Signed (1)

She penned her name with a flourish of her wrist, and a frown on her face.

“There, that’s the last of it. I agree to your terms.”

She chose to ignore her racing, pounding heart, the shiver that danced up and down her spine, the sheen of sweat on her brow. She simply had no other choice.  They were in debt up to their earlobes.  And here they were, meeting with a friend of a friend of a friend. Her soon-to-be-ex had so many poker buddies. Yeah, right. Buddies indeed- guys who loved to take his money. He was such an easy target. He was a fucking idiot. They needed to sell the house, but the debt was bigger than any sale would handle.

She wanted that fucking divorce. His “friends friend” had a novel solution, to ‘sell’ her sexual services to him for a month. Thirty days of sexual service. She’d stay in his home, clean it, cook, full-time “houseslut” and full-time sex slave. He’d come home for lunch, and a fuck. He would do whatever he wanted to her, sexually, for that thirty days.

And pay off all their debts, as well as her legal fees pertaining to the divorce.


Her jerk of a husband would find someone like that to bail them out. Fucking a-hole. She turned to him.

“Happy, you bastard? When this is done, over, i never, ever want to see you again. And one more thing,” she said as she gathered up her purse and stood.

“What? We’re free, don’t you get that?” He almost whined at her.

“Geezuz. Grow some, man” she thought, disgust written all over her face. She couldn’t believe this was the man she’d married. Okay, she’d been 29 and a bit desperate. Afraid to be alone anymore. He’d never been her knight in shining armor, but this? This was just pathetic. She glared at him over her glasses.

“You suck in bed.”

Turning on her heel, she allowed her new ‘owner’ to escort her out the door. His hand quivered at her elbow, and she shot a look at him as they stepped outside.

He was laughing, the jerk.

“Just because you “own” me,” she said, making air quotes, “doesn’t give you the right to laugh at my misery. Or manhandle me.”

“Little girl, I’ve not begun to ‘manhandle” and he air quoted back to her in mocking fashion, “you. And your misery? Well, depending on your point of view, it could be over. Or maybe, just begun.”

He took her elbow, steering her to his limo. His driver had already taken her bags from her soon-to-be-ex’s car, and loaded them inside. Not that she’d need that much clothing this month. He smiled to himself, picturing her outrage when he delivered that particular ultimatum.

She was feisty, and he did enjoy that in a submissive. And he had no doubt at all that he would bend her to his will. Thirty days was plenty of time.

He settled back into his seat. He took the bottle of champagne, poured two flutes as the limo eased gently into the drive to his estate. Not his city house, but his country villa. Very private. Very secluded. Secured, gated, he could fuck her on the front lawn, the back pond, or the roof, and not be seen by any prying neighborhood eyes. Not that he cared, much.

He passed the first flute to her. She thought about refusing it, he saw it in her eyes, but she took it at last. He tipped his rim to hers, and sipped.

“To thirty days,” he toasted.

She scowled at him.

“By the way, slut,” he said, enjoying the fast rush to color in her cheeks at his tone, his words, “take off your panties and pass them to me now.”

Her mouth fell open.

It wouldn’t be the last time.