The cheap blonde wig scratched faintly at Lacey’s scalp, a constant reminder of how fake this all was was—yet somehow, it felt right. She’d brushed it out carefully, curling the ends under just slightly. Not quite bimbo, but not quite wholesome. Just enough to turn heads and make people wonder. The top she chose was cropped high enough to flash the smooth skin of her lower stomach when she moved. It draped loose across her collarbone, dipping off one shoulder carelessly.

Her skirt—navy, pleated, and tantalisingly short—swished around the tops of her thighs. She wore white thigh-high cotton socks beneath it, and her black heeled boots gave her legs a tall, graceful stride that she was still learning to control.

Stepping outside, dressed like this, was a huge moment: the first time Lacey had left the confines of the apartment.

One small step for man.

One giant leap for… God knows what. Lacey?

The walk to Marissa’s apartment was only a few blocks. But it felt like a stage. A performance in slow motion.

The first man who catcalled her did it with a whistle and a murmur of “Damn, those legs…” She kept walking, her spine stiff, face flushed. Another guy at a street corner gave her a cheesy ‘thumbs-up’ and ‘cool guy’ nod of the head. The humiliation and thrill twisted together in her stomach like too much sugar.

At Marissa’s door, she hesitated just long enough for her hand to shake before knocking.

The door opened faster than expected, and Marissa appeared wearing a loose tank top and tiny shorts, her hair in a messy bun, eyeliner smudged from what looked like a lazy evening.

She blinked. “Holy shit.”

Lacey swallowed. “Too much?”

“No,” Marissa said, stepping back to let her in. “It’s not enough. I want more.”

Lacey laughed nervously and stepped inside.

Marissa shut the door with a flick of her wrist. “You walked here like this?”

Lacey nodded, pulling the hoodie slightly tighter. “Yeah.”

“Daylight? With ‘norms’ everywhere?” She handed Lacey a glass of wine before leaning back against the counter, eyes roaming from her boots to her pale thighs to the fragile line of her neck. “Girl, you’ve got balls. I’ll give you that.”

Lacey smirked. “Literally.”

They moved to the couch, settling side by side, hips barely touching. Marissa tucked one leg underneath her, sipping her wine, her eyes darting back and forth across Lacey’s face like she was trying to read between the makeup lines.

“I didn’t think you’d arrive dressed,” she said softly. “It’s... honestly? Wild.”

“Good wild or ‘call a therapist’ wild?”

Marissa grinned. “Very good. Like, ‘I might need to re-evaluate my sexuality’ good.”

Lacey felt her cheeks heat. “You’re just being a perv.”

“No. I’m being honest.” Marissa reached out and ran a thumb just under Lacey’s eye, near the wing of her eyeliner. “Your makeup skills are getting good.”

Lacey blushed.

“You look like a born cock-tease.”

Lacey laughed, hand brushing at her skirt out of nervous habit. “I think that’s a compliment.”

“Oh, it is. So fucking sexy...” Marissa trailed off, set her wine down and turned, facing her fully. “So. Talk.”

Lacey raised an eyebrow. “About?”

“You know damn well. The client. The one who wanted to degrade you.” Her tone shifted — low, almost whispered. Her hand rested lightly on Lacey’s knee, thumb circling absentmindedly. “Tell me everything. Don’t spare the gross parts.”

Lacey hesitated, her mouth dry. “Why do you want to know?”

Marissa smiled crookedly. “Because it turns me on.”

There was no laugh to cover it, no ironic wink. Just raw honesty, naked in her eyes.

Lacey sipped her wine, then set it aside. “Okay.”

And she told her.

Not about the last client. The almost tender evening. She hadn’t even processed that herself yet.

Instead, she blurred the lines, mixed different clients together into one juicy tale. She knew that’s what Marissa really wanted to hear.

The way the messages had started, casual but commanding. The specifics of what he wanted: black lace. Fishnets, the sissy collar. The tone of the dirty talk — humiliating, rough, laced with slurs that made her stomach twist. How the client had made her kneel and used her mouth without gentleness. How she’d moaned the words ‘Daddy’ at her moment of climax. How he’d grabbed her chin after and said, “You’re good at this, sissy.”

As she spoke, Marissa leaned in closer. Her breathing changed — slower, heavier. Her lips parted slightly. She was flushed, her knees pulled tighter toward her chest, like she was bracing herself.

“God,” she muttered under her breath. “That’s so fucked up.”

“You asked.”

“No, I’m not complaining. I’m just…” Her eyes darted to Lacey’s mouth. “Jesus, Lace. I don’t know what this is, but … feel my heart beat...” she grabbed his hand and placed it on her chest.

“It’s absolutely captivating. I’m obsessed.”

Lacey tilted her head. “With me?”

“With all of it. With what you become. With how liberated, even when it’s degrading. I don’t get it — I shouldn’t like it so much — but I do.”

Her hand slid up Lacey’s thigh, resting just at the hem of her skirt. The touch was light, almost reverent.

Lacey didn’t move. She let it happen. Her breath caught in her throat.

The tension was rising like a fever—Marissa’s hungry stares, her lingering touches, the way she leaned just a little too close every time she laughed.

“I shouldn’t want to fuck you right now,” Marissa whispered. “But I really, really do.”

Lacey didn’t flinch. But her voice was quiet, heavy with something else. “It’s not the same.”

“What?”

“You’re not like them. You’re not paying to see me like this. You don’t expect me to play a role.”

Marissa looked at her, startled. “You think this is a role?”

Lacey stared at the glass of wine between her knees. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I think it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

There was a long silence.

Marissa broke it with a soft kiss to Lacey’s temple. “I don’t want the role. I want the girl.”

Lacey exhaled, unsure of what to say.

--

The kiss started slow. Their wine glasses sat forgotten on the coffee table, sweat collecting at the base.

When their lips met, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was messy. Curious. Need surpassed affection. Marissa’s hands roamed immediately, pressing into Lacey’s back, pulling her in by the waistband of her pleated skirt.

Lacey kissed her back, at first.

But something about the moment didn’t sit right.

She wasn’t nervous. Not exactly. She had been touched before. Ravaged, even. And this was no different. Marissa’s touch was assertive, almost... performative. Like she was playing out a fantasy. Her fantasy. Just like the clients.

It wasn’t mutual.

And that’s what hit Lacey the most. A tight knot forming in her stomach. A lump in her throat.

“Wait,” Lacey murmured between kisses. “What are we doing?”

“Shhh,” Marissa whispered into her neck, already slipping a hand under the skirt. Massaging her dick through the delicate fabric of her panties. Her dick didn’t share the same inner, emotional turmoil she felt. It sprang to attention. Hard and ready.

“You’re gorgeous like this, Lace. I’ve thought about this... a lot more than I probably should.”

Her voice had an intensity to it, but it wasn’t romantic. It was hungry. Possessive. Lacey tried to read her expression, but Marissa was already standing.

“Wait here,” she said, smirking. “I’ve got something.”

She disappeared into the bedroom and returned a minute later holding a small box.

The seconds dragged like hours.

Lacey sat stiffly on the couch, skirt riding up her thighs, her panties tented, her cock aching to be freed and relieved, her heart beating fast and hard.

A frantic rustling of commotion clattered in the next room. Marissa bounded back to the doorway, a devilish grin across her face.

Marissa opened the box with theatrical flair, revealing a black strap-on harness and a smooth purple silicone shaft, modest in size but intimidating in implication.

“I only used this once,” Marissa said with a shrug. “With a guy I was seeing a few years back. He was curious. So was I.”

Her grin widened, just a little wicked. “He didn’t take it well. Literally. Said he felt weird after. But me? I actually loved it. Being in control.”

She paused, her eyes sweeping over Lacey. “And I’ve been thinking—maybe I want to feel that again.”

Lacey blinked. “You want to use that on me?”

“Only if you want me to.” But her body language said otherwise. She was already rolling her shoulders, already strapping in like it was a rite.

Lacey hesitated. She felt her head nod automatically.

Minutes later, she was bent forward over the couch cushions, her blonde wig tickling her cheeks, her skirt hiked indecently high. Panties pulled to the side without grace. The room was hot, silent except for the soft rustle of Marissa adjusting the harness.

“You look perfect like this,” Marissa said, her voice thick with arousal. “Just... hold still.”

The cold lube slopped on to Lacey’s waiting asshole, fingers slowly stretching her open wide. The cold, hard dullness made Lacey involuntarily moan. It wasn’t as gentle as she expected, and Marissa wiped her slippery fingers across Lacey’s now spread cheeks.

The cold strap-on dick entered her with a clumsy thrust.

Her tight hole seemed to resist at first, but then relaxed and gave into to the full length being rammed deeper.

Another moan from somewhere. Pain or pleasure? Both?

Lacey’s eyes were wide open as the full length of the strap-on cock pushed inside. She could feel Marissa’s smooth thighs against the backs of her legs. Marissa’s hips slamming against her flesh.

Fuck, this is Marissa, Lacey almost panicked.

Her rhythm was awkward at first—cautious, then faster, pushing with more force than finesse. She grunted softly, fingers gripping Lacey’s hips with a firm, excited pressure. She moaned too loudly. Repeated dirty phrases she must’ve heard from recent porn searches.

“You like that, don’t you, sissy bitch? You love getting used like this.”

But it didn’t sound right. Not from her.

“Who’s the daddy now?”

Lacey tried to stay in it, but something was off. The stretch was sharp, and not in a good way. There was no connection—just a desperate pantomime of dominance. Lacey bit her lip, eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying to conjure some flicker of pleasure.

It didn’t come.

Marissa brought herself to climax after climax.

It was her fantasy.

It felt like hours.

Then it was over, and Marissa pulled off the harness, breathless and smug. She collapsed beside Lacey on the couch, brushing a lock of synthetic blonde hair from her cheek.

“That was... insane,” she whispered, beaming.

Lacey gave a small nod, tears beginning to form. “Yeah.”

Marissa didn’t see the doubt in her eyes. She was already curling close, sighing in that satisfied, post-sex haze.

But Lacey? She just lay there, arms crossed over her chest, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Used. Again.

The role was all too familiar.

---