I sign my name on the dotted line. My hand shakes. The pen feels heavy. "Done," I say. The lawyer slides the contract into his briefcase. He doesn't look at me. Nobody in this room looks at me except him. The man who just bought me for one week. He sits across the mahogany table in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my car. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes like frozen steel. "Leave us," he says. The lawyer and his assistant scramble out. The door clicks shut. We're alone. "Stand up," he says. I stand. My legs tremble. I need this money. My sister needs this money. Stage four cancer doesn't care about my dignity. He walks around the table. Slow. Predatory. "You understand the terms?" he asks. "Yes," I say. "One week. I do whatever you want. You pay me two million dollars." "Whatever I want," he repeats. He's behind me now. I feel his breath on my neck. "Yes," I whisper. His hand slides up my thigh. Under my skirt. I gasp. "You wore what I told you to wear," he says. "Good girl." No panties. Just like his email instructed. His fingers find me. I'm already wet. I hate that I'm wet. "Fuck," I breathe. "Not yet," he says. He spins me around. Lifts me onto the table. Papers scatter. "What's your name?" I ask. "Does it matter?" he says. "I guess not," I say. He pushes my skirt up. Spreads my legs. Looks at me like I'm something he owns. Because for one week, I am. "You're beautiful," he says. "Even more beautiful than your photos." He drops to his knees. Oh God. His tongue finds my clit immediately. No warm-up. No gentle exploration. Just direct, intense pressure that makes my back arch off the table. "Fuck," I moan. "Oh fuck." He grabs my thighs. Holds me in place. His tongue works in circles, then flicks, then sucks. I shouldn't enjoy this. This is a transaction. This is survival. But my body doesn't care about morality. "Please," I gasp. "Please what?" he says against my pussy. "Please don't stop," I say. He slides two fingers inside me. Curls them. Finds that spot that makes me see stars. His tongue and fingers work together. A rhythm that builds and builds. I'm going to come. Already. From a stranger's mouth. "Come for me," he says. "Let me taste it." The orgasm hits like a freight train. I cry out. My thighs clamp around his head. He doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. Licks me through every pulse and shudder. When I finally come down, he stands. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Good," he says. "Now the real fun begins." He unbuckles his belt. Unzips his pants. His cock springs free. Thick. Long. Already hard. "On your knees," he says. I slide off the table. Drop to my knees on the expensive carpet. He fists his hand in my hair. Guides his cock to my lips. "Open," he says. I open. He pushes inside. Slow at first. Then deeper. Until I gag. "That's it," he says. "Take it all." Tears stream down my face. Spit drips down my chin. He fucks my mouth with steady, brutal thrusts. "You look so pretty like this," he says. "Choking on my cock." I moan around him. The vibration makes him groan. "Fuck," he says. "I'm not coming in your mouth. Not yet." He pulls out. Hauls me to my feet. Bends me over the table. "This is going to hurt," he says. He's not wrong. He slams into me in one thrust. No warning. No preparation beyond my own wetness. I scream. "Too much?" he asks. "No," I gasp. "Don't stop." He doesn't. He fucks me hard. Fast. The table scrapes across the floor with each thrust. His hand wraps around my throat. Squeezes. "You're mine this week," he says. "Every hole. Every sound. Every orgasm. Mine." "Yes," I choke out. "Yours." His other hand finds my clit. Rubs in tight circles. The combination of his cock, his hand, his grip on my throat—it's too much. "I'm going to come again," I say. "Do it," he says. "Come on my cock." I shatter. Clench around him. Scream his name except I don't know his name so I just scream. He follows seconds later. Buries himself deep. Fills me with hot cum. We stay like that. Breathing hard. Connected. Finally, he pulls out. I feel his cum drip down my thighs. "Clean yourself up," he says. "A car will take you to my penthouse. Your things are already there." "Wait," I say. "What do I call you?" He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Sir," he says. "You call me Sir." He walks out. I'm left alone in the conference room. Cum dripping down my legs. Two million dollars richer. One week to go.