Ella had spent her whole life being the good girl. Church on Sundays, straight-A student, the kind of girl parents trusted. She was raised to be modest, to wait, to ignore the attention her body brought her. She ignored the stares, turned away from temptation, smothered every dirty thought that dared creep into her mind.

Then her body betrayed her. When she turned 16, rare hormonal condition started to bring unbearable pain, twisting inside her like a knife, making every breath a fight. The doctors gave her a cure—an experimental pill, something still in trials, something they swore would fix her.

It worked. But it changed her in a whole new way.

At first, it was just a tingle. A warm buzz under her skin. Then it became something else—something dark and hungry. The simplest things set her off. The rub of her jeans against her. The way her shirt brushed her nipples when she walked. The heat of a stranger standing too close.

She tried to control it. She failed.

Masturbation became a daily ritual, then an hourly one. She would shove her fingers deep inside, grind against her palm, chase release after release, biting her lip to keep from screaming. But no matter how many times she came, it wasn’t enough. The ache always came back, worse, stronger, making her legs shake, making her so desperate she thought she’d lose her mind.

She needed more.

So she made a decision.

If her body craved this fire, she would shape it, direct it. She would give it. She would use her desire to bring something beautiful into the world.

That’s how The Project started.

She wasn’t going to waste her time on the obvious choices—the cocky guys, the ones who had women throwing themselves at them. No. She wanted the men who had stopped hoping. The ones who had accepted they would never feel a warm, willing body against theirs, never hear a woman moan their name, never sink into soft, desperate flesh.

She was going to be their salvation.

Her rules were simple.

No names. No attachments. No second chances.

And she was always in control.

The first night changed everything.

A man, slumped at a bus stop, soaked from the rain, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. He looked like he hadn’t been touched in years. She sat beside him, leaned in, let her voice drop into something soft, something warm, something that made his breath hitch.

"Come with me. Let me take care of you."

In the cheap hotel room, she let him strip her bare. Let him stare, let him hesitate, let him drink her in like he couldn’t believe she was real. And when he finally touched her—when his rough hands slid over her, traced the dip of her waist, gripped her hips—she shivered.

But when he pushed inside her?

Pleasure exploded through her like a bomb.

Her back arched, her mouth fell open, and she came so hard she thought she might black out. She clenched around him, body writhing, sweat slick on her skin as she gasped, as she moaned, as she let herself be taken.

Then it happened again.

The second time made her shake. The third was sharp, leaving her gasping, her nails raking across his back as her body trembled from the aftershocks. By the fourth, she was wrecked—sweat-drenched, thighs trembling, completely spent.

And yet, she still wanted more.

It wasn’t just the act. It was what she was doing. Giving herself away. Letting them take her, enjoy her, own her, fill her—again and again and again.

When she woke the next morning, her thighs still sticky, her lips still swollen from the way he had kissed her, she knew. One night wasn’t enough.

 She wanted more. She needed more.

The world was full of men who had convinced themselves they would never feel a warm body beneath them. Never hear a woman’s breath hitch as they slid inside. Never have a woman on her knees, with an open mouth, hungrily looking up at them, ready to take whatever they gave her.

She was going to prove them wrong.

She was going to spread her legs, let them take what they wanted, let them use her—and she was going to love every second of it.

Because this wasn’t just about pleasure.

This was purpose.

And she wasn’t stopping until she had given everything she had.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
The Forgotten Station
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Delivering supplies to the animal rescue center had taken her far from her usual part of town. The streets were worn, the houses sagging with neglect.

Then, she noticed the red ADD GAS light blinking insistently on her dashboard.

How long had it been on?

Fortunately, a gas station loomed a few blocks ahead, its unfamiliar logo glowing dimly in the evening haze. That would have to do. She just hoped it was safe.

When Ella pulled in, the gas station was empty, and the soft hum of her car engine was the only sound in the quiet evening air. The sun had just started to dip, painting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The fluorescent lights above the pumps buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the lot.

She stepped out of the driver's seat, adjusting the pleated plaid skirt of her school uniform as she smoothed it down over her thighs. Her white button-up blouse was crisp, tucked neatly into the waistband, though the top button remained undone—a small rebellion against the dress code, just enough to hint at something. Her knee-high socks stretched snugly against her calves, her loafers clicking softly against the pavement as she walked toward the pump.

Ella moved with a quiet, effortless confidence, her body still aching from the night before. The reminder of a secret only she knew.

She swiped her card at the machine, gripping the nozzle as the gas flowed into her car, but her eyes drifted to the convenience store window.

That's when she saw him.

He was hunched over the counter, his thick fingers counting out change with the mechanical motions of a man who had done this a thousand times before. His nametag, peeling at the edges, barely clung to the fabric of his faded gas station polo, stretched tight over his belly.

Maury.

Sweat clung to his temples under the harsh lights, and when he moved, the glasses perched on his nose slipped slightly, the broken hinge barely held together by black electrical tape.

He looked tired. Not just from the day. From life.

Ella exhaled slowly, watching him.

The customers in line didn't see him—they never did. A man slid a five-dollar bill across the counter without making eye contact. A woman grabbed her change without so much as a thank you.

Maury never reacted—just kept his head down, his voice low and gruff as he muttered totals, mechanically stuffing cash into the register.

It was almost pathetic.

And yet—she felt it. A slow, deliberate heat curled low in her stomach.
She imagined it. The way he would react if he knew. Suppose he had any idea what she was thinking right now. If he had any idea that a girl like her—a young, fresh-faced high school senior in a plaid skirt and knee-high socks—was standing outside his gas station, watching him with something close to hunger.

The thought sent a pulse of warmth between her thighs. Ella swallowed, steadying herself. She hadn't expected to find her next one so soon. But she knew.

It would be him.

---

She finished pumping her gas, the nozzle clicking off, but she didn't return to the car.

Instead, she walked toward the store.

The bell above the door jangled as she stepped inside, the cool blast of air-conditioning hitting her warm skin. The scent of cheap coffee, stale cigarettes, and something vaguely fried clung to the air. Maury barely looked up.

That would change soon.

Ella took her time moving through the aisles, trailing her fingers over the racks of candy bars and bottled drinks, pretending to browse. She didn't need anything, and that wasn't the point.

She just wanted to make him wait.

When she finally approached the counter, she placed a bottle of water down, her manicured fingers brushing lightly over the condensation.

Maury didn't speak at first. He just grabbed the bottle and scanned it.

"$2.00," he muttered.

His voice was rough, almost dismissive. He still wouldn't look at her. Ella smiled.
She leaned in slightly, just enough to be noticeable. Just enough that her skirt lifted a little at the hem, her collar shifting slightly to reveal the soft curve of her collarbone.

"Long shift?" she asked, her voice soft, sweet.
Maury's fingers hesitated over the register keys.

For the first time, he looked up. Not long. Just a flicker of a glance—his eyes darting to hers before looking away, like he wasn't sure if she had spoken to him.

"Yeah," he mumbled, clearing his throat. "Always long."

Ella tilted her head, letting the silence stretch. Slowly, she slid the bills across the counter, watching him reach for them.

Her fingers brushed against his. A barely-there touch. But it was intentional.

Maury flinched.

His hand jerked back, almost as if the contact had startled him. His throat bobbed, the pink creeping along his neck betraying his nervousness. Ella bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

He noticed her now.

She let the silence settle, watching how his thick hands fumbled slightly as he stuffed her change into the register. She wanted him to think about it. Think about the girl in the school uniform who touched him on purpose. Wonder why she had lingered.

Ella reached for the bottle, her fingers curling around the condensation-slick plastic. And then, just before she turned to leave, she looked him right in the eye.

"You work here every night?" she asked, her voice deceptively casual.

Maury's brow furrowed, suspicious.

"'Till midnite," he muttered. "Why?"

Ella just shrugged. Her smile was barely there, the slightest curl of her lips.

"Maybe I'll see you later," she said. And walked out.

She left him there, thinking about her.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
The Invitation
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Ella stood in front of her full-length mirror, adjusting the thin straps of her dress—a wisp of fabric that seemed designed to tempt. The silky material skimmed her body, clinging to every curve with nothing beneath it but bare skin. No bra, no panties—just her, wrapped in something barely there.

The dress was daringly short, barely brushing the tops of her thighs, threatening to ride higher with every shift of her hips. The neckline plunged low, offering an enticing glimpse of her chest, while the fabric whispered over her skin, teasing her senses with every movement. It hugged her like a second skin, revealing just enough to blur the line between innocent and provocative.

She turned slightly, tilting her head, assessing herself.

Would he understand what this meant? Would he let himself?

The thought sent a slow ripple of anticipation down her spine.

She reached for her lip gloss, dragging the applicator across her lips in a smooth, deliberate motion. Her makeup was subtle but precise—a dewy glow on her cheekbones, mascara framing her eyes just enough to make them pop. She wanted to look effortless but dangerous. Like a temptation he had no business touching.

Like something forbidden.

Her fingers trailed over her bare thighs, her skin warm under her own touch as she smoothed the hem of her dress. She knew what she was doing.

She knew what he would think the second he saw her. Her heart pounded with the quiet, electric thrill of it.

She grabbed her heels from under her bed—black, strappy, high enough to make her legs look impossibly long. They clicked softly in her hand as she walked to her window, cracking it open just enough to let in the warm night air.

Her parents were downstairs. She could hear the muffled sounds of the television, the quiet clinking of dishes in the sink. Her father would be in his office by now, her mother curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, half-watching some home renovation show. They wouldn't check on her.

They never did.

Her pulse quickened as she lifted one leg over the windowsill, carefully lowering herself onto the sloped roof outside her bedroom. She had done this before. Sneaking out was easy—the excitement, the secrecy, the feeling of slipping away into the night, unseen. Her bare feet were silent against the shingles as she moved carefully toward the edge.

Then—the drop. A small thrill shot through her as she landed lightly on the soft grass below.

She was free.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
The Game
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Sliding into her car, she checked the time. 11:28 PM. Perfect.

 By the time she got to the gas station, it would be just before closing. She hoped Maury would be alone.

Ella's hands gripped the steering wheel, her fingers tightening and relaxing as she navigated the quiet, dark streets. The hum of the tires against the pavement vibrated through her, a low, steady pulse that only added to the tension curling deep in her belly. She could feel it—the heat, the anticipation, the slow, insistent ache that had been building since she slipped into her dress, since she decided tonight was the night.

Her heart pounded in a slow, deliberate rhythm, matching the throb between her thighs. She shifted slightly in the driver's seat, her bare legs pressing together, her skin hypersensitive. Every brush of fabric against her body sent a ripple of awareness through her, every small movement reminding her of what she was about to do.

She imagined his face when he saw her. Would he look away too quickly, nervous, overwhelmed? Would he pretend not to notice how her dress clung to her body, how her heels made her legs look impossibly long? Or would he stare?

The thought sent a shudder of pleasure through her, her breath hitching slightly. She bit her lip, her thighs clenching involuntarily, a wave of heat pooling low in her stomach. God, she could already see it. The way his hands would tremble when he handed back her change. The way his glasses might slip a little lower on his nose as he struggled not to look. How he would shift uncomfortably, his body reacting before his mind could catch up.

And that—that was what sent another sharp pulse of heat through her, tightening everything inside her.

She let one hand slide off the wheel, trailing slowly over the soft skin of her thigh, her breath coming shakier now.

She was almost there. Almost to him.

By the time she pulled into the gas station, her entire body was humming, every nerve alive with electricity.

This was it. The start of her second "Project."

She took a breath, steadied herself, and stepped out of the car.

A new game was beginning. 

And they were both going to win.

 ---

The bell above the door jangled softly as Ella stepped inside, the cool air rushing over her warm skin. The store was empty. Just her.

And Maury.

He was behind the counter, hunched over, counting the last of the till, his thick fingers pressing against the old register. His uniform looked even more worn-out than earlier, stretched over his belly, damp with the sweat of a long shift. His glasses slipped down his nose, held together by that same strip of electrical tape.

He hadn't noticed her yet, but he would.

Ella let her heels click against the worn linoleum, slow and unhurried, as she walked toward the back of the store. She could feel the fabric of her dress shifting against her thighs with every step, the cool air curling around her bare legs.

She reached the refrigerated section, her fingers grazing the smooth glass of the door before she paused.

And through the reflection of the glass, she saw it—Maury looking. His head hadn't turned completely, but his eyes had. Dark and darting, just for a second.

Then, realizing what he'd done, he quickly looked away.

Her heart skipped a beat.

A slow, warm ripple spread through her, something undeniable curling low in her belly. She bit her bottom lip. She wasn't done yet.

Reaching for a bottle of Prosecco, she let her body bend forward slightly, exaggerating the movement just enough to test him. Enough to see if he'd do it again.

The cool air from the fridge swirled around her legs, sending a shiver over her skin. Her dress lifted just slightly, not enough to be obvious—but enough.

Enough that if he was still looking, he'd see exactly what she wanted him to see.

She stayed like that for a second longer than necessary, gripping the bottle, her fingers cool against the condensation.

Then—she glanced up straight into the reflection.

Maury's eyes were locked on her. Wide, guilty, almost panicked. Ella's pulse spiked because, for a full second, he didn't look away.

She felt it—the weight of his gaze, heavy and unsure, like he was stuck between the instinct to stop looking and the part of him that didn't want to. Her thighs pressed together, a slow, deliberate warmth blooming between them.

Then, just as suddenly—he turned away. Back to his register. Back to pretending he hadn't just been caught.

Ella straightened, smoothing down the hem of her dress. Her fingers were cool from the bottle, but the rest of her? Burning.

She walked toward the counter, her heartbeat steady, controlled.

When she placed the bottle down, Maury wouldn't look at her. His hands twitched slightly as he reached for it, avoiding her eyes as he swallowed. Ella leaned in, her voice soft, sweet, and impossible to ignore.

"Hi again," she chirped.

He grunted back.

"Long day?" she asked with a smile.

Maury froze. For a second, he didn't answer. Then—his voice, low, rough.

"Yeah," he muttered.

Ella smiled. And she waited because now, she knew. He wasn't just looking anymore. He was thinking.

"Aw, you poor thing," she said, pouting. And at that moment, Ella could tell his suspicion crept in.

It was in the way Maury's shoulders stiffened, his fingers hovered just a little too long over the register, and his eyes flicked toward the door—like he was waiting for the punchline.

Like he thought this was a joke.

Guys like him, the ones no one ever noticed, they had a certain look when someone did. Disbelief, then wariness, then the urge to protect themselves before they could be made a fool of.

If he only knew what was ahead.

"You look like you could use a drink," she said.

Maury's reaction was instant. His body went still. His hand froze over the register, his thick fingers pressing into the counter like he needed something solid to hold onto.

"Excuse me?" His voice was rough, guarded.

"Would you like to have a drink with me?" she asked him, her voice smooth and playful. She leaned forward just slightly.

Maury's gaze flicked toward her, really looking at her for the first time. And then, just as fast, he looked away.

A slow, deliberate warmth curled through her. He was struggling.

He wasn't a man who got offered things. Not like this. Not from girls like her. And it was making him suspicious. His jaw tightened. His fingers twitched.

"What is this?" he muttered, his voice gruff, low.

Ella tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "This." He gestured at her, at all of her. "Some kinda joke? Like a TikTok thing?"

She watched him carefully, noting how his throat bobbed and his fingers curled against the counter like he braced himself for something.

"Why would it be a joke?" she asked, her voice light, almost curious.

Maury scoffed. "Because girls like you don't—" He stopped himself.

"Don't what?" she pressed, raising an eyebrow.

Maury clenched his jaw. "They don't walk into gas stations and invite guys like me out for a drink."

Ella let that sit between them for a second. Then, she leaned in slightly, dropping her voice just a little.

"Maybe some girls don't," she said softly. "But I do."

His nostrils flared. She could see the way his pulse ticked in his throat, the way his hands itched to move, to do something.

 He looked over her shoulder and around as if waiting for someone to come bursting in with a camera, yelling that it was a prank. He didn't know what to do with her.

And that sent yet another slow, delicious heat curling low in her stomach and between her legs.

Maury's brow furrowed, his lips parting like he wanted to speak, but the words were slow to come.

Ella waited. Watched. Let him wrestle with the absurdity of the situation. With the fact that she was still there, looking at him. Not laughing. Not pulling away. And then, he grunted—

"Why?"

His voice was low, rough around the edges, like it hurt to ask the question. He wasn't sharp or suspicious anymore—just wary, uncertain. Ella let a small smile ghost across her lips. Of course, he wanted to know why. Why her. Why this. Why now. Why him.

She let the question sit between them, the weight of it pressing into the silence. She could see it in his posture, hands, eyes—the way he was still waiting for the punchline, for the moment she revealed this was all some kind of cruel trick.

She could give him an answer. A real one.

She could tell him about the thrill she felt just watching him not understand, the slow coil of satisfaction that came from seeing him hesitate, from watching his body react before his brain could stop it.

She could tell him about the way her thighs had pressed together in the car, her pulse jumping every time she imagined the way he would look at her—hesitant and desperate, overwhelmed and undone. She smiled, small and soft, tilting her head as she studied him. Then, quietly, honestly—

"I like making people happy."

Maury flinched, just barely.

His hands twitched on the register like he wanted to move but couldn't. Like he didn't trust himself to. Ella leaned in just slightly, not touching him, but close enough that he could feel her warmth.

"Not everyone gets to feel wanted," she murmured. "But they should."

She saw the way his breath hitched, the way he swallowed too hard.

Still, he shook his head slightly, struggling. 

"Someone like you doesn't—doesn't do this."

Ella smiled. Soft. Knowing.

She reached for the Prosecco, lifted it, and pointed it at his chest.

"You're wrong," she said.

Maury's breathing changed. His lips parted like he wanted to argue—but he didn't.

He just stood there, the war still raging behind his eyes, confusion bubbling inside his head.

Ella tilted her head, watching him. His fingers curled, then uncurled, gripping the counter's edge like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"You should go home," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Ella leaned in just slightly.

"I don't want to."

Maury exhaled through his nose. He was crumbling, starting to believe her but not daring to imagine.

"You're playing a game," he muttered.

Ella laughed softly.

"Maybe," she admitted, "but that doesn't mean it's not real."

She let her fingers skim the edge of the counter, a delicate whisper of a movement. Then, softer—

"C'mon, Maury. One drink. That's all."

He hesitated.

"Where?"

Not a yes. But it wasn’t a no, either.

Ella’s pulse jumped. She leaned back, letting the victory settle over her, slow and warm.

"There's a bar two blocks away," she said. "I saw it when I was driving here. I've never been there."

Maury exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. He was still fighting it, but losing.

"I gotta close up," he muttered.

He scanned her credit card and gave it back to her, his automatic movements a feeble attempt to recover the bleak normalcy of his world. She grabbed it, and her hand touched his.

His fingers froze. She could feel the warmth of his skin. And she knew he felt the cool touch of hers. Maury stared at her hand.

At the soft gloss of her nails. At the way she wasn’t pulling away. And then—he looked up. She looked back at him.

"It's just a drink," she murmured.

Maury inhaled sharply, his chest rising. He was going to say no. But then his eyes flicked to her perfect, glistening lips.

"Fine," he muttered, his voice low, resigned. "I'll close up. Meet you there."

"Awesome," she said, smiling as she pushed off the counter. "See you soon."

She turned and walked away, unhurried, knowing his eyes were still on her. Ella let her hips sway just slightly as she pushed the door open, the cool night air rushing over her skin.

She didn't look back. She didn’t have to.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
The Bar
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Ella's fingers tightened on the wheel as she drove, the quiet hum of the tires on the pavement a steady, vibrating rhythm beneath her. She exhaled slowly, her breath coming out in a slow, measured release.

The anticipation had been thrumming through her all night, but now? Now, it was so much worse.

Because now—she had him. Or did he have her? 

She felt it in her skin, in her pulse, in the slow, building ache that had been teasing her since she walked into that gas station. Her thighs pressed together, the warmth spreading slowly, deliciously. She knew what he was thinking right now.

He was probably still standing behind that counter, running his thick fingers over the edge of the register, staring at the door like he could still see where she had been. He was probably telling himself he shouldn't go. But he would.

The neon OPEN sign flickered dimly in the window as Ella pulled into the lot. The bar was exactly what she hoped for—worn down, quiet, a place where no one asked questions. She parked, stepping out into the warm night air.

Inside, the place was mostly empty. A few people hunched over the counter, nursing cheap drinks. The bartender, a guy in his fifties with tired eyes and a permanent frown, barely looked up as she walked in.

Perfect.

She slid into a booth near the back, facing the entrance, and waited.A slow thrill curled through her as she checked the time. Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

And then—the door opened.

Maury stepped inside, looking like he wasn’t sure if he should be there. His thick frame filled the doorway, his work shirt still wrinkled, his glasses slightly crooked. His eyes scanned the bar, and when he saw her—he froze.

Ella smiled and waved at him.

Maury exhaled, shoulders tense, and walked toward her. As he got close, she patted the booth seat next to her. He hesitated, then sat beside her, his hands flat on the table. Ella leaned in just slightly, her voice soft and teasing.

"See? That wasn’t hard."

Maury swallowed.

"You don’t know that yet."

Ella’s pulse jumped, not sure if she should laugh. Was that an inappropriate joke? Was he playing along? The night was just beginning.

The bar smelled like stale beer and cigarette smoke, the kind of place where people came to hide and forget.

Ella leaned back against the booth, her fingers idly tracing the rim of the menu in front of her, though she didn’t need it. She already knew what she wanted.

Maury looked uncomfortable, his thick fingers tapping against the table like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. His shirt was still damp from his shift, and his glasses had slipped down his nose again.

Ella smiled, tilting her head. "You drink whiskey?"

Maury blinked, caught off guard. "Uh… sometimes."

Ella smiled. "Great. We’re doing shots."

She turned toward the bartender, lifting two fingers in the air. When he came to the table, she ordered the only whiskey brand she could remember from her dad's bar at home. "Two shots of Jack Daniels."

Maury shifted in his seat, his fingers tightening into a loose fist against the tabletop. "You, uh… do this often?"

Ella looked at him. "What, invite guys to drink with me?"

His jaw tensed. "Invite guys like me."

She leaned towards him, her dress riding just slightly up her thighs as she did.

"Sometimes," she purred. Maury swallowed.

The bartender dropped the shots onto the table with a heavy clink. "Here you go," he grumbled.

Ella didn’t look away from Maury as she wrapped her fingers around the glass, sliding it toward her.

He exhaled, slow and heavy, before picking up his own shot.

She lifted hers slightly. "To new friendships," she said, eyes locked onto his.

Maury held her gaze. Then—he clinked his glass against hers.

They both threw the shots back, the whiskey burning a warm, steady path down her throat.

"Hmm," Ella moaned and licked her lips. "That was good."

His hands tightened into fists against the table, like he was trying not to react to the sight of her moist tongue traveling slowly over her plump lips.

She smiled and slid closer. Not too much, but enough that her bare knee brushed against his leg under the table.

Maury stiffened. Ella’s pulse jumped. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t move. She let the touch linger.

Maury was breathing heavier now, his hands still clenched, his fingers twitching against the table. But he wasn’t moving away.

Ella let the heat settle between them. Then, softly—

"You still think this is a joke?"

Maury’s lips parted, but he didn’t speak. Ella smiled.

The low hum of the bar wrapped around them, the soft clink of ice against glass, the scratchy notes of an old country song leaking from the jukebox in the corner. The place was almost empty—just them and a couple of regulars hunched over their drinks.

Maury sat rigid, shoulders squared, his thick fingers wrapped around the rim of his empty glass. Ella could still see the tension in him like he wasn’t sure if he should be here.

She smiled, raising two fingers toward the bartender. "Two more," she mouthed.

Maury stiffened. "We don’t have to—"

"We do," she interrupted, tilting her head. Maury exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, but he didn’t argue.

When the shots landed on the table, Ella lifted hers, letting the amber liquid catch the dim light. She met his gaze. Held it.

"To new experiences," she murmured.

Maury hesitated—just a breath. Then, he clinked his glass against hers.

They drank.

Maury winced, setting his glass down with a quiet thud. Ella just smiled.

"Alright," she said, resting her chin in her palm, studying him. "Tell me something about you."

Maury’s fingers tensed. He glanced down at his empty glass, like he wished there was still something in it.

"There’s not much to tell."

Ella arched a brow. "Try me."

Maury exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "I work at a gas station," he said flatly.

Ella smirked. "Yeah, I noticed."

He huffed a short, almost-laugh. "Not much else to say."

She studied him, tilting her head. "Come on. There’s always more."

Maury shifted, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. He seemed hesitant, like he wasn’t used to talking about himself, like the act of it felt foreign. His jaw tensed. His eyes flicked toward the bar, then back to her 

"Used to like working on cars," he muttered after a long pause. "Back in high school."

Ella perked up. "Yeah? What happened?"

Maury shrugged, his shoulders broad under his worn shirt. "Life. Didn’t finish school. Had to work. Gas station was hiring. Never left."

She let that sit between them for a moment, watching the way his fingers curled around his empty glass, the way his lips pressed into a firm line.

"And now?" she asked.

Maury blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

Ella leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on the table, her voice soft. "Do you still like cars? Do you still want to do that?"

Maury opened his mouth. Then closed it.

She saw the flicker in his eyes—the hesitation, the way the question dug into something deeper, something uncomfortable.

"I don't know," he admitted finally.

Ella smiled. "Maybe you should find out."

Maury scoffed, shaking his head. "It’s not that simple."

Ella reached out, her fingers barely brushing against his forearm. His body tensed immediately at the contact, like he wasn’t used to being touched.

"It could be," she murmured.

Maury's breath hitched—just barely.

He swallowed hard, looking at her hand, her soft, manicured fingers resting against his skin.

Then, slowly, his gaze lifted to hers.

Ella smiled.

Ella leaned in slightly. "Why not?"

Maury didn't answer right away.

She could see the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched slightly against the tabletop.

Finally—softly, reluctantly—

"Life just... gets away from you sometimes."

Ella studied him briefly, then nodded as if she understood what he meant, but she had no idea. She wanted to know him, but she never could. Her life was nothing like his. She was from a different species, living in a different planet.

"That's a shame," she said lightly. "I bet you would've been good at it."

Maury let out a rough breath. Didn't look at her.

"Doesn't really matter now."

Ella tilted her head. "Maybe it does."

Maury finally met her gaze. There was something in his eyes now—something softer. Ella smiled.

"Want another?" she asked, gesturing toward his empty glass.

Maury hesitated, then nodded.

Ella raised her hand to the bartender.

"Two more."

_

The small talk stretched between them, easy and unhurried, fueled by the warmth of whiskey and the quiet hum of the bar.

Maury started talking about cars—makes and models Ella had never heard of, engines and horsepower and torque, rattling off stats and specs that meant nothing to her but clearly everything to him.

She listened. Nodded. Smiled.

Acted impressed when he talked about how the '87 Buick Grand National had been faster than a Ferrari at the time. Let her eyes widen slightly when he explained why turbocharged engines were superior for low-end torque.

She could tell he wasn't used to someone giving a damn about what he had to say.

At first, his words were measured and uncertain, like he was waiting for her to tune out, waiting for her to pretend to listen the way people probably had his whole life.

But then—when she didn't interrupt, didn't dismiss him—his voice shifted. Grew steadier.

Like he was remembering himself.

Ella leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand, letting her smile linger as he talked.

Not because she cared about cars, but because she cared about this. The way he came alive for a moment. The way he almost forgot to be ashamed of himself.

And that made her feel something warm, something deep.

She liked giving this to him. Letting him feel seen. Letting him feel like a man.

_

During a lull of the conversation, she took the bottle of Prosecco out of the bag, turning it slowly in her hands, her fingers playing over the condensation-slick glass.

Then, "We can't drink this here."

Maury frowned. "What?"

Ella tilted her head, letting a small smile at the edge of her lips.

"We need a quieter place," she murmured. "Somewhere we won't be bothered."

Maury's fingers twitched. He was still telling himself there was no way this was happening.

"I'm gonna pay our bill and go with you somewhere quiet," she whispered, and walked towards the bar.

She paid her bill, walked to the door, and pushed it open. The breeze made her skirt flutter, showing the promise of her soft thighs.

She walked toward her car, unlocking it with a soft beep, as his steps followed her. 

"I don't live too far."

The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Ella let a sweet smile spread across her lips.

"Okay," she said, voice light, effortless. "Which one is your car? I'll follow."

His hand twitched at his side—then lifted, pointing toward an old, beat-up sedan parked at the edge of the lot.

Ella's smile didn't falter. "Lead the way, then."

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
The Apartment
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

His complex was precisely what she expected. Old. Unremarkable. Forgotten. The parking lot was cracked, the numbers on the doors faded and peeling. 

Ella parked beside him. Her sleek European car stood out sharply among the worn, aging vehicles in the lot. She stepped out of her car, her heels clicking softly against the concrete.

Maury hesitated by his car door, like he was considering changing his mind. Ella didn't let him.

"Which one?" she asked over her shoulder. His voice was hoarse as he gestured to the second floor "2B."

She walked past him, her dress riding up just slightly as she climbed the short stairs to the walkway. She stopped at the door, waiting. Maury caught up with her, ran a thick hand over his face, and unlocked the door.

He pushed the door open, stepping inside. Then—he turned. His body blocked the doorway. Ella stared at him, lifted the Prosecco bottle, and said, "We're not drinking this out here."

Maury's jaw tightened, but after a long beat, he stepped aside. Ella walked in and closed the door behind her.

The place was exactly what she expected. Dim. Cluttered. Lonely.

The air smelled like stale takeout and cheap laundry detergent, a half-empty pizza box resting on the counter beside an unopened stack of bills. A dusty TV with a cracked screen in the corner.

Ella set the bottle on the counter and turned towards him.

Maury stood near the door, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring at her. A smile played at her lips as she reached for the bottle. 

"Got glasses?" she asked. Maury blinked, like he had forgotten what they were even doing.

"Uh… yeah. Yeah."

He fumbled through one of the kitchen cabinets and set two mismatched glasses on the counter. One was a plain water tumbler, the other a cheap promotional mug from a radio station—both out of place next to the smooth, elegant bottle of Prosecco.

Ella opened the bottle with a festive "pop!" A quiet fizz filled the space as she poured.

Maury watched her. Not like before—not like at the gas station. This time, he let himself look.

Ella took a slow sip, the crisp wine crisp on her tongue. She let it linger, then licked the moisture from her lips, then set the glass down.

Maury's fingers wrapped around his own glass, but he didn't drink yet. Instead, he exhaled, shifting his weight slightly.

"You always do this?" His voice was quiet, low.

Ella lifted a brow. "Do what?"

Maury glanced away for half a second, still trying to make sense of this.

"This." He gestured vaguely. At her. At him. At the improbable situation.

Ella didn't answer right away. She let the question sit between them, let it turn into something heavier. Then—softly, simply

"Sometimes."

She didn't elaborate. Didn't need to. Instead, she reached for her glass again, tilting her head slightly as she studied him.

She smiled and lifted her glass. "Cheers, Maury."

His fingers twitched. Then, finally—he lifted the glass to toast, then to his lips.

Maury set his empty glass down. Ella followed suit. A single step closed the space between them.

Maury didn't move. Didn't pull back. Didn't try to stop what was already happening. She lifted a hand slowly, deliberately, and brushed the edge of his glasses where they had slipped slightly down his nose.

She could feel it—the heat radiating from his skin, the way his body had locked up, waiting. Ella smiled. Maury's hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

She leaned in, close enough that her lips hovered just near his jawline, not touching. Not yet.

She let the moment breathe, let the space between them shrink until it was practically nonexistent. 

"You gonna let yourself have this, Maury?"

The air in Maury's apartment was thick, heavy with a faint tang of sweat. Ella's fingers lingered near his jaw, her touch light but deliberate, her breath warm against his skin. She could feel the tension in him, his body coiled like a spring ready to snap.

Maury's hands were still clenched at his sides, his knuckles white, his breathing shallow. His glasses were slightly fogged, his eyes darting between her face and the floor, like he couldn't decide where to look.

Ella didn't rush. She let the moment stretch, let the weight of it press down on him until he couldn't take it anymore.

"Relax," she murmured, her voice low, almost a whisper.

Her fingers trailed down his neck, brushing over the collar of his shirt, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his skin. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his body trembled slightly under her touch.

Maury swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I…"

"Shh," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "Just let me take care of you."

Her hand slid down his chest, feeling the way his heart pounded beneath her palm. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath, her touch warm against his skin. Maury's body stiffened for a moment before he exhaled, slow and shaky.

Ella smiled against his neck, her lips trailing down to his collarbone, her tongue flicking out to taste the salt on his skin.

"Maury," she murmured, her voice soft but firm. "Look at me."

He slowly looked up. And then she saw it—the hunger, the need, the raw desire that had been simmering beneath the surface.

She smiled, her fingers slightly caressing his chest. "There you are," she whispered.

Her lips found his, soft but insistent, her tongue teasing his until he responded, his hands finally moving to grip her hips.

He smelled like sweat and fryer grease, his work shirt stained under the arms, his breath sharp with the tang of whiskey and onion rings. When he kissed her, clumsy and desperate, she leaned into it, savoring the bitterness on his tongue. This was what she craved—the rawness of a man who'd forgotten what it meant to be touched.

The kiss deepened, slow and hungry. Their bodies pressed together as the heat between them grew. Ella's hands went under his shirt and slid up his chest, pushing his shirt up, her fingers brushing over the rough hair on his stomach.

Maury's fingers dug into her skin as he pulled her closer, his body responding to her touch.

Ella broke the kiss, her lips trailing down his neck, her teeth grazing his skin as she nipped lightly at his collarbone.

"I… I don't even know your name—" Maury gasped, his voice rough, his hands trembling on her hips.

She whispered, "I'm Ella, but you can call me Pleasure."

Her fingers found the button of his jeans, popping it open with practiced ease, her hand sliding down to feel the hard length of him through the fabric.

Maury groaned, his head falling back, his body arching into her touch.

Ella smiled, her fingers curling around him. Her thumb brushed over the tip, and she felt the dampness already gathering there.

Maury's hands tightened on her hips, his breath coming in ragged gasps as she stroked him, slow and deliberate.

"Fuck—" he choked out, his body trembling, his hips bucking into her hand.

Ella's other hand slid up his chest, her fingers brushing over his nipples, feeling the way his body responded to her touch.

Her lips found his again, the kiss deep and hungry; her hand moved faster, her thumb brushing over the sensitive tip with every stroke.

Maury's hands moved to her back, pulling her closer, pawing her curved ass, his body pressing against hers as he groaned into her mouth.

Ella could feel the tension building in him, the way his body was trembling, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

She broke the kiss, her lips trailing down his neck, her teeth grazing his skin as she whispered—" I'd love to see your room…"

_

Maury's bedroom was a cave of neglect—yellowed blinds half-closed, a sagging mattress covered in tangled sheets. A single lamp cast dim light over piles of unwashed clothes and fast-food wrappers, the carpet gritty under Ella's bare feet. She didn't care. The rawness of it, the realness, made her pulse spike.

Ella guided him to the edge of the bed, her fingers deftly sliding his shirt over his head. His chest heaved, his skin flushed under the flickering lamplight. She could feel the tremor in his hands as they hovered near her hips, unsure where to land.

"It's okay," she murmured, pressing his palm to her breast. "I'm yours tonight."

The Viagra she'd crushed into his Prosecco had done its work—his cock firm, thick and eager, veins throbbing under her touch. She dropped to her knees, the carpet rough against her skin, and took him into her mouth without hesitation.

His taste was salt and musk, his hips jerking as she hollowed her cheeks, her tongue swirling over his frenulum. "Fuck—!" he choked, fingers tangling in her hair, not guiding, just holding on. She moaned around him, vibrations rippling through his shaft, relishing the way his thighs tensed, the way his breath shattered into gasps.

When she rose, his hands scrambled to undress her, fumbling with the zipper of her dress. When he finally peeled it away, he stared at her naked body like it was a miracle—a reverence that made her wetter.

"Please," he rasped, voice broken, as he sat down on the bed. She climbed onto the misshapen mattress, straddling him, her slippery folds grinding against his stomach. "You want me?" she whispered, her thumb brushing his swollen tip, smearing precum down his length.

He nodded, wild-eyed.

"Then take me."

He flipped her onto her back with a growl, his weight pinning her to the mattress. The pill had erased his hesitation—his thrusts were rough, urgent, his calloused hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. Ella arched into him, her nails scoring his back, her cries sharp and unfiltered.

"Yes—!" she hissed, her legs locking around his waist. The stretch of him burned, his cock dragging against her walls in a way that made her vision blur. He smelled like desperation, like need, and she drowned in it, her pleasure building up with every ragged snap of his hips.

His eyes met hers, glassy with awe.

"You feel how much I want this?" she gasped, her hips rolling to meet his. "How much I want you?" He groaned, his rhythm relentless.

The mattress whined under their weight, its worn springs protesting as Maury thrust into her with a rhythm that was both frantic and unsteady. His body—soft, pale, and doughy—pressed against hers in stark contrast with her golden, sun-kissed perfection.

His flabby stomach slapped against her taut, flat abdomen, the sound obscene, the friction of his loose skin against her firm, sculpted frame almost jarring. His hands, thick and calloused, gripped her hips, his touch clumsy yet desperate, as if he couldn't believe someone like her—sleek, flawless, radiant—was beneath him.

Yet, as he groaned, his breath hot and ragged against her neck, Ella arched into him, her nails digging into his fleshy shoulders, her body responding with a hunger that defied the dissonance of their union. Here, in this dim, grimy room, their pleasure turned their contrast into pure beauty.

The room reeked of stale cigarettes and unwashed sheets, the air thick with the musk of sweat and arousal. Ella's back arched off the bed, her thighs trembling as he drove deeper, harder, his cock stretching her with a burn that was both pain and ecstasy.

Maury's breath came in ragged grunts, his glasses fogged, his forehead dripping onto her chest. Desire had turned him feral—his hands bruising her hips, his teeth sinking into the curve of her neck as he fucked her like he was starving. Ella reveled in it, in the rawness, the way his desperation stripped him bare.

He suddenly stopped and swallowed, his hands tightening slightly on her hips.

"I… I want to taste you."

Ella's pulse jumped, a slow, delicious heat curling in her stomach. "Do you?" she murmured. Maury nodded, his eyes dark, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

She pushed him away from her, and spread her legs wide, her body arching slightly, her hips lifting off the bed in silent invitation.

Maury's eyes darted down to the wet, glistening folds between her thighs, and then dove in.

His mouth was hot, his unshaven face rough, his tongue eager as it dragged over her skin, licking and sucking her hardened pink nipples, tracing the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, the delicate skin of her abdomen, the tender depths of her navel. Ella's breath came in shallow gasps, her body trembling under his touch, her fingers tangling in the sheets as she tried to steady herself.

Maury's hands gripped her thighs, his fingers digging into her skin as he pulled her closer, his mouth trailing down her stomach, his tongue tracing a path towards the junction of her thighs.

"Maury—" she gasped, her hips bucking slightly, her body arching into his touch.

He didn't stop.

His mouth moved lower, his tongue dragging over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his breath hot against her skin. Ella's breath came in ragged gasps as she felt the heat of his mouth so close, so close—

And then—he was there.

His tongue dragged over her slick folds, slow and deliberate, his mouth hot and hungry as he tasted her. Ella's back arched, a low, guttural moan tearing from her throat as his tongue circled her clit, the sensation sending sparks up her spine.

"Fuck—!" she hissed, her hips bucking into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

Maury groaned, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through her, his tongue flicking over her clit in quick, teasing strokes.

Ella grinded against his mouth as he worked her, his tongue relentless, his hands gripping her glutes, holding her in place.

"Yes—!" she gasped, her back arching, her body tightening as the pleasure built, coiling deep inside her.

Maury's tongue dipped lower, teasing her entrance, his fingers penetrating her as his mouth circled her clit, his touch firm and deliberate.

Ella's nails dug into his scalp, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she felt the tension building, the pleasure threatening to overwhelm her.

"Maury—!" she gasped, her body arching, her hips bucking into his mouth as the wave finally broke, her orgasm crashing over her in a tidal wave of sensation.

Maury didn't stop, his tongue working her through it, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her as she bucked, her body convulsing, her cries sharp and unfiltered.

When it was over, Ella collapsed back onto the bed, trembling, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

Maury leaned back, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with hunger as he looked up at her.

"Ella—" he started, his voice rough, uncertain.

She didn't let him finish.

She reached for him, pulling him up to her, her lips crashing against his in a hungry, desperate kiss, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as Ella dragged Maury back on top of her.

His cock, still slick with her juices, slid into her with a single, desperate thrust. She gasped, her nails raking down his back as he buried himself to the hilt, the stretch of him lighting her nerves on fire.

The bedframe slammed against the wall, the sound rhythmic and obscene, blending with their primal grunts. Maury's hands fumbled at her hips, his grip bruising, his rhythm uneven—too fast, too hungry. Ella arched into it, her heels digging into his ass, forcing him deeper.

"Harder," she snarled, her voice raw, her hips rolling to meet his.

He obeyed, his thrusts turning punishing, his cock dragging against her walls in a way that made her vision blur. The pill she'd slipped him kept him relentlessly hard, his stamina fueled by a mix of chemical need and primal desperation. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto her chest, his glasses askew, his lips parted in a silent plea.

Ella's hands fisted in his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. She bit down, tasting salt and desperation, her teeth sinking into his skin as he groaned, his hips stuttering.

"Y-You're—" he choked, but she cut him off with another kiss, swallowing his words, his whimpers, his surrender.

Her climax built like a storm, tightening low in her belly until it tore through her with a guttural cry. She clenched around him, milking his cock as he spilled deep inside her, his release hot and endless, his body shuddering like a man possessed.

When he collapsed, trembling, she cradled his head against her chest, her fingers tracing the bite marks on his neck. The room reeked of sex, sweat, and the sweet rot of neglect—a sacrament only they understood.

_

The room was silent, save for Maury's ragged snores. He lay sprawled on the mattress, one arm flung over his face, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of exhausted sleep. The sheets were tangled around his legs, his body still glistening with sweat, the scent of sex clinging to the air like a confession.

Ella stood at the foot of the bed, fully dressed, her fingers deftly smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. Her thighs ached, her skin still tingling from the aftershocks of her climax, but her movements were precise, deliberate. She glanced at Maury's sleeping form—his slack jaw, the faint purple mark her teeth had left on his collarbone. A gift for him.

She stepped closer, in silent goodbye, and walked out of the room.

The apartment felt smaller now, more suffocating. The empty bottle of Prosecco sat on the floor, its contents long gone.

Ella paused by the dirty mirror hanging near the door, her reflection sharp against the dim light. Her lipstick was gone, her hair tousled, but her eyes burned with a quiet joy.

She exhaled slowly, fingers grazing over her flushed skin, feeling the lingering heat that still thrummed inside her. Then, she noticed a small trace of him in the corner of her mouth. She lifted her thumb, wiping it away. The movement was slow, deliberate.

She brought her thumb to her lips, pressing it against her tongue, tasting him one last time.

A mix of salt, whiskey, skin, something earthy, something raw. There was a faint trace of sweat, a lingering musk that curled through her senses. It was bitter, masculine, laced with the heady reminder of what she had just given, what he had just taken.

She closed her eyes for a brief second, letting the taste settle and become a memory on her tongue.

She wanted to remember the sensation, the feeling—the slow, thrilling heat it sent through her.

Her tongue flicked over the pad of her thumb, drawing every last bit of him before she swallowed, savoring the way he lingered.

She wasn't going to forget.

She reapplied her crimson lipstick with practiced ease.

He wasn't going to forget either.

He left the apartment, her skin tingling with happiness.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
Epilogue
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

For the first time in years, Maury didn’t just wake up—he got up.

No groggy shuffle to the bathroom, no standing in the mirror, wondering when his reflection had started looking so damn tired. He moved with purpose. Shaved. Put on a clean shirt. Stepped into the gas station like a man with something to do instead of just someone waiting for the day to happen to him.

But today, he didn’t stop at the register.

Today, he turned left.

The repair shop attached to the station had always felt like another world. A world that wasn’t his. He’d spent years walking past it, watching from a distance as guys who actually mattered worked under hoods, cursing at engines, making things run while he bagged potato chips and rung up scratch-offs.

But not today.

He stepped into the garage, the air thick with the smell of oil and metal, and walked straight toward Charlie, the owner of the gas station.

The old mechanic was hunched under the hood of an old Ford Mustang, thick fingers gripping a wrench as he muttered under his breath. He barely glanced up when he saw Maury standing there.

“The hell do you want?” Charlie grunted, already dismissing him.

Maury didn’t hesitate. Didn’t shift from foot to foot or let his voice drop like he usually did.

“I wanna work here.”

That got a reaction.

Charlie pulled his head out from under the hood, squinting at him like Maury had just spoken in tongues.

“Work?” he repeated, his forehead creasing. “You mean like… in the shop?”

Maury nodded. “Yeah. Here.”

Charlie let out a dry, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, no. Go scan some candy bars.” He turned back to the car, waving him off. “This ain’t for you.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

But Maury didn’t move.

Instead, his eyes flicked to the wrench in Charlie’s grip.

“You’re about to strip that bolt.”

Charlie froze.

Slowly, he turned his head. “What?”

Maury nodded at the engine. “That drain plug. You’re using the wrong socket. That bolt’s soft as hell—probably been over-tightened a dozen times. You try to force it with that wrench, you’re gonna round it off, and then you’re in for a real pain in the ass.”

Charlie scowled, clearly ready to tell him to go to hell—but then, just as quickly, doubt flickered across his face. His grip loosened. He looked back at the bolt.

Maury waited.

Then—Charlie grunted, grabbed a different socket, and gave it a careful twist.

The bolt came loose like butter.

Charlie exhaled through his nose. Tapped the socket against his palm.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

Maury crossed his arms. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the slow drip of oil into the pan beneath the car.

Charlie finally looked up, giving Maury the first real look he’d ever given him. Not as the guy who stood behind the counter, not as the guy who nobody noticed—but as a man.

“You ever worked a shop before?” Charlie asked, still eyeing him like he was seeing him for the first time.

“Not,” Maury admitted. “But I used to be good at this in high school.” He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of something settle into place. “And I wanna be good at it again.”

Charlie sniffed. Wiped his hands on a rag. “You work slow, I send you back to your register.”

Maury smirked. “I won’t.”

Charlie jerked his head toward the back. “Got a Malibu that needs an oil change. Don’t fuck it up.”

Maury turned, stepping deeper into the garage, where he belonged.

And Charlie? He just watched him go, shaking his head like he still couldn’t believe what the hell had just happened.

Maury knew.

And if she had been there, watching him now—she would’ve known, too.

THE END

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I hope you enjoyed Ella's second encounter. What kind of man should she please next? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments!