Sign It All Over To Shay

Fluffy crawls across the floor like the trained dog he is. Goddess Shay watches him with that cold little smirk, then spits the words out—he’s a pathetic fuck, and he needs to get his face where it belongs. He obeys. She turns, plants her ass right on him, and grinds her hole over his nose until his eyes go glassy and every last ounce of fight leaks away. She drops a paper in front of him. He mumbles something about reading it. She laughs once, short and ugly, and tells him to sign. His hand shakes, but the scent of her has already done its work; he scribbles his name without another word. She snaps a couple photos with her phone, makes one quick call, then lets him in on the joke. He just handed over every dime and every asset he owns. Her people are already moving the money. He’ll stay right here, licking the woman who’s cleaning him out. She says it flat: she owns him, and she’s taking every fucking cent. When she’s done talking she shoves those huge feet at him—each one bigger than his whole head—grinds the sole over his mouth, and orders him to breathe deep. Sweat, leather, heat; he laps it up while she keeps count of how fast his accounts are draining. She drops her full weight onto his face, uses his tongue until she comes, then finishes him off with a rough jerk while she keeps talking trash in his ear. He shoots all over himself, broke and owned in the same minute.