Rock Bottom

Monica and Jared, married, are toasting champagne in their shiny new house when a phone call ruins everything. Crypto tanked overnight. Goodbye six figures, hello free fall. Six months later they're broke, couch-surfing, Jared scrolling job boards like they still owe him favors. One tequila-heavy night Jared blurts out, "Why not escort?" Monica spits her drink halfway across the room, looks at him like he grew two heads. Still, the bills are screaming. She says she'll think about it, resentment trailing every syllable. Time jump. Cash is flowing again. Monica already struts through booked nights, Jared watches the money stack while his stomach twists. He begs her to quit, go corporate, crawl back to dreamland. She smiles sweet as cyanide. "Sweetheart, why crawl when I'm actually good at this?" The word sits heavy. Jared starts to argue, but Monica is already shoving him down on their once-sacred bed. She peels off her slinky black dress, kicks it aside, pulls his pants open without ceremony. "Want proof? Watch." Her hand wraps his cock in a firm, practiced stroke before her tongue glides up the shaft. She takes him in one smooth gulp, no gag, just warm, slick rhythm while she rolls his balls in the same rhythm. Jared whimpers; she sucks harder, cheeks hollowed, spit shining him slick. She pops off, crawls up, sinks down without missing a beat. Her pussy swallows him whole, tight, wet, riding like she invented the motion. Monica plants her palms on his chest, grinds her clit against him, nails carving little crescents in his skin. "This feeds me now." She leans close, rides faster, pussy squelching with every drop of her hips. Jared’s face twists, caught between worship and misery while she bounces him to the edge. Right before he cums she slips off, strokes him with expert wrist-twists until he explodes across his own belly. She wipes her hand on his shirt, straightens her hair, smirks at the mess they used to call happily-ever-after.