The washroom off Charles Reilly's office had a full-length mirror on the back of the door, and the light over the sink was the kind that forgave nothing, and Willow stood in front of it in the cobalt catsuit with the platinum wig brushed over one shoulder and the collar snug at her throat and the mules on her feet, and she looked at the thing the mirror gave back and the thing the mirror gave back looked at her.

She turned her head one way and the fall of the wig moved across the latex shoulder and she turned it the other way and the wig moved back, and the wet lip gloss caught the light and threw it off the lower lip in a small wet star. The lashes were on straight. The brows were pencilled dark and arched and the smokey shadow went up to the crease and the blush sat high on the cheekbones where it belonged. The corset held her waist at twenty-four inches under the cobalt and the breast plate pushed the chest of the suit out into two soft heavy curves with the pencil-eraser nipples tenting the latex, and below that the waist cinched in and flared at the hips and the seam at the crotch was open the way the suit was made, and she could see the shadow of it, the dark line, the soft thing behind it tucked and small and quiet.

The man in the Italian suit was gone somewhere. She did not go looking for him. She turned a quarter turn and put her weight on one mule and let the hip go out and the light moved down the cobalt and pooled at the knee, and she lifted the phone off the counter and opened the camera and held it out at arm's length and took the first picture, the standing one, the one that caught the whole of her from the mules to the crown of the wig.

She looked at it and deleted it. The mules were cut off at the bottom of the frame and the light was behind her and the face was a dark oval.

She turned around and put her back to the mirror and the light and held the phone up over her shoulder and took the second one, the back shot, the one that caught the fall of the wig down the cobalt spine and the flare of the hips and the base of the plug just showing between the cheeks through the open seam, a small flat gleam, and she kept that one. She turned back around and put a hand on her hip and cocked the other hip and dropped her chin and looked up through the lashes at the lens and took the third one, the sultry one, and she kept that one too.

She set the phone on the counter and leaned both hands on the sink and pushed her ass back and looked over her shoulder at the mirror and took the fourth with the timer, the bent-over one, the one where the cobalt pulled tight across the ass and the open seam showed the plug and the soft tucked thing behind it, and the flash went and she straightened and looked at it and her mouth was open in it, the wet lips parted, and she kept it.

The fifth one she took sitting on the closed lid of the toilet with her knees together and her ankles crossed and her hands folded on her knee and her eyes down, the good-girl one, the one that said she knew her place. The sixth one she took standing again with the collar turned to the light so the small silver ring on the front of it caught, and her chin up, and the wet mouth just slightly open, and the lashes low.

Six pictures. She looked at all six in a row and her thumb hovered over the send and she did not send them anywhere. They were for her. She put the phone on the counter and pressed the video and stepped back and the red dot blinked and she began to move.

She turned slowly on the mules, one full turn, and the cobalt slid over the corset and the breast plate and the light ran down her and she came out of the turn facing the lens with her hip out and her chin down and she said, in the soft breathy voice that was Willow's voice now, the voice that came out of her without her deciding it, "I'm a doll. I'm a sissy doll. I'm a fuckdoll."

She turned again. The wig swung. The mules clicked on the tile.

"I don't have a cock. I have a little soft clit. It doesn't get hard. It isn't supposed to."

She came back around and put both hands behind her head and pushed her chest out and the cobalt pulled tight over the breast plate and the pencil-eraser nipples stood up under the latex and she held it and said, "I take cock in my mouth and I swallow it and I say thank you."

She held the pose a beat longer than she needed to and then she reached back and stopped the video and picked up the phone and looked at the running time. One minute fifty-eight. Close enough. She watched the first ten seconds of it back with the sound off and the way she moved was not the way the man in the Italian suit moved and the way her mouth made the words was not the way his mouth made words, and she locked the phone and set it face-down on the counter.

She stood in front of the mirror and breathed. Not deeply. The corset did not allow deeply. The plug shifted inside her with the breath she was allowed and she felt the small cold press of it move against the wall of her and settle and she stood very still and let it settle and looked at the doll in the mirror and the doll in the mirror looked back at her with the wet mouth and the dark lashes and the high blush and the collar.

She reached up and touched the collar with two fingers, the French nail on the middle finger clicking once against the silver ring, and she let her hand fall.

Then she turned the knob and opened the door and the office came in around her, the carpet, the smell of it, the smell of paper and old wood and the faint chemical of the copier down the hall and the coffee gone cold in a cup somewhere, and she stepped out onto the carpet in the mules and the light from the Fifth Avenue window came across the floor and hit the cobalt at the knee and slid up her as she walked.

Reilly was at his desk with the receiver at his ear. He looked up when the door opened and he did not look back down and he did not stop listening and he did not stop looking. His eyes came off her face and went down the cobalt and stopped at the breast plate and went down the waist and the hips and the open seam and the legs in the latex and the mules and came back up to her face and stayed there.

He lifted two fingers off the desk and curled them at her. Come here. He was still talking into the phone, something about a Tuesday and a closing and a man named Feldman who was being difficult, and he curled the fingers again, slower, and Willow walked.

The carpet took the click out of the mules. She walked the way she had learned to walk, hips going, one mule in front of the other, the cobalt moving over her, and she stopped where the fingers wanted her stopped, in the middle of the carpet between the door and the desk, and Reilly took the receiver away from his mouth for a second and said, "Turn," and put it back.

She turned. Slow. One full turn on the mules with the wig swinging and the light coming across her and the cobalt sliding over the corset and the breast plate and she came back around facing him and stopped with her hip out.

"Again," he said into the phone, to her, and went back to Feldman.

She turned again. Slower this time. She let him watch the seam come around and the plug's flat base flash in the light and she let the wig fall forward over her face and she tossed it back with a flick of her head on the way around and came out of the turn with her chin down and her eyes up through the lashes at him and he was watching her over the top of the receiver and he did not blink.

"Stop," he said. "Pose."

She posed. Hand on hip, weight on one mule, chin down, mouth just open. She held it. The leather of his chair creaked as he leaned back and she held it and the light from the window moved a fraction across the floor and she held it and the plug shifted inside her with the breath she was taking shallowly and she held it until he said, "Again," and she changed to the other hip, the other hand, the other angle of the chin, and held that one too.

"Again."

The third one. Both hands behind her head, chest out, the way she had done it for the camera. She held it and watched him watch the breast plate push against the cobalt and the nipples tent the latex and she held it and the leather creaked and he said, into the phone, "Feldman, hold on," and took the receiver down and set it on the desk with his palm over the mouthpiece and looked at her with nothing between his eyes and her now, no phone, no Feldman, no desk.

"Fourth one," he said. "Slow."

She did the fourth one slow. She turned on the mules and let him watch the whole of her come around, the front, the side, the back, the seam, the plug, the fall of the wig, the front again, and she finished facing him with her weight on one hip and her mouth wet and open and her eyes on his and she held it and he looked at her for a long time and then he took his palm off the mouthpiece and put the receiver back to his ear and said, "Feldman. Tuesday. Go on."

Willow stood on the carpet and breathed shallowly and the plug pressed inside her and settled and she waited.

Reilly listened to Feldman. He moved a paper from one side of the blotter to the other. He wrote something on a legal pad with a gold pen and the pen scratched and he turned the pad and wrote something else and the leather creaked and the light from the window moved another fraction across the floor and touched the edge of her mule and slid off it. He did not look at her for a while and she stood where he had left her and did not move and the shallow breaths moved the plug and she did not breathe deeply.

Then he looked at her again and lifted one finger off the desk and pointed at the carpet in front of the desk, at the worn place where the pile had gone flat from feet, from other feet, from shoes, and he pointed and went back to Feldman, and Willow walked to the place and turned and knelt down on the carpet in front of the desk with her knees together and her hands flat on her thighs and her eyes on the edge of the blotter.

The carpet was older than the rest of the room and it knew it. Where her knees pressed the pile gave and went flat and the fibers pushed up against the latex in small dry ticks she could hear because her ear was that close to the floor when she let her chin drop. She put her weight back on her heels and the corset took the bend out of her spine and held her upright the way it was built to, and the plug turned a quarter turn inside her with the settling and she felt the flat base of it press the seam and the seam give and the cool of the glass go warm.

Reilly's pen scratched. A page turned. The receiver made the small tin sound of a voice at the other end that was not quite a voice, just the shape of one, Feldman's shape, going on about a Tuesday. She kept her eyes on the edge of the blotter, on the small gold corner of it, on the way the light from the window laid a clean line along the blotter's leather and stopped exactly at the corner and did not cross it. She counted the line. She counted the small gold. She did not count the minutes because there were no minutes in this, there was only the carpet and the plug and the shallow breath the corset allowed her and the pen.

Then the hand came down. It came from above her and behind the blotter and it settled on the crown of her head, palm flat, the weight of it not heavy but absolute, and it pushed down a half inch and held her there, and Reilly's voice did not change at all, did not slow, did not catch. "No, Feldman. No. I said Tuesday and I meant Tuesday." The hand stayed. The thumb moved once across the wig, a slow stroke, the way a man moves his thumb on a thing he owns and is not thinking about, and her scalp went tight under it and her eyes stayed on the gold corner and the plug pressed and she did not move and she did not breathe deeply.

He took the hand away to write something and the crown of her head was cold where it had been. The pen scratched. The receiver hummed. She heard him tear a page off the pad and the small dry rip of it and the page go onto a stack, and then the hand came back, lower this time, at the nape, where the wig met the collar, and the fingers closed on the back of her neck and the thumb found the small hollow under her skull and pressed there and held her head up and forward and did not let it drop. She looked at the gold corner. She looked at the clean line of light. She heard him say a number into the phone and then say it again, slower, the way he had said the poses, and she felt the number go through the fingers on her neck and into her and settle with the plug.

The light moved off the blotter's corner and onto the desk and touched the base of the lamp and slid up the brass and stopped. She watched it stop. The call went on. Feldman had a lawyer now, apparently. Feldman's lawyer had a question about the second paragraph. Reilly answered the question and then answered it again in different words and the fingers on her neck tightened and then loosened and then tightened and the plug turned again with a breath she took and did not mean to take and she felt the small wet of her own slickness at the seam, the cool air of the office finding it, and she kept her eyes on the brass and did not move.

The receiver clicked into the cradle. The sound was small and final and it went through the room and the room got quieter than it had been, quieter than the call, and for a moment there was only the hum of the copier down the hall and the faint tick of something settling in the old wood of the desk. The fingers slid from the nape up into the hair at the back of her skull and took a handful of the wig and turned her head up with it, not gently, and she came up off the gold corner and up the brass and up the dark of his chest and the open collar of the shirt and the close-cropped beard and into his eyes and he leaned back in the chair and the leather creaked and he looked at her.

"Look at me," he said. "So I can see what I'm getting."

She looked at him. The light from the window came across the desk and found her face and the mascara went dark and wet at the corners of her eyes and the lashes threw their small shadows and the lip gloss took the light and threw it back off the lower lip and she held her chin where his hand had put it and did not drop her eyes and did not blink and let him study her, the brows, the shadow, the blush, the wet mouth, the collar, the small silver ring on the collar catching and going dark and catching again. His thumb moved once in the hair at her nape. He looked at her the way a man looks at a thing on a table at an auction, patient, unhurried, already knowing the number he will pay.

Then the other hand came off the arm of the chair and went to his lap and she heard the small metal sound of the snap and the slow grind of the zipper coming down, tooth by tooth, and she did not look down. She kept her eyes on his because he had told her to and because the eyes were the last thing she had that was not already his, and the zipper came down and stopped and the room held the sound of it and she felt the plug turn inside her with the breath she took and she did not breathe deeply and she waited on the carpet with her hands flat on her thighs.

The zipper reached the bottom and stopped and the room held the sound of it, and then his hand moved and the fabric of the tactical pants went aside and his cock came free of it, and she lifted her chin to the sound the way he had built her to lift it, chin up, throat long, eyes on his and then not on his because the eyes went down of their own accord, down the dark of his shirt and the open collar and the flat of his stomach where the Henley rode up, and stopped.

It stood up out of the dark fabric of the pants, tall, and it did not lean, it did not waver, it came up off him at an angle and held there with the weight and the heat of it showing in the shine along the shaft. Eight inches, maybe more, maybe none, she could not measure it from the carpet and did not try. Thick. The kind of thick that made the hand look wrong around it. Cut, and the head of it swollen and dark and wet at the slit with a bead of it catching the window light and holding it, and the shaft below that shiny all the way down, the skin pulled smooth and tight over the length of it, and she could see the vein running up the underside the way she had felt one run up the underside of a cock in her throat before and she wanted to feel it again and she did not move.

The balls hung low and smooth under the shaft, and they were shaved clean, both of them, the skin drawn tight and bare with no hair on it anywhere, and the shaft was the same, no hair along it, no hair at the root, nothing but the smooth dark skin and the shine and the smell of him coming off it now, warm and male and close, and she was on the carpet with her hands flat on her thighs and her chin up and her mouth already wet before she had done anything at all.

Her pulse went hard in her throat. She felt it against the collar, against the silver ring, one thud and then another, faster than the breath the corset was letting her take, and the plug turned inside her with the breath and settled and pressed and she felt the small slick of herself at the open seam, more of it than there had been, the cool of the office air finding it and the heat of her finding it back.

Her mouth had gone wet all the way through. The gloss sat on the lower lip and the saliva gathered behind it and one thin string of it broke loose at the corner of her lip and slid down slow, and she did not lift a hand to catch it. She let it go. It reached her chin and hung there and she felt it and she did not wipe it and he watched it go.

"You're dripping," he said.

"Yes, Sir."

"Where else."

She kept her eyes on the wet head of his cock and let the words come the way he had built them to come, soft, breathy, no shame in them at all. "Between my legs, Sir. At the seam. I've been dripping since you said turn."

"I know. I can smell it from here."

She felt her face go hot and the heat went down her throat and sat in her chest and made the latex over the breast plate feel warm and close and she liked it, she liked that he could smell her, she liked that the carpet had her knees and the seam had her slick and the air had the smell of her and he had said so out loud.

He did not tell her to come. He leaned back in the chair with his cock standing up out of his lap and one hand resting on the arm of it and he looked at her the way he had looked at her over the receiver, patient, unhurried, the thumb of the hand on the arm moving once, slowly, back and forth, and the light from the window came across the desk and found the head of his cock and laid a thin wet line down the side of it and did not move off it.

"You know what happens on this carpet," he said.

"Yes, Sir."

"Say it."

"I put my mouth on your cock."

"And."

"And I take it in my throat and I swallow it and I say thank you."

"And you don't use your hands."

"I don't use my hands, Sir."

"Good girl."

The two words went through her like the plug had turned, low and warm and settling, and she felt her shoulders drop a fraction and her chin come up another fraction on its own and her mouth open a little wider, wet, waiting, and he watched all of it and did not move and made her wait in it, and the waiting was its own thing, the waiting had a weight, the waiting was his hand on her neck without his hand being on her neck, and she knelt in it and dripped and did not move her hands off her thighs.

Then he curled one finger off the arm of the chair. Come here.

She came on her knees. The carpet was old and the pile was flat in the worn place and it pushed against her shins through the latex in small dry ticks and the mules had come off somewhere behind her without her deciding it and the stockings were on the carpet now and she felt the weave of it under the thin nylon and she did not stop to think about the mules. She came the length of the carpet on her knees with the corset holding her spine straight and the plug moving inside her with every step of the walk and the wet at the seam going cool and then warm and then cool again, and she came around the corner of the desk and stopped between his knees with her hands still flat on her thighs and her face a hand's width from the head of his cock.

Up close it was worse. Up close it was better. The smell of him came off the smooth shaved skin and the shine of it and the bead at the slit had grown and it was going to break loose and run, and she could see the small pulse in the shaft, the slow throb of it, the way it moved a fraction with his heartbeat and did not go down, and under the head the ridge of it stood out and the vein ran down from there and disappeared into the smooth bare root where the balls hung low and tight and hairless and full.

She put her tongue out. He had not told her to and she did it anyway, the flat of her tongue out and up, and she touched the underside of the head with the tip of it, one small wet touch, and the taste of him came onto her tongue, salt and skin and the faint clean soap he had used and under that the male of him, and she heard him breathe in through his nose and she did it again, a slow drag of the tongue up the underside from the ridge to the slit, and the bead at the slit came onto her tongue and she took it and swallowed it and the taste of it went down her throat.

"Look at me," he said.

She looked up at him along the length of his cock, chin down, eyes up through the lashes, mouth open over the head of it, and he was watching her the way he had watched her turn on the carpet, and his hand came off the arm of the chair and settled on the crown of her head, palm flat, the weight of it the weight it had been on the desk, and it did not push and it did not hold and it just sat there and told her what was going to happen.

She took him in. Slow. The head first and the ridge of it and then the shaft, her mouth stretching around the thick of it, the gloss smearing along it, her tongue flat under the length of it and her lips drawn back over her teeth and the wet sound of it coming in over the quiet of the office, and she went down until the head of it touched the back of her throat and her eyes watered and she stopped there and breathed through her nose and held it and the pulse in the shaft beat against her tongue and the hand on her crown did not move.

"Deeper."

She went deeper. The head of it pushed past the back of her throat and her throat took it and closed around it and the sound she made was not a word and the hand on her crown still did not push, it just stayed, and she held herself there with the whole thick length of him down her throat and her nose against the smooth shaved skin at the root and the smell of him all the way into her and the wet at the seam of the catsuit running now, she could feel it, a line of it going down the inside of her thigh inside the latex.

She came up off him slow, dragging her lips up the shaft, tongue working the underside, and the gloss and the spit came up with her and ran down her chin and dripped onto the cobalt over her chest and she did not wipe it and she did not look away from his eyes and at the top she took a breath through her mouth around the head of him and went back down.

Down and up. Down and up. The hand on her crown moving with her now, not pushing, just riding, the fingers spread in the platinum wig, and she found the rhythm he wanted from the way the fingers tightened and loosened and tightened and she kept it and the wet sound of it filled the office and the copier hummed down the hall and the light from the window moved off the desk and onto the floor and lay there and did not matter, nothing mattered but the thick of him in her throat and the taste of him and the hand in her hair.

"Hands," he said.

She had put them on his thighs without knowing she had. She took them off and put them behind her back, wrist to wrist, and went down again with nothing to hold her steady but her own balance on her knees and the hand on her crown, and the going down was harder with no hands and she liked that it was harder, she liked that she had to find it with her mouth alone, and she found it and held it and the spit ran out of the corners of her mouth onto the smooth shaved skin of him and down onto his balls and she felt him swell in her throat, one slow swell, and the hand in her hair tightened all the way.

"Stop."

She stopped with the head of him just inside her lips, breathing through her nose, eyes up, mouth full, and he held her there and looked at her and the pulse in the shaft beat against her tongue and she did not move and she did not swallow and the saliva hung off her lip and off the head of his cock and did not break.

"You want it," he said.

She could not answer with her mouth full. She made a sound in her throat and nodded her head the half inch the hand allowed her and the sound was a yes and the eyes were a yes and he read them both.

"Then you'll wait for it. On your knees. Hands behind your back. Mouth open."

He took the hand off her crown and leaned back in the chair and put both hands on the arms of it and his cock stood up out of his lap wet with her gloss and her spit and shining in the window light, and she knelt between his knees with her hands behind her back and her mouth open and her chin up and the drip running down her chin and the slick running down the inside of her thigh and the plug turning inside her with every shallow breath, and she waited.

He let her wait. That was the thing she had not counted on—that he would simply sit there with his hands on the arms of the chair and his cock standing up out of his lap and look at her the way a man looks at a fire he has already paid to have lit. The window light crawled across the desk and found the brass of the lamp and stopped there. The copier hummed. Somewhere down the hall a phone rang twice and quit. She kept her hands wrist to wrist behind her back and her mouth open and her chin up, and the drip on her chin had gone cold and the slick inside the latex had gone cool along her inner thigh, and still he did not move.

Then he moved. He reached down to the floor beside the chair where his jacket had slid off the arm and come to rest in a heap, and he came up with his phone, and he did not unlock it yet. He held it up in front of her face, screen dark, and turned it so she could see the black glass, and then he pressed his thumb to it and the screen bloomed and the camera opened and he pointed the lens at her.

"Look at me," he said. "Not at that. At me."

She looked at him. He was framing her with the phone held out a little to the side, higher than his eye, and she watched him watch the screen and then watch her and then the screen again, and she understood she was being composed, arranged, the way he arranged the poses earlier. Her mouth was open. The gloss was smeared all the way around it and up one cheek where his cock had dragged it. Her chin was wet. The mascara had run a little at the outside corners of both eyes and she had not fixed it and he had not told her to.

"Ask me," he said.

"Please, Sir. Take my picture."

"Why."

"So you can see what I am."

"And what are you."

She kept her eyes on his and let the words come out of the place they came from now, the soft place, the place that had no floor under it. "A sissy prostitute, Sir. On my knees on your carpet with my mouth open."

He pressed the shutter. The sound of it was small and clean and it went through her like the zipper had, and she felt her nipples go tight against the breast plate under the cobalt and the plug turn inside her with the breath she took and she did not close her mouth.

"Again," he said. "Tongue out."

She put her tongue out. Flat, low, the way she had put it out for the camera in the washroom, and held it, and the saliva gathered under it and hung off the tip of it and the shutter went again. He looked at the screen and his thumb moved on it and he angled the phone down and to the right and the lens came back up.

"Chin higher. Turn your head—no. Slow. Like that. Hold it."

She held it. Her neck began to ache from the angle and she held it anyway, and the shutter went twice more in quick succession, and he lowered the phone and looked at what he had and made a low sound in his chest that was not quite a word. Approval, or something under approval. He turned the phone toward her and showed her one of them.

She looked at herself in the little screen. Kneeling on the worn carpet in the cobalt catsuit with the platinum wig spilling over one shoulder and the collar's silver ring catching a bead of window light, mouth open, tongue out, gloss smeared to the cheek, mascara dark at the corners, the breast plate pushing two soft heavy curves up out of the open neck of the suit and the corset cinching the waist down to nothing above the flare of the hips. She did not recognize the woman and she recognized her completely. The woman in the screen looked like exactly what he had called her.

"Continue," he said. He put the phone back up. "Slow. Deliberate. Show me what you are."

She turned her head to one side, slow, and let the wig fall across the cobalt shoulder, and the shutter went. She turned it back and dropped her chin and came up through the lashes, and the shutter went. She put her weight onto one knee and let the hip go out and pushed her chest forward until the pencil-eraser nipples stood up under the latex and held it, and the shutter went, and the shutter went again, and he was not hurrying and he was not asking her to hurry and she moved through it the way he had taught her to move through the poses on the carpet, one thing at a time, each thing held long enough to be seen.

"Touch the collar," he said.

She brought one hand out from behind her back—he did not correct her—and found the silver ring at the front of the collar with two fingers and turned it until the light caught it and held it turned, and the shutter went, and she saw his jaw move once in the screen-light and knew she had done it right.

"Both hands. Show me the nails."

She brought the other hand up and put both of them flat on her thighs, fingers spread, the French tips pale against the cobalt, and he leaned in with the phone and took that one close, and then he sat back and set the phone down on the arm of the chair and picked up his cock in his fist.

She watched him do it. He did not hurry that either. He wrapped the fist around the shaft and drew it up slow from the smooth shaved root to the ridge under the head and the skin pulled tight and shiny over the length of it and the bead at the slit came up with the stroke and sat there, and he did it again, and again, and the wet sound of his own hand on himself was the only sound in the office and it was a sound she had never heard a man make in front of her with his eyes open and on her.

"Look at what you do," he said.

"Yes, Sir."

"Say it."

"I make your cock hard, Sir."

"What else."

"I make it wet. I make it leak." She heard her own voice go soft and breathy and low and she did not stop it. "I make you want to put it in my mouth and fuck my throat."

"And what are you going to do."

"Take it, Sir. Whatever you give me."

"Open."

She opened her mouth wide and put her tongue out flat under the head of him and he brought the fist and the cock up to her and laid the head on her tongue and stopped there and held it, just the head, just the weight of it hot and wet and pulsing on her tongue, and she did not close her lips around it and she did not move and she breathed through her nose and the taste of him came up into the roof of her mouth and she waited for him to decide.

He decided. He pushed in slow, one long stroke, all the way to the back of her throat and then past it, and her throat took him and closed and her eyes watered and she made the small strangled sound she could not help and he held himself there, deep, with his fist still at the root and his hips not moving, and looked down the length of his own body at her face stretched around him.

"Perfect," he said. "That's the picture."

He pulled out slow until only the head rested on her tongue and then pushed back in, and the second time was easier and the third time was easy, and he found a rhythm with his hips and his fist together, slow and deep and deliberate, and she held her hands on her thighs with the nails spread and took it and the spit ran out of the corners of her mouth and down her chin and onto the smooth shaved skin at the root and onto his balls and she felt it go and did not wipe it.

"You look like a sissy prostitute," he said. "On your knees in my office in a latex catsuit with your mouth full. That's exactly what you look like."

She made a sound around him that was yes.

"That's not an insult. That's a description. You paid a hundred dollars for the wig and the corset and the nails and you came here on a Thursday to put your mouth on a stranger's cock for a thousand dollars and you are going to do it again next Thursday and the Thursday after. Say it."

He pulled out far enough for her to speak and she spoke with her mouth wet and open and her voice wrecked. "I'm a sissy prostitute, Sir. I come here to suck your cock for money. I'll come back every Thursday."

"Good girl." He pushed back in before she had finished the last word and she took him and the sound of it filled the office again, wet and slow and deliberate, and the light from the window had moved all the way off the desk and lay on the floor by the far wall and did not matter, and the copier down the hall hummed and quit and hummed again, and she knelt between his knees with her hands on her thighs and her chin up and her throat open and let him use her mouth the way he had said he would.

He went faster. Not much—one notch, the fist moving quicker at the root and the hips meeting it, and she heard his breath change, a low catch at the bottom of it, and she looked up at him along the length of his cock and his eyes were on her and his mouth had gone tight under the close-cropped beard and she knew what that face meant because she had seen it before in the washroom mirror on a man who was not her.

"Look at me," he said. "Don't close your eyes. Don't swallow."

She kept her eyes up and her mouth open and her tongue out under the head of him and he took the fist off the root and put it on the back of her head instead, not pushing, just holding her where he wanted her, and he stroked himself with his other hand, fast now, and the wet sound of it was loud and close and she felt the shaft swell against her tongue one more time and then it jumped.

It came. The first rope hit her across the bridge of the nose and up one cheek and into the lashes, hot and thick, and she did not close her eyes and did not swallow and the next one landed on her open tongue and the roof of her mouth and the third one across her lips and the corner of her mouth and the fourth one down her chin and onto the collar and the fifth one on her cheek and the sixth one hit the tongue again and ran off the tip of it and strung down onto the breast plate. There was more of it than she had ever taken and it did not stop when she thought it would stop, it kept coming in slow heavy pulses while he breathed through his nose and his fist worked the last of it out, and she knelt in it with her mouth open and her eyes up and let him paint her with it and did not move a hand.

The hand on the back of her head held her there through the last of it. He finished with a long low breath and let go of himself and sat back in the chair and looked at her, and she stayed exactly where he had left her, mouth open, tongue out, face covered, the cum cooling on her cheeks and her nose and her lips and running slow down her chin toward the collar's silver ring.

Then he picked up the phone. He held it up and framed her with it and pressed the shutter and the small clean sound went through her and he looked at the screen and his mouth pulled up on one side under the beard, slow and proud, the first real expression she had seen on his face all afternoon.

"There," he said. "That's what you came here to be."

He turned the phone toward her and showed her the picture. She looked at herself in the little screen: kneeling on the worn carpet in the cobalt catsuit and the platinum wig, the collar and the breast plate and the corset, the mouth open and the tongue out and the face glazed and dripping and streaked with his cum from the brows to the chin, one rope of it caught in the lashes of the left eye, a fat line of it running down the side of the collar. She looked like something that had been used and photographed being used and did not mind either one. She looked like exactly what he had called her.

"Clean it up," he said. "Slow."

She brought her tongue back into her mouth and dragged it across her upper lip first, slow, from one corner to the other, and the salt and the heat of him came onto her tongue and she swallowed it and it went down warm. She put her tongue out and found the dollop on her chin and pulled it back in and swallowed it. She used two fingers then, the French tips, and wiped the cheek and the bridge of her nose and the lashes and put the fingers in her mouth one at a time and sucked them clean and set them back on her thigh. The last of it she gathered off the collar's silver ring with her thumb and licked the thumb and swallowed and put the thumb back down.

He watched all of it. He did not take the phone up again and he did not tell her to stop and he did not tell her to hurry, and when she was done and her face was as clean as her face got anymore, with the gloss smeared and the mascara run and the blush still sitting high on the cheekbones, he reached down and took her chin in his hand and turned her head one way and then the other and looked at her in the window light the way he had looked at her over the receiver.

"Next Thursday," he said. "Same time. Wear the black one."

"Yes, Sir."

He let go of her chin and picked up the receiver off the desk and put it to his ear and dialed and turned his chair a quarter turn toward the window, and Willow stayed on her knees on the worn carpet between his knees with her hands on her thighs and her mouth still tasting him and the plug turning inside her with every shallow breath the corset allowed, and waited to be told to go.