Surge Rates

Ashley slammed the door shut and barely glanced at the driver. Phone glued to her ear, she fired off the club address while Michael waited, brows up like he deserved an actual hello. Location pinged, he pulled off into the dark, one stop bleeding into the next until trees swallowed the road and streetlights vanished. When he finally hit the payment button, red letters flashed—card declined—and whatever chill he'd been holding hit the floor. Mike unlocked the back door and jerked his thumb. "Out." Ashley went white. "Please—I've got nothing out here, I'll do anything." His jaw worked a second, then the grin slid across his face like he already owned the answer. "You're riding me till you pay every dime. No whining, no faking it." She peeled her dress down, tits spilling free, knees hitting the floorboards as his cock shoved between her lips. When he dragged her onto the back seat, he spread her legs so wide the hinge popped. One thrust buried every inch, and the stretch ripped a raw scream right out of her. His fingers closed around her throat, tightened just enough to spot her vision, then slid down to jam two knuckles through slick heat until she jerked and sprayed across the upholstery like a busted hydrant. Mike never let up, driving in and out while she shook. When he finally blew, thick ropes spattered across her swollen cunt, then his palm forced the mess between her teeth—every last salty trace sliding down her throat. Ashley lay there, thighs twitching, leather sticking to her ass, and Mike laughed like he'd just won twice.