groaned into her neck, and pulse after pulse weakened me until I shook like a malfunctioning car.

We stayed stuck like that, breaths heavy, and her nails still dug into my ass. Slow, she unwrapped her legs and shoved me off with a lazy push. “Not bad,” she drawled, sat up, and her dark hair made a messy halo around her red face. Cum leaked out of her, stained the silk sheets, but she didn’t care. Cara Vanderbilt didn’t say sorry for messes, she made them.

I flopped back, chest heaving, and stared at the ceiling fan spinning slow circles. My dick twitched, still half-hard, but she was already sliding off the bed, her ass swaying as she walked to the bar cart. She dropped some ice into fancy glasses, and the sharp smell of Scotch cut through the sex stink. She handed me one, and her eyes scanned my body like I was some stuff she was checking.

“To deals done right,” she toasted, clinked her glass to mine. Her robe hung open, barely tied, and it flashed thigh and breast. Mid-thirties and built like trouble, curves from good genes and top doctors, skin glowing from spa trips I couldn’t pay for alone.

I took a gulp, and the burn chased the high. “You say that like it’s a business deal.”

She smirked, sat on the bed’s edge, and one hand slid up my thigh. “Isn’t it? I get quiet and a solid fuck. You get… what? Rent? Paint? That sad little dream of your art studio?”

I swallowed hard, and the truth hit worse than the tease. “Yeah. That.”

Six months back, I was at rock bottom, at twenty-five, drowning in school loans, paintings rotting in a shitty walk-up that smelled like mold and fuck-ups. Side jobs stopped paying, and ramen was my inspiration. Then the charity auction at the Met. Black-tie crap, me in a borrowed suit, sipping weak whiskey at the bar. Cara walked in like a storm in red silk, turned heads and dropped jaws. Whispers followed her: the woman who’d ripped her billionaire ex apart in the divorce, walked off with half his tech world. Victor whatever, the dumb bastard. She’d been rich from birth, daddy’s a Wall Street shark, but that payout made her bulletproof.

Our eyes met across the room. She didn’t smile, just crooked a finger. I went, like a fly to a flame. Up close, she smelled like cash and trouble. “You look lost,” she said low, and her lips brushed my ear over the jazz band’s whine.

“Just waiting for the right offer,” I fired back, cocky on borrowed time.

She laughed, that laugh, and slipped me her card. “Call. I might have a deal you can’t pass up.”

Next morning, i went to her office, park view, leather seats, and her in a tight skirt that hugged her ass like a tease. “Be my date,” she said straight. “Events, trips, nights like this.” She waved a hand, but her eyes said fucking. “In return? Your debts gone, you get weekly cash. No questions.”

I shook on it, and fucked her quick on her desk, raised her skirt up, me on my knees licking her clit till she screamed my name. First envelope hit that night, dammmnnn!! Ten grand, cash, stuffed in my pocket after. From there, it exploded. I’m taking private jets to the Hamptons. Having sex in limousine, her heels on my shoulders. Yachts off Monaco, her tying me with fancy scarves while the crew acted deaf. She sent money like candy, Fifteen, twenty K some weeks, and turned my broke life into a wild dream.

Now, in the quiet penthouse, she set her glass down, leaned in to bite my earlobe. “Shower with me? Or you staying?”

“Shower,” I muttered, and my dick stirred at the idea. We stumbled into the bathroom, it was all marble and steam, rain shower big as my old place. Hot water hit like a smack, she soaped me up slow, and hands went all over. She dropped to her knees then, water pouring over her tits, took me in her mouth. No games, just deep, throat-sucking pull that had me gripping the wall and swearing. “Cara—shit—”

She hummed around me, and the buzz shot up my spine. She looked up with those green eyes, dared me. I fucked her mouth, soft at first, then hard when she grabbed my ass, pulled me in. Came down her throat with a yell, and she gulped every bit like it was top-shelf booze.

Clean and drained, we dried off. She threw on a robe, checked emails on her phone, work never quit for her. “Let yourself out. Code’s the same.” A beat, then: “Good boy.”

I dressed in the low light, i wore jeans, tee, the leather jacket she got me in Milan. As I zipped up, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Alert, Deposit hit - $12,000. For services. Her way, cold, big, a twist in my gut.

I smiled anyway, pocketed it, and headed for the door. But another buzz, a text from unknown: Hey, Cole, it’s Lana from the gala. Your art chat was fire. Wanna grab coffee tomorrow? No big deal. 😘

The gala. Damn. Last night, Cara dragged me through the Waldorf ballroom, her hand tight on my arm, chatting up donors while I played quiet hunk. Bored by hour two, I slipped to the terrace for air. There she was, Lana, early twenties, brown waves and a dress that skimmed her curves without yelling for looks. Victor’s daughter, she said casual, some tech bigshot, face from the rags. We talked real, her school paper on green energy, my half-assed gallery hopes. No games, just easy spark and numbers swapped, her fingers brushed mine, and a buzz stuck.

Coffee sounds good, I typed fast. 3 PM, that spot in SoHo?

You’re on. See you.

I pocketed the phone, and a low buzz ran in my blood. No harm. A break from Cara’s heavy shit. She didn’t own my days, just the nights she took.

Elevator to the lobby, doorman nodded like I fit. I got out into Manhattan cold, stopped a cab that stank of old coffee and bad choices. Driver grunted the fare, I tossed bills from the last payout. Brooklyn-bound, city lights blurred by, neon lies,l and concrete drag.

My studio was a slap on my face, chipped paint, easel in the corner, canvases piled like old regrets. Rent paid, thanks to her, but the air still tasted like losing. I stripped, crashed on the futon, and body buzzed from the double hit. Sleep pulled me down, had a messy dream. Cara’s laugh booming, Lana’s smile slicing through like sun.

Morning hit gray and rough. I had a cup of black coffee, I attacked the canvas, applied some bold strokes of red and black, rage and need spilling from the brush. By noon, it took shape, a woman striding, city under her feet, but her eyes… those weren’t Cara’s. They were Softer and bluer.

Phone dinged, it was Cara’s. Missed you. Dinner on Friday? Wear the Armani. Then Lana’s map for the cafe.

I smiled at the mirror, stubble dark on my jaw. Two worlds, one dick. What could possibly go wrong?

The cab ride replayed as I painted, the taste of Cara’s cum on my fingers after the shower, salty and wrong. How Lana’s laugh felt light as nothing, no chains, no bill. Guilt? Nah. Just hunger, stacking up.

By night, the painting dried rough, it was a storm in oil. I snapped a pic, almost sent to Lana, Sneak peek for tomorrow, but pocketed the phone. Slow steps.

Night dropped heavy. Alone, I jerked off to reminisces. Cara’s mouth on me in the steam, picturing Lana’s hands, so soft, wondering. Came fast, shame mixed with the kick. Wiped up, scrolled her I*******m, real shots, beach books, that smile again.

This is okay, I told the dark. Okay as hell.

But deep, the hook dug in. Cara’s envelopes were gold, Lana’s texts were fire. And fire? It burns if you play too close.