Roxie

The Curious Businessman

The rain came down in sheets, turning Soho’s gutters into rivers of neon and fag ends. Roxie stood under the sickly orange glow of a broken streetlamp, smoke curling from the cigarette clamped between her black-painted lips. Electric-blue spikes jutted from her scalp like a jagged crown, wet and glistening. The ripped fishnets clung to her thighs, laddered in all the right places; the leather jacket hung open, studs flashing every time a car hissed past. Underneath, a lace suspender belt and a pair of crimson knickers that were doing fuck-all to hide the thick, heavy shape of her cock. She looked like violence dressed up for a Saturday night.

Mark appeared out of the drizzle, collar up, cheeks flushed from lager and shame. City boy, late thirties, wedding ring glinting when he shoved his hands in his pockets. He’d spent the last hour in the pub toilet cubicle staring at the scrawl on the wall (ROXIE – BEST BLOW OR RIDE IN SOHO – ASK ABOUT THE SURPRISE) and now here he was, pulse hammering, pretending he was just “curious.”

Roxie clocked him instantly. She took a long drag, flicked the cigarette into the gutter, and smiled like a shark.

“Fancy a punt, love?”
The words rolled out low and filthy, pure Sarf London gravel.

Mark’s mouth went dry. He nodded once, sharp, terrified.

She didn’t speak again until they were inside the £25-an-hour room above the strip club: bare bulb swinging, mattress that had seen more DNA than a crime lab, wallpaper the colour of dried blood peeling at the corners. The door slammed. The lock clicked.

Mark fumbled with his tie. Roxie didn’t wait. She shoved him back onto the bed, boots thudding on the lino, and straddled his thighs. Her hands were rough, calloused from years of zips and studs and fists, and they ripped his shirt open like it offended her. Buttons pinged across the room.

“Been thinking about this all night, haven’t you?” she growled, grinding down so he could feel the weight of her cock through his trousers. “Straight boy wants to know what it’s like to get properly fucked.”

Mark made a strangled noise, half protest, half prayer. Roxie laughed, low and dirty, and stood up just long enough to shrug off the jacket. The lace knickers came down in one slow, deliberate motion. Her cock sprang free: thick, veiny, nine solid inches already leaking at the slit, flushed dark against the pale skin of her belly. Mark’s eyes went wide, pupils blown.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered.

“On your knees,” she ordered.

He dropped like his strings were cut.

The carpet was thin and smelled of old come and bleach, but Mark didn’t care. Roxie tangled her fingers in his neat City-boy hair and fed him her cock in one slow thrust. He gagged immediately, spit flooding his mouth, but she didn’t let up. She fucked his face with short, punishing strokes, watching his eyes water, watching the straight-laced mask crack and shatter. Every time he choked she pulled out just long enough for him to gasp, then shoved back in deeper.

“Good little accountant,” she taunted, voice dripping venom and honey. “Bet your wife never lets you choke on cock like this.”

Tears and snot ran down his face, but his own dick was straining against his boxers, leaking a wet patch through the fabric. Roxie saw it and laughed again.

She hauled him up by the hair, spun him round, and bent him over the end of the bed. His trousers and pants came down in one yank, pooling round his ankles. Roxie spat on her fingers, worked two into his hole without ceremony. He yelped, clenched, then groaned like a man who’d been waiting his whole life for this exact violation.

“Relax, darling,” she purred, lining up. “You paid for the full service.”

The head of her cock pressed against his virgin arse. One brutal push and she was in, raw, burning, stretching him open. Mark screamed into the mattress, fists clenched in the filthy sheets. Roxie didn’t pause. She grabbed his hips hard enough to bruise and started fucking him in long, savage strokes, balls slapping against his perineum, the bed frame rattling like it might collapse.

Every thrust punched the air from his lungs. His own cock, untouched, dripped a steady string of pre-cum onto the carpet. Roxie reached round, wrapped her hand round his shaft once, twice, just enough to make him sob, then let go.

“Not yet, straight boy. You cum when I say.”

She sped up, hips snapping, sweat dripping from her tits onto his back. The room filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of springs, Mark’s broken moans and Roxie’s filthy commentary.

“That’s it, take it like the little slut you always wanted to be. Bet you wank over this every night in your suburban semi-detached, don’t you?”

Mark couldn’t answer. He was too busy coming untouched, cock jerking, spunk splattering the sheets in thick ropes as his whole body seized. Roxie snarled at the clench around her dick and slammed in one last time, balls-deep, and unloaded. She came hard, pulsing, flooding his arse until it leaked out around her shaft and ran down his thighs in warm rivulets.

She stayed buried for a long minute, catching her breath, then pulled out slow. A filthy wet sound, followed by a gush of cum that dripped from his gaping hole onto the carpet.

Roxie lit a cigarette off the bedside lamp, took a drag, and slapped his arse hard enough to leave a handprint.

“Fifty quid extra for the mess,” she said, voice smoky and satisfied.

Mark, face down, trembling, arse wrecked and dripping, just nodded into the mattress. He paid on the way out, double, and walked bow-legged into the Soho dawn with Roxie’s cum still leaking into his boxers and the biggest, dirtiest grin he’d worn in years.

Roxie watched him go, flicked ash onto the carpet, and muttered to the empty room:

“Another straight boy cured. Who’s next?”