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The first time I swiped right on him, his profile screamed Ivy League douchebag in the most delicious way possible—Cornell finance grad, VP at some hedge fund with a name like "Blackthorn Capital," and a hobby listed as "competitive yacht racing."
His photos were all polos with popped collars and that sun-bleached hair only trust fund kids seem to pull off.
But what really hooked me? The caption under a pic of him gripping a champagne bottle on a catamaran: Work hard, play harder.
Classic.
He’d shown up to our date in a navy suit tailored to his linebacker shoulders, smelling like cedarwood cologne and the faintest tang of bourbon—Wall Street’s golden guy, a mergers-and-acquisitions prodigy who spent weekends restoring vintage Porsches.
His Hinge profile had screamed straight, boring, desperate: “Looking for someone low-maintenance. No drama.” Drama, as it turned out, was exactly what he needed.
“You’re… shorter in person,” he said, eyes darting between my lace choker and the cherry-red gloss smudging my whiskey glass.
I let my voice slip into that breathy, Valley-woman lilt that made frat guys melt. “Five-foot-six in heels, baby. You wanna check?” I kicked a strappy stiletto onto his lap under the table, the sole grazing his crotch. His knuckles whitened around his Old Fashioned.
The lie had been flawless—photos angled to hide my Adam’s apple, bio scrubbed of pronouns, just “23 ✨ Fashion student who loves astrology and mojitos.” Grayson’s opening line? “You look like trouble.”Oh, honey.
He’d tried to bolt when I confessed over martinis. “You’re—? Fuck. No.” The way his gaze snagged on my fishnet-covered calves as he stood? Delicious. I’d clawed him back with a manicured hand on his thigh, leaning close enough for him to see the swell of my silicone tits beneath the dress. “C’mon. Let me suck your cock. You’ll forget what’s attached to my lips.”
He changed back to his gym clothes and we headed down to my hotel
he’s pacing like a caged tiger, tie loosened. “This doesn’t mean I’m—”
“Bi? Gay? Human?” I sink onto his leather couch, hiking my dress to mid-thigh. The black lace thong peeks. “Relax, Sammy . It’s just a mouth.”
His zipper’s down before he reaches me.
The cock that springs free is thick, veined, 10 inch 🍆—a fucking monument to testosterone. I inhale musk, salt, the starch of his calvin klein briefs. My tongue swipes the leaking slit, collecting bitter pre-cum as he hisses. “Christ.”
I take him deep, gagging myself on his girth, hollowing my cheeks until his hips jerk. His fingers fist in my rose-gold wig. “F-fuck, your mouth—”
“Told you,” I purr, pulling off with a pop. Spit strings cling to his shaft. “Now bend me over that armrest.”
He freezes. “I don’t… I can’t fuck you.”
“Who said anything about fucking?” I stand, turn, ass pressing against his tented slacks. My hand guides his between my thighs. “Just rub that big dick on my pussy. Pretend.”
The thong tears easily. His breath hitches when he feels the smooth, hairless skin beneath—and the tight, puckered hole above it. “Wait, that’s—”
“Still me.” I glance over my shoulder, biting my lip. “C’mon, baby. Rub.”
He’s animalistic now, beyond thought, grinding his cock along my cleft. The fat head catches on my rim, once, twice—then slips.
“Oh shit,” he chokes, sheathing himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
The burn is exquisite. I scream, nails clawing the leather as he starts pistoning, each snap of his hips slapping our flesh. “Tight—fuck—so fucking tight—”
“Your g rlfriend can’t take it like this, can she?” I taunt, reaching back to spread my cheeks wider. “Bet her pussy’s loose after you—”
He growls, fingers bruising my hips, pace turning feral. The dress rides up, lace straps slipping off my shoulders as he rams into me. I feel his balls slapping my taint, hear the squelch of lube and sweat.
“Gonna cum,” he snarls.
“Inside,” I gasp. “Mark me.”
His roar shakes the loft. Rope after rope of thick, creamy jizz floods my guts, dripping down my trembling thighs. When he pulls out, spent and shaking, I collapse onto the couch—dress ruined, makeup smeared, grinning like a succubus.
Sam Hoyt stares at his softening cock, then at the cream-pink smear on his shaft. “I’m… I have a fiancée.”
I lick his cum off my fingers. “Mm. She’ll love the story.”
He pales.
“Kidding!” I blow him a kiss, adjusting my dress. “Unless you ghost me again. Then…”
The door slams as I leave.
His text comes at 3 AM: “When can you come back?”
Poor straight boys. Always so hungry.
