We like to call obsessions the small addictions of daily life—a series we devour, a flavor we can’t resist, a pastime that steals our nights. But real obsession is not about things; it lives inside us. Most seek happiness, but the obsessed hunger for unrest. They let the trouble grow until it swallows everything. Nowhere is this more dangerous—or intoxicating—than in love and sex. Desire feeds on itself, contagious as a fever, until it binds everyone it touches. That was my lesson, written on my body, through the nights I’m about to tell you.

When Mike walked through the door, I was already waiting. I met him with a kiss before he could even set his briefcase down, whispering against his lips, “Welcome home. I’ve been waiting all day to do that.” My hands framed his face, my body pressing close.

He looked tired, but his eyes softened at the gesture. I took his coat, offered him a drink, and asked about his day. It was our ritual, this moment of reconnection. But tonight, something deeper stirred between us.

Mike sat, staring at me with an intensity that made my heart beat faster. “Daniella,” he said slowly, “there’s something I’ve never admitted to you. For years I’ve dreamed of it, night and day, but I didn’t have the guts to say it.”

I tilted my head, curious, already sensing the shift. “What is it, love?”

He swallowed hard. “You’re my wife… but I want to see you with someone else. A colleague. Another man. I’ve always wanted to be truly cuckolded.”

My breath caught, and for a second I just stared at him. Then I let out a shaky laugh, shaking my head.

“Mike, that’s ridiculous. Me? A crush on someone else? You know you’re the only one I ever think about.”

I wanted to believe it. I even said it with conviction. But as the silence stretched, little flashes slipped in—the quickened heartbeat when he brushed past me in the hallway, the way my mind wandered under the hot water of the shower, spinning scenes that felt too vivid to be just fiction.

I pressed my lips together, as if I could seal it all back in. “It’s nothing. Just stupid daydreams… things I never meant to be real.”

But the truth had already clawed its way up, and I could feel my cheeks burn. I lowered my eyes, voice breaking. “God, Mike… maybe it isn’t just daydreams. Maybe I do have a crush on him. I just never thought I’d have to admit it—to you, or even to myself.”

Mike’s eyes lit up, a grin tugging at his lips despite the tension. “Him??” he echoed, half-teasing, half-intent. He leaned closer, his voice low, savoring every word. “My love… perhaps we can both be happy in this. Who is him?”

I froze, every muscle taut. “Mike, no… you can’t really want me to say it out loud.”

He tilted his head, patient but insistent. “Yes. I want the truth. I want you.”

I swallowed, my heart thundering. The name sat heavy on my tongue. “It’s Mr. Bandeira… the senior partner at my firm.”

Mike’s eyebrows rose, intrigued. I rushed to justify myself, my words tumbling out. “He’s not—I mean, I don’t want him in real life. He’s just… he has this presence. The way he commands a room, the way everyone bends around him. Sometimes when I’m in meetings, I feel… small next to him. Small, but noticed.”

My throat went dry. I forced a shaky laugh. “It’s silly. Just a crush. A fantasy that should’ve stayed in the shower with the steam and the shampoo.”

But my voice betrayed me, softening as I added, almost against my will, “And yet… sometimes I wonder what it would be like, if he ever turned that sharp focus on me. If he ever wanted me the way I imagine.”

I dared a glance at Mike, searching for anger, for disgust. Instead I saw only fascination—and desire.

He leaned forward, his voice rough with desire. “I want you to live it. I think you deserve to. We all get old eventually, Daniella. I don’t want us to look back with regrets.”

I bit my lip, excitement and fear tangled inside me. “You’re serious?”

He nodded. “Dead serious. But… I’m scared. What if I lose your respect? What if you leave me?”

I cupped his face, whispering, “Baby, I could never lose respect for you. This is about exploring, not destroying us. I’ll always come back to you. Always.”

He exhaled sharply, almost trembling. “I want it so badly.”

A smile curled my lips, darkly and wickedly. “Then I’ll make this the wildest experience of our lives. You’ll see just how far I can go.”

We kissed, hungrily this time, as if sealing a pact. Then I pulled back, straddling his lap, looking deep into his eyes. “Tell me your fantasy,” I demanded.

His voice dropped, low and raw. “I want us to travel somewhere no one knows us. There, you have a lover — he becomes your boyfriend, your husband. And I’m just your cousin, tagging along. I clean for you two, cook your meals, wash your clothes… while you live your honeymoon in front of me.”

The words made my whole body tingle. My nipples hardened beneath my blouse, and my breath grew shallow. “That’s… intense,” I whispered. “But so hot.”

“Yes,” he said, gripping my hips. “Sometimes we’d go out at night, the three of us. But I’m just a shadow, while you belong to him.”

I shivered, grinding slightly on his lap. “Mike… if we do this, I’ll need the perfect lover. Someone powerful. Someone worth seducing.”

He smirked. “I know what you like. Mature men. Older than fifty. Rich. Strong. The kind of man who thinks it’s natural to have more than one woman.”

My heart raced. A face flashed in my mind — Mr. Bandeira, the senior partner at my firm. Distinguished, commanding, untouchable. Exactly the kind of man who would test every boundary.

I leaned close to Mike’s ear. “There’s someone at work. Mr. Bandeira. He’s… everything you described.”

Mike’s eyes gleamed. “Perfect. But it won’t be easy, will it?”

I licked my lips. “No. But that makes it more exciting. I’ll have to tempt him carefully, make him believe I’m worth breaking his own rules for.”

“Start with a message,” Mike suggested. “Something bold. Something that blurs the line between professional and personal.”

I reached for my phone, fingers trembling. “How about this?” I teased. “Ask him for advice on a difficult case. Then hint that I’d like to discuss it over a private drink.”

Mike shook his head, smiling darkly. “Add a twist. Say your client is a very attractive man, and you’re tempted to offer sexual favors to win. Confess that you’re conflicted — that you need his guidance. A man like him will recognize himself in that fantasy.”

My pussy clenched at the audacity. “God, that’s brilliant.” I typed quickly, my heart racing, then read it aloud:

Mr. Bandeira, I’m handling a hot male client’s case. I find myself tempted to use sexual favors to secure his loyalty, but I’m troubled by the ethics. You’re powerful, married, yet you deserve the attention of many women. Could I ask your advice — perhaps over drinks?

I hit send, then tossed the phone onto the couch with a nervous laugh. My whole body buzzed with adrenaline. “Done,” I whispered. “Now we wait.”

Mike pulled me back into his arms, his erection pressing against me through his pants. “This is only the beginning, Daniella. We’ve opened a door we can’t close.”

I kissed him deeply, moaning into his mouth. “Good,” I murmured. “I don’t want it closed. I want it wide open.”

I kissed him hungrily, sealing our pact. Already I knew—I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else until it came true. This was no passing thrill. It was the beginning of an obsession.

I woke with my heart still racing, the aftertaste of our planning night like a dangerous perfume in my mouth. Mike had kissed me goodnight, his hands lingering at my waist as if he could anchor me to the real world. I wanted to be untethered. I wanted to be pulled into whatever current Mr. Bandeira might stir.

My phone was the first thing I reached for. Blue ticks. Last seen. Nothing new. I lay there, fingers tracing idle patterns on the screen, picturing the message I’d sent: audacious and undeniable, a velvet rope thrown across a line that felt delicious to approach. He’d read it. He’d been online since I sent it. He hadn’t replied. That only made me hotter.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling with a reckless urge. The words poured out in a rush, feverish, unstoppable:

Last night I dreamed you pushed me against your desk, papers flying, your hand clamped over my mouth to keep me quiet while you used me like I wasn’t your associate but your possession. I woke up wet, aching, wishing it was real. I want you to mark me so I carry the scent of your power back into my marriage, into my bed. I want you to ruin me for anyone else.

Then a jolt of clarity hit me. Horror and longing tangled in my gut. With a frantic swipe I erased it all, watching the sentences vanish like they’d never existed.

I tossed the phone onto the pillow, burying my face in my hands. My pulse still thundered, my body still burned. The obsession had almost spoken for me.

And God help me—I knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

The day moved in a blur of autopilot tasks. I smiled at clients, drafted memos, and slid between conversations with practiced ease, all while rehearsing the meeting in my head. How I’d cross and uncross my legs. How I’d tilt my chin when I laughed. How I’d let my dress ride up just enough for the light to touch the bare skin at the top of my thigh.

By late afternoon, Mike nudged me as he always did, his voice a low hum of mischief. “Prepare yourself for tomorrow,” he said. “Dress to kill. Come home late. Don’t tell me anything until you walk through that door.”

I swallowed. A thrill of nerves lit under my ribs. “Deal,” I whispered.

At six my friend Luciana Mendez came over—witch-seducer, siren in human form, the kind of woman who made desire feel inevitable. A reporter so famous she couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized, yet she wore her fame like perfume: subtle, intoxicating, inescapable. She burst through my doorway in a swirl of black silk and red lipstick, her energy fizzing up my spine like champagne.

She kissed both my cheeks, lingering, as if even greetings had to be seductive. Then she sprawled on my couch, legs crossed at impossible angles, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Tell me everything,” she purred.

I spilled the outline like a guilty confession, and she leaned in like she could taste the story. “Red,” she declared when I asked the inevitable question about outfit. “Low, tight. Show legs. Make him want to count the seconds between your words.”

I dug the dress out of the back of my closet like a sacrament. It was the one that felt dangerous when I zipped it—the one that made my hips look like a promise. We did hair and makeup with the kind of attention a stage actress gives a role. Loose curls, smoky eyes, lipstick the color of heat. My friend demonstrated the slow, artful uncross of legs, the particular laugh that says I know exactly what I do to you, the glance that asks a man’s opinion and then answers it differently.

“You will not tell Mike what we’ve done,” she said, half joking. “We’re plotting an irresistible engine.”

“Of course,” I said, only thinking about how much I wanted Mike’s voice in my ear, guiding me like a conspirator.

Before she left I texted Mike a selfie—no faces, just a hint: the red dress, the curve of my neck, a hand pressed to my mouth as if to stifle a moan. Ready for tomorrow, I wrote.

He replied with one short line that was all heat: I’ll be waiting. Make him burn.

The next morning tried to be calm, but calm was a lie. I ate nothing; food sat like a stone in my stomach. My fingers smudged mascara as I reapplied, and every time my phone vibrated I flinched. At work I kept my messages brief, professional, my voice measured. Under that professional surface I was a wire, electric.

Then the notification: Mr. Bandeira had replied.

Intrigued. Let’s talk. Tomorrow, after five? Private office. I’ll buy the coffee.

My knees went weak with the simultaneous rush of victory and a primitive, guilty fear. The coffee line made it seem innocent. The private office made it not innocent at all.

I texted Mike a single word: Answered.

His reply came quick: Be irresistible. Don’t beg. Make him want to take you.

I saved that like a talisman.

The next morning, I woke to find Mike already gone for work. My phone buzzed, but it wasn’t until later that night, when I finally stepped into the apartment, heels clicking on the floor, that everything changed. I was exhausted but glowing, excitement practically humming under my skin.

I kicked off my shoes and grinned. “I know. But guess what? He finally replied. We’re meeting tomorrow.”

Mike sat up straighter, his face alive with hunger. “No… really? What did he say?”

I crossed the room, still buzzing from the text. “He wrote that he’s looking forward to our meeting and can’t wait to… advise me.” I giggled, heat rushing through me. “He even put ‘advise’ in quotation marks.”

Mike’s eyes widened. “That’s a sign if I ever saw one.”

“I thought so too,” I said, sliding into his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Now it’s just about tomorrow. I need to make it perfect. Every move, every word.”

That night I sent the man a simple message—Can’t wait for tomorrow. Nothing more. Just enough to keep me in his mind. When his reply finally came, late into the night, it was worth the wait: I’m really looking forward to it too.

He was waiting for me, eyes scanning me up and down. “You’re late,” he teased.

The meeting was clinical at first—files, facts, the kind of conversation that would make most people’s skin crawl with boredom. But we were not most people. I let my posture slip into suggestion. I crossed my legs slowly, feeling the fabric pull and fall just where I wanted it. I asked him about strategy, but my voice softened when I said client, and my hand brushed the edge of the folder near his. It was a small, calculated contact—electric and accidental.

We talked about work—my “client problem.” But his eyes never left mine, his voice smooth and commanding. I laughed at one of his remarks, leaning in close, brushing his arm with my hand. His reaction was instant—his fingers covering mine, firm, deliberate. Electricity shot through me.

He watched me. Mr. Bandeira had that look older men wear when they’ve forgotten to be subtle. He let his eyes linger on my lips, on the exposed slope of clavicle where my dress dipped. He smiled at a joke I’d made and then, for the first time, leaned in as if the joke had been a line he wanted to test. My pulse pounded in my throat.

I asked him, with the sweetest dryness I could muster, what he advised a young lawyer to do when tempted to offer favors for a client’s loyalty. I sounded naive enough to be dangerous and clever enough to be interesting.

He answered slowly. “Morally questionable,” he said. “But if it’s a question of desire and power…"

He let the silence hang a moment too long, his gaze fixed on my lips. Then a faint smile curved his mouth, and he said, slowly, deliberately: “Perhaps. But ethics…” he leaned closer, voice lowering to a murmur that still cut like glass, “ethics bend when desire presses. You must know what you want. And you must let the right person want it enough to keep it.”

He pulled back slightly, but his eyes never left mine, the intensity of his gaze almost palpable. “The law,” he continued, with a new gravity in his voice, “is a product of power. And the pathetic explosions of war are hardly power. You are. This gorgeous woman, these hypnotizing lips moving, these legs that erase all the arguments of the other side. Forgive me for speaking so sincerely, but your sex appeal is power above all. And I know that you, unlike politics, could use this power to drive the world to a better place.”

I let him see the effect his words had on me. A curl of breath. A swallow. A heat that I no longer tried to hide.

The bar around us seemed to fade.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low, “sometimes what a woman needs isn’t advice. It’s confidence. Assertiveness. A willingness to take what she wants.”

My breath caught. We both knew he wasn’t talking about clients anymore.

“Maybe you should show me,” I whispered back.

He rose, offering his hand. My heart pounded.

His words hung in the air, a silent challenge, a blatant invitation. “You must take what you want,” he’d murmured, his eyes burning into mine, leaving no doubt as to what—or rather, who—he believed I desired. The unspoken promise of a night of raw, unbridled passion hung heavy between us, a tangible force that made my skin prickle and my breath catch in my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the intoxicating pull of his gaze. Every nerve ending was alive, screaming with a mixture of fear and exhilarating anticipation.

For a moment all I wanted was to run home and tell Mike everything—how the air in the room shifted, how Mr. Bandeira had watched the small of my back as I stood. Instead I pocketed the phone and answered the way we’d practiced: cool, coy, a patient predator.

Just as the tension threatened to snap, a sudden vibration startled me. My phone. A message, unexpected, from Mike. Coffee turned into dinner? The words were innocent enough, but the underlying anxiety, the subtle plea for my return, was unmistakable. A sharp, almost painful jolt of reality. My husband, waiting, oblivious to the tempest brewing in this office.

A shaky laugh escaped my lips, a sound that was half hysteria, half defiant exhilaration. I met Mr. Bandeira’s intense stare, a new resolve hardening my features. “Yes,” I said, the word a whisper, yet firm. “You’re right. I want it. And I will live what I want.” The double meaning was clear, a promise and a threat, delivered with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Just… give me a moment. I need to compose myself.” I gestured vaguely towards the restroom, my voice barely steady. “I’ll be right back.”

Inside the cool, sterile confines of the ladies’ room, the mirror reflected a stranger. Flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, a wildness in my eyes I hadn’t seen before. My fingers fumbled with my phone, Mike’s message still on the screen. How could I tell him? The irony was a bitter taste on my tongue as I stared at his name, a silent plea forming on my lips.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, a whirlwind of emotions battling within me. How to articulate this burgeoning desire, this intoxicating dance with danger, to the man who had always been my safe harbor? I took a deep breath and began to type, the words flowing out, raw and honest.

My love, my life. You’ve offered me a fantasy fulfillment I never thought possible. Right now, perhaps, things are moving too well, too fast. I hope this is truly what we’ve agreed upon. I sent it, my heart pounding, a strange mix of terror and exhilaration coursing through my veins.

His reply was almost instantaneous, a testament to his own restless anticipation. How many times do I have to confess that I desire this even more than you? I love you, please, fulfill yourself for both of us. The words were a balm and a spark, igniting a deeper fire within me. He wasn't just allowing this; he was actively encouraging it, his own desires intertwined with mine in a complex, thrilling tapestry. I felt the blood surge to my face.

I returned to our table, a new fire in my eyes, and reached for Mr. Bandeira’s hand. My intention was to take charge, to lead him, a powerful woman claiming her desire. But as he rose, towering over me even in my powerful red heels, I felt a sudden, unexpected tremor. I was tiny, a girl beside this magnificent man whose very presence exuded power. My confident grip on his hand faltered, replaced by an instinctive need for support. I found myself clinging to his offered arm, my fingers wrapping around the solid, unyielding muscle beneath his suit. A jolt of surprise, a thrill I hadn't anticipated, shot through me. This unexpected firmness, this sense of being utterly dominated, only intensified my longing to be alone with him, a wild, surprising passion blooming in my chest. In that moment, my husband, Mike, vanished from my thoughts. All that mattered was this man, this burning desire to possess him.

He led me to the elevator, his presence a comforting, yet electrifying, anchor. As the doors slid shut, enclosing us in a private world, I wrapped my arms around his neck, stretching to reach him. He lowered his head, pulling me close by the waist, and his lips claimed mine in a deep, hungry kiss. It was a kiss lost in pure lust and raw sex, erasing the world outside, making everything else irrelevant. All that existed was the mutual caress of our tongues, the press of our bodies. The sudden chime of the elevator, announcing our arrival at the destined floor, made me jump, startled, breaking the spell. We stepped out hand-in-hand, and I felt like a girlfriend, a teenager again, utterly consumed and blissfully unconcerned.

The door of his room had barely clicked shut before his mouth was on mine—hot, demanding, desperate. I melted into him, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me against the solid hardness already pressing through his trousers.

I gasped, my dress tugging higher as his fingers explored, bold and possessive. He laid me back on the bed, lips tracing down my throat, teeth grazing my collarbone. I arched beneath him, trembling with anticipation as he slowly unzipped my dress.

“You’re stunning,” he whispered, slipping it off my shoulders. His gaze devoured me, then he unclasped my bra and took one of my nipples into his mouth. Pleasure shot through me, and I tangled my fingers in his thick, gray hair, pulling him closer.

He kissed his way down my body, his mouth hot on my skin until he reached the thin lace of my panties. He looked up at me once, eyes burning with authority, then slid them down my thighs. His tongue found me instantly, circling my clit with practiced skill.

“Oh, god…” I moaned, clutching the sheets. I tried to hold back, but his tongue was relentless. My orgasm tore through me quickly, my body shaking beneath his grip. This man, who had haunted my fantasies and brought me to climax countless times in the solitude of my shower, was now here, real, his touch igniting a fire I hadn't truly comprehended. We hadn't even shed our clothes, hadn't indulged in any of the elaborate scenarios I'd conjured in my mind, yet his first touch had been enough to shatter my composure, to send me spiraling into an immediate, overwhelming climax. The waves of that first orgasm seemed to ripple endlessly through me with his continued touch, leaving me far from satisfied, only craving more. He seemed to sense this, his pace growing more demanding, pushing me higher until another climax burst through me, even harder than the first. I didn't know if it was the same orgasm, a distinct second one, or a cascade of multiple orgasms; it was a sensation utterly new, completely uncharted territory. I cried out, gasping for air, completely undone.

By the time he kissed his way back up my body, I was trembling. His lips captured mine, and I tasted myself on his tongue. But there was more—his arousal pressed hard against me, straining through his pants.

I reached down, fingers sliding along the thick outline. He groaned into my mouth as I stroked him.

I had barely recovered from the trance of orgasm, still feeling the lingering spasms of pleasure, when he withdrew his fingers. With one hand, he gripped the back of my head, pulling me towards him, his mouth crushing mine, biting my lips savagely as he whispered, his voice a low growl against my skin: “Now I want you, my little bitch. On your knees. Pull my cock out of my pants and show me you like it.”

It might seem strange, but faced with that violent, authoritative command, an enormous wave of pleasure and eagerness washed over me. I wanted nothing more than to kneel before my man, to unbuckle his belt, kissing the enormous bulge through his trousers, and then to pull them down, exposing his beautiful, masculine, toned legs. I don’t know where the impulse came from, but I yearned to trace a path of kisses and licks from his ankle all the way up to his groin, following the silk fabric of his underwear, the opening allowing my fingertips to brush against his balls. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled down his briefs, letting a huge, thick, veiny cock spring free. I began to kiss it from tip to base, to lick it, to caress it without haste. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what to do; I wasn’t prepared for this, as I never performed oral sex on my husband. So I masturbated and kissed his cock, passionately, guided by my overwhelming feelings. It was then that I spoke to him...

“I want you,” I whispered. “I want to feel you inside me.”

He didn’t hesitate.

His voice uttered the command with a naturalness that captivated me. In that instant, all I desired was to be his 'bitch', ready for him to come inside me. I got on all fours on the bed, awaiting his arrival. My previous experience in that position offered little sensation during penetration, allowing the man to enjoy himself at will, controlling the rhythm. But I was wrong again. When he began to bury that voluminous member (his entire body was imposing) inside me, I felt completely filled. All I could do was moan with overwhelming desire, as he thrust into me with vigor, with evident ardor and passion, unhurriedly, deflowering and savoring the woman I had become. The rhythm of his deep thrusts intensified until he let out a primal grunt, exploding in a marvelous orgasm, filling my little pussy with his semen. He fell to his side, exhausted, and laughed, embracing and kissing me. I snuggled into his shoulder and, I don't know what came over me, I spontaneously said: 'I love you'. The word escaped, an embarrassing whisper, perhaps inadequate for the intensity we had just experienced. He didn't respond with words, he just kissed me again, catching his breath, and in that gesture, I felt a response that transcended sound.

I was so utterly mortified by the incident, by that stupid declaration of love, by my clumsy attempt at oral sex that he had demanded—or rather, commanded—that the silence in the room became unbearable. I blurted out that my husband was waiting for me, that he would grow suspicious if I delayed much longer, that he had already messaged me. In that moment, perhaps I invented it, but it seemed as though he grunted something like “Paloma” after a low, guttural “What a turn-on,” which filled me with a strange mix of anger and confusion. Paloma? Who was Paloma? I dressed in a frantic rush and fled back home, tears streaming down my face the entire way. When I finally arrived, all I wanted to do was hit my husband. I had been calm, collected, in control. Now, I was inexplicably, utterly in love, and I had ruined all my chances.

Daniella burst through the apartment door like she was running from fire. Her bag hit the floor, her cheeks streaked wet. “Mike—I ruined everything.” Her voice cracked as she collapsed into his chest. “We were together, it was perfect, and then—God, I said it. I told him “I love you”. Can you believe it? And now he’ll never want me again.”

Mike tightened his arms around her, breathing steady against her storm. “Slow down. One word doesn’t destroy a man like Bandeira. What happened after?”

Her fingers clutched at his shirt. “Nothing. He just kissed me. And I panicked—I said you were waiting and left.” Her breath came in jagged sobs. “What if I scared him off? What if he never calls me again?”

Mike smoothed her hair back, his voice calm but sharp at the edges. “Daniella, no sane man bolts from three little words. More likely he thought he misheard. Or maybe”—his lips curved faintly—“maybe he liked it.”

Her head snapped up. “Oh my God—I almost forgot. He whispered a name. Paloma.”

Mike’s brows lifted. “Paloma?” His voice lingered on the syllables, like he was tasting them. Her voice faltered, then froze. “Wait.” A flash of red hair. Blue eyes. O’Reilly.  The perfect posture of a dancer. “The trainee. Twenty-five. Irish. He handpicked her for international law.”

His voice dipped, almost to himself. “A man like Bandeira doesn’t collect anything ordinary.”

“Don’t,” Daniella snapped, tears stinging again. “She’s flawless. Model-beautiful. A CV like glass. And I’m—” her throat closed—“nothing next to her.”

Mike caught her chin, forcing her eyes to his. “You’re not nothing. You’re the one he risked everything to sleep with. Men like him crave danger, not purity.”

Her breath hitched, shame and desire tangled in her chest. “So I seduce him harder.”

“Harder,” Mike said, the word like an order. “Make him afraid to lose you. Paloma will look like a schoolgirl standing next to a storm.”

Daniella exhaled shakily, then reached for her phone. Her fingers trembled as she typed: As soon as I got home, I regretted leaving. I can’t stop thinking about what I still want to do in your bed.She pressed send, her pulse pounding.

The night stretched on. Wrapped around Mike, she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, haunted by the phantom buzz of a notification that never came.

Until, at four in the morning, the room exploded with sound.Not a message. Not an emoji. Not even the crude photo she half-feared, half-longed for.

A call.The screen lit up: Mr. Bandeira.

Mike stirred, half-asleep, but his eyes sharpened instantly, a glimmer of excitement he couldn’t quite hide. Daniella’s hand shook, the phone trembling in her grip.

The line went dead, and Daniella sat frozen, staring at the dark screen. Then suddenly she came alive — gasping, laughing through tears, shaking Mike’s shoulder like a child who had just been chosen for a secret adventure.

“Mike, he wants me! He wants me to fly with him — the Virgin Islands, a whole weekend! Can you believe it?” She was breathless, crying with joy, clutching him like a lifeline. “I thought I’d ruined everything, but he called, he called me!”

Mike, still reeling, tried to keep up with her euphoria, though his face was pale in the dim light. “He… he called at four in the morning,” he murmured, but her joy drowned it out. She hugged him, kissed his cheek, babbling with relief.

And then the phone rang again.

Daniella froze, eyes wide, mouth parted. Her hand trembled as she answered.

“Daniella,” Bandeira’s voice filled the silence once more, smoother now, almost amused. “One more thing.”

Her throat tightened. “Yes?”

“I remembered something. You’re not afraid of using your sexual weapons to close a deal. And this time, we’ll need those talents.” He let the words hang, heavy and deliberate.

Daniella’s stomach dropped, but she clutched the phone tighter, glancing at Mike as though the words themselves scorched the air.

“You’ll have to spend Friday night with the CEO of the conglomerate we’re restructuring in the BVI. He needs company. We’ve booked the entire Aerial Island. No strangers, no risks. You’ll be queen of the island.” His tone hardened, a blade cloaked in velvet. “If you nail this, you’ll make me very happy. And then…” His voice dipped lower, promising and cruel at once. “…we’ll have the rest of the weekend for ourselves to fool around.” “Oh, and I’ve already added seventy thousand dollars to your credit card. For clothes and whatever else you need. Consider it an advance.”

Daniella’s stomach dropped, but she clutched the phone tighter, looking at Mike as if the words themselves scorched the air. Seventy thousand dollars. She didn't know if she felt disgusted with herself for becoming a luxury escort or honored to be a lawyer so valued by the firm. The line between the two feelings was thin and dangerously seductive.

Daniella felt her chest cave in, tears of joy drying into a cold sweat.

“Tell me if you’re not into this,” Bandeira added, almost casually. “We need to know if we have your help.”

The line hummed with silence, her breath caught, Mike’s hand gripping her wrist as if he could hear every word.

For a moment, Daniella couldn’t breathe. The words echoed in her ear like a verdict: spend Friday night with the CEO.

Her lips parted, but no sound came. She could feel Mike’s eyes burning into her, his hand clutching her wrist so tightly it hurt.

“Daniella?” Bandeira’s voice cut through her paralysis, sharp, commanding. “I need to know if you’re with me.”

Her throat worked, dry. “I—yes,” she whispered, almost choking. “Yes, I’ll do it.”

“Good girl,” he said, that dark chuckle curling down the line. “Friday night, the Aerial is yours. Don’t disappoint me.” The call ended with a click.

The silence afterward was unbearable. Daniella stared at the phone in her hand, her whole body trembling, then burst out in a sob that wasn’t joy this time — it was hysteria. She shook Mike again, clinging to him, tears streaking down her face.

“Mike! Did you hear that? He wants me to—oh God, I said yes! What have I done?” Her voice cracked, swinging wildly between laughter and panic. “He said I’ll be queen of the island. Queen, Mike! And then—after—I’ll have him. He promised!”

Mike held her shoulders, his own chest heaving, eyes glazed with something between fury and arousal. “He’s pimping you out,” he said hoarsely. “And you said yes.”

Daniella buried her face against him, sobbing and giggling at once, manic with relief and terror. “Because it means he wants me. He trusts me. Don’t you see? I’m part of his world now.”

Mike’s hands slid down her arms, gripping tighter, his voice raw. “And you’re mine. Do you think I don’t know what this does to me? Hearing him claim you like that? Knowing he’ll use you—use what I’ve been dreaming of?” His mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a hungry smile. “God help me, Daniella, but I want to see it. I want to see him take you.”

Her breath caught, shocked by the confession, but her body quivered at the naked truth in his tone. The two of them clung together on the edge of the bed, shivering in the pre-dawn darkness, the phone still warm between her fingers like a loaded gun.

A new buzz on Daniella's phone cut through the tense air. It was Bandeira. "I just saw what you wrote about what you want to do in bed," the message read, and a slow smile spread across Daniella's face. "It made me incredibly horny. There's a lot I want to do with you too. In fact, I took some pictures of us in bed, on my cell phone, to remember how hot you are. I'll delete them for your safety, but I want to share these fantastic images with you." And, to seal the provocation, a new image appeared on the screen: his enormous, throbbing, rock-hard cock, just thinking about her. Daniella saw the message right after Mike confessed his desire to see her with Bandeira. Like a silent vengeance, she laughed and showed him a glimpse of the photos, which he tried, with all his might, to pretend not to be interested in. Pointing to the picture of Bandeira's member, she commented on how thick and virile it was, and how it was impossible to resist getting on her knees with an open mouth just to see his cock. Revenge. She put the cell phone aside and tried to sleep. Some time later, a very strange movement woke her. Mike had picked up her phone and, while she pretended to continue sleeping, left with the device for the bathroom. She quietly followed to peek at him masturbating to the photos (or to the picture of Bandeira's cock). Daniella decided that this was too complicated and despicable to keep in her mind now; she had better things to do. So, she simply pretended it hadn't happened and slept like a baby all night long. Most of all, she must look fabulous tomorrow.

The resolution to the problem of seducing Viktor Drakunov, the CEO, came with an almost amusing clarity. Bandeira dialed Viktor's number, his voice firm and direct.

"Viktor," he began, without preamble. "It's Bandeira here. I'll get straight to the point: I've arranged a very high-class escort for you. A lawyer, in fact." He paused, letting the information sink in. "She's intelligent, charming, and will make your evening unforgettable." He waited for Viktor's response.

Viktor's voice, from the other end of the line, came with a tone of curiosity and mischief. "Is she hot? Does she have experience? I'd love to use her tonight."

A low chuckle escaped Bandeira's lips, confidence brimming in his tone. "Oh, she's more than hot, Viktor. Gorgeous, with curves, a girlfriend-style attendance that will drive you wild. And as for experience, she knows how to please." He assured him, with a hint of pride. "You'll have a night to remember." He anticipated Viktor's approval.

Viktor laughed. "Had you tested her for me?"

A still lower laugh escaped Bandeira. "Of course I have, Viktor. I just couldn't tell you about her anal, I didn't have time." He kept his voice steady, despite the internal joke. "She's more than up to your standards. I'm passing along her contact." He added, with a slight touch of pride. "You won't be disappointed." He waited for Viktor's next move.

"I trust you, my friend."

Relieved, but maintaining his composure, Bandeira replied: "Good. You won't regret it." He briefly discussed logistics. "We'll see you in the BVI." He hung up, satisfied with the arrangement. "I'll wait for her at the airport, to travel with her, if she's that good."

Daniella’s phone buzzed in her hand as she stepped out of the boutique, a glossy bag swinging from her wrist. Lace, silk, daring cuts — things she wouldn’t have dared to buy before, but now felt like weapons she needed. She thumbed through her texts, half-distracted, when his picture flashed on the screen. For a second, her breath caught.

Viktor.

The CEO. The man Bandeira had promised her to.

He looked unreal on his picture, the kind of man who turned heads without effort — all sharp cheekbones and a jaw cut from stone, the faintest shadow of stubble tracing his mouth. His hair, dark and slightly unruly, gave him a dangerous ease, as though he had just walked out of a storm. But it was his eyes that froze her where she stood: an electric blue, unnerving and magnetic, as if they could strip someone bare in a glance.

It wasn’t wrong to think it — he was the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. Gorgeous in that raw, unpolished way that made her knees weak. He wasn’t polished marble like Bandeira; he was steel and flame, beautiful because he didn’t care to be.

Her heart stuttered as the phone buzzed again, his message lighting the screen:

“15h. My jet. Be on time. I don’t wait.”

She clutched the bags tighter, feeling the silk press against her palms. She typed back with fingers trembling, the thrill of danger curling in her stomach.

“I’ll be there.”

Then she stared at his photo again, heat rising in her chest. And for the first time, Daniella wondered — was this mission for Bandeira, or for herself?

Daniella was preparing herself too. She called for help: Luciana  For a breath she tried to be reasonable. He’s a client. I’m a professional. His face shouldn’t matter. Hours of lessons about all kinky things that she could do.

Then her stomach tightened and she heard herself laughing, small and electric. Of course his face mattered. Exactly because she was “professional,” his looks would make the job easier — dangerously easier. The old rules blurred. This was a new reality; everything she’d thought she could control suddenly looked deliciously uncontrollable.

No. It won’t be work. It will be fun.

Her pulse quickened. She imagined his mouth, the hard line of his jaw, those blue eyes that seemed to promise weather. A sharp, reckless thought rose and refused to be shushed: I want to fuck the brains out of this man.

She let the fantasy run a second, then reached for the phone. Luciana answered on the third ring, voice warm and clinical at once.

Daniella rattled off details, breathy and laughing, while Luciana fed her small, cruel lessons between sips of advice — how to place a look, which laugh to let linger, the exact tilt of chin that made a man tilt his head back and hand over control. Practical tips, filthy rehearsals.

“Good,” Luciana said finally. “You’ll teach him. Not softly. Teach him properly. Make him remember your name when he tries to sleep. If he doesn’t learn, you’ll remind him. Don’t call yourself Daniella in bed. Call yourself everything he did not expect.”

Daniella smiled into the phone, feeling the old fear dissolve into something hotter and steadier. She had been terrified ten minutes ago. Now terror and desire braided into a single bright thing. She would go to the island. She would charm him, seduce him, break whatever armor he carried. She would use her body like a fine instrument.

And when it was over — if she wanted it to be over — she would come home and tell Mike exactly how she’d won.

She hung up, heart pounding, and let the decision settle like a promise. Tomorrow was no longer about pleading or apology. Tomorrow was a performance — and she was the star.