12 #3
And the party kicks off. Again. She plants a make-out kiss that leaves me breathless and complaintless, leads me by the hand to the railing, we do the neighborhood Titanic pose for two seconds and I already have the cheesy-ballad scene playing in my head with those dollar-store candles, and then she blows up the script, hikes my dress to my waist, tightens a hand around my throat and blows on the hot skin there, tells me to stay still and not look while I hear her rummage behind me in the bag of toys—click, clack, latex—that ritual that undoes me.
I can see where this is going and pray for a “get back on top, gorgeous,” but no—she’s got a new pose from the Nat catalog, the kind my head refuses and my body signs off on.
She bends me forward and I’m already spread, gripping the edge of the terrace, Madrid air slipping between my cheeks and me with no coat and no shame.
She pushes in with the strap-on, slow at first and then impatient, lube cold, my moan leaking out to the street.
She bites my back without sucking, leaves a mark without a hickey, grabs my hip, cuts off my air with that voice that revs me up, and orders me not to move.
The rhythm has me sweating; she thrusts in and out with intent and I beg for more.
The tip of the strap rubs exactly where it needs to and I clamp harder onto the cold railing, and a dumb giggle bubbles up.
She yanks my hair, turns my face, covers my mouth to turn my volume down, and says without breaking rhythm:
“I have a surprise for you tomorrow.”
I could come from the suspense; my brain spins up a movie with a blindfold, a red ribbon, and a big box from the post office, and all I can do is nod with my ass up and my nipples hard, the wind slapping my hair into my face and that panic that maybe the guy on the fifth floor is filming from his window.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
I aim for fine china and what comes out is a chihuahua bark, teeth chattering and big tell-me-now eyes.
She drops her voice to a whisper and goes harder, her breath grazing my neck.
I accept the mystery, moan, pant, tremble all over; she asks me to hold it and I hold it, until the executive function in my brain raises its hand with the worst news.
“Hey... that little surprise will have to wait. I’ve got work tomorrow.”
Bam. A weird silence drops. She goes still, still inside me. A knot hits, I break out in a sweat, my pussy throbs pissed off at the abrupt interruption, and my face goes into error mode.
“Work?”
She hits me with it like a spotlight to the face. I get as cocky as I can manage, pulse redlining, still split wide open.
“Yeah. I have to see a client.”
The silence doesn’t scrape; it chills; it smells like control, like military-academy discipline, and I’ve got no uniform, I’m naked, and a ratchet surge climbs my spine. I grab the railing and keep watching the street so I don’t kick something out of anxiety; my gallows humor kicks in.
"I get it."
"You get what? That I have a life? That I’m not your collectible Barbie little slut for when you feel like it?"
"No. You’re other women’s little toy," she says, ice-cold.
I crack up inside; it’s a meme of a comment. I picture her saying it in a Reel with white captions, and it’s literally true—I’ve got it on LinkedIn, on the invoice with VAT.
"Newsflash? Not much, queen. From the jump you knew the menu: I’m an escort.
For women, yeah. I shore up their self-esteem, put together a cute plan, give them decent sex.
They pay, they tip if I knock it out of the park, I say thanks and go.
That’s the business—the same thing you do to me for free, but with Venmo. "
She looks at me with a tight shine in her eyes; her lip trembles. I want to kiss the tic and distract her, slide my tongue in and reboot the game, but she gets even more serious.
"Then that ends if we’re going to stay together."
She kills my high, nails me with the crash. My gut cinches; I’m still naked and everything shakes. I don’t know if I just blew it or if I finally touched the spot even her therapist won’t name.
"Does it bother you?"
I turn just enough to see her out of the corner of my eye, neck long, an industrial-park queen with a sweat sheen and hair stuck to her temple.
"Yes."
She pulls all the way out of me. Leaves me hollow. I resettle, brace my hands, breathe, try not to show how much I want to push back in and slam this shut with thrusts.
"Which part exactly? That I work? That I have a life? Or that I’m not on-call 24/7 so you can bend me over facing Romania with the fancy rope?"
"Alaska, I can’t fuck you knowing you’ll leave and go fuck someone else after, even if there’s cash involved."
It hits my pride and my wallet; it makes me laugh and scares me. The devil’s advocate with a Carabanchel accent pops out, and so does the sugary girlfriend who doesn’t exist but sometimes switches on. I keep my voice calm so I don’t make it worse.
I turn, walk up slow, stand in front of her, take her hand and set it on my throat without pressing.
I let her see I’m still wet; I don’t hide it.
I whisper that she’s got me, that she can do whatever she wants right now, that the Human Resources meeting gets parked till after the orgasm.
And if it pisses her off that much, then she should propose real rules; and if not, step aside and I’ll get the Satisfyer, because I am not going to bed with shaky legs and half a brain.
She doesn’t smile, doesn’t soften, but her thumb strokes me. She breathes on me. Confirms she’s still here.
"Look, Nat, land the plane. What the hell are we, you and me? Is this a relationship, a situation with rules? Because if you want me—soul, panties, and a schedule—the least is I get to know who you are. I don’t even know your real name and I’m here with rope marks on my thighs and my pussy applauding, which is not exactly normal. "
"Velikanova. Natasha Velikanova. Russian roots."
"Okay, cool. And what am I supposed to do with that, queen? Save you in my phone as Mistress Velikanova with a black heart, look you up on Facebook, set a Soviet ringtone, or what?"
"You wanted to know. Now you know."
"Not enough. I want more. I want to know if you snore, if you leave nail clippings in the tub, if you block your exes or passive-aggressively like their posts, if you ever fell in love and got left on read, if someone split your chest open and you played tough in front of your grandma. And I also want to know if you come here to tie me up, flip me over, put me on my knees and tell me, ‘baby, still, good girl, that’s it,’ while I’m thinking about who built you that armor. "
"I’m not good at personal stuff, Alaska," she says. "And it doesn’t change what I want."
"Perfect. Then let’s keep going. What about you? Are you getting off the market, or are you asking for exclusivity on my pussy while you keep touring other people’s beds under the excuse of being mysterious?"
"I’m not going to be with anyone else," she says, slow, no drama. "Not while I’m with you."
"Then define it. Are we an official couple with a cheesy Christmas pic, are we two people who hook up and that’s it but with rules, are we friends with benefits? I need a label or I get tangled."
"Whatever you want, Alaska. The only thing I won’t do is share."
A nervous laugh bubbles up—half an attack of tenderness, half fuck-everything. And even so I tip my chin up, so it shows I’ve got two neurons fighting for control of the ship.
"Hold up, that doesn’t track. You’re asking me to dump the job that pays for the heat, weekend sushi, and Tuesday therapy—all because you woke up possessive today?"
"Yes."
"Just like that? No plan B, no 'I love you,' no sugar-baby contract till retirement, no returns policy if my heart cracks before Christmas?"
"Yes."
I go still. Skin warm, brain making pro-and-con lists.
I want to say yes and tell her to hike up my skirt, use me, finish me off against the table and leave me brainless for two days, because this submissive part of me is a game that makes me stupid-hot.
And at the same time, my accountant side kicks in: this doesn’t add up; you’ve got bills, not trading cards.
I move closer without pretending I’m tough.
"I swear I’ll swallow my pride and call you 'ma’am.
' I’ll open up, turn over, shut up, let you do whatever; you can have me dripping with two commands.
But I also want to know if you’re going to hold me when the lights go off, if tomorrow you’ll send a real text and not a dry emoji, if you’ll introduce me to a friend, if you’ll come to the movies with me—if I get to exist outside the bed. "
"If you’re only with me, whatever you want. If not, no. I don’t share."
There goes that dumb laugh again. My brain shoves me toward yes and my stomach complains, and I keep talking so I won’t cry.
"Babe, this smells like an ultimatum with a bow on it. You give me exclusivity and I give you exclusivity, fine. But you’re asking me to shut down my shop with no promise of anything stable.
At least say it right, then. Tell me you want me close, that you’ll put up with my friends on Christmas Eve, that you won’t ghost me if tomorrow I spiral and call you three times, that I won’t end up in therapy because of you while you do yoga and play dead. "
"I told you what it is. Choose."
My heart hits the floor for a second. I pick it up, wipe my face with the back of my hand, breathe.
"Okay. Then here’s mine. You’ve got me bad.
You’ve got me staring at your nails, your lashes, your brows, measuring the inches between your mouth and mine.
And I get high on that, because it’s a game that turns me on and clears my head out.
But I’m not jumping off a career ledge without a basic net.
I’m no heroine. I’m Alaska Vázquez; I’ve got bills, I’ve got hunger, and I’ve got pride when it suits me. "
She doesn’t answer. She shifts, does that little posture-adjust, and scratches my chin with her finger. Everything lights up, belly to throat. I bite my lip. I say nothing. My face says "tie me," my mind says "negotiate," my legs say "open," my bank account screams for help.
"Come to bed with me," I whisper, "and while you’re fucking me, give me something real. A detail, a tiny promise. I’m not asking for an apartment or a ring; I’m asking you to take the mask off for five minutes. Give me that and we’ll talk about the job."
She drives the words in.
"I don’t share. We can talk about the rest later."
Heat spikes, patience drops. I step back a foot. Then I square up in that 'I scrub and I run this place' stance—pure theater, pure me.
"Well then. End of shift. You close up. I’ll be over here with shaky legs, thanks. If I wake up tomorrow and you’ve written something that isn’t an emoji, we’ll talk. If not, you’ll catch me on Stories trying lipsticks and getting paid, because life goes on."
The candles throw a crummy light that gives me goosebumps. The terrace goes cold. I’m colder. And still I laugh to myself, because what a scene.
"Last call," I say, already at the door, pushing her out. "If you don’t share, learn to care. If not, you lose me. And I’m not losing me."
I shut the door. And I hear myself saying, "Tomorrow you’ll regret it.
Tomorrow you’ll text her. Tomorrow you’ll get on your knees again.
" And another voice answers inside, pissed: "Screw tomorrow, babe.
Tomorrow you get paid, get your nails done, and buy a couple pounds of chocolate.
" If she wants it, she can step up. She can say "come. "
And here I am. Turned on. Scared. Giggly. With my legs marked up and my heart shivering. And with one rule I repeat even in the shower: I play, I enjoy, I obey, but I also choose.