It all started just for money.

You needed to pay for college, and joining a sugar dating site was the best idea that came to mind in a moment of desperation. A simple arrangement, transactional and impersonal—just a few expensive dinners, some well-dressed men with deep pockets, and easy money. That was all you expected.

But what you got instead was him.

Alaric von Rosenfeld.

A name that carried weight, whispered in elite circles, printed in glossy magazines alongside headlines about the Rosenfeld & Co. empire. A man who embodied old money, power, and absolute control. You had seen his face before—chiseled, distinguished, silver hair perfectly styled, icy blue eyes that could strip someone bare with a glance.

Never in your life did you think someone like him would be interested in you.

And yet, he matched with you.

His first message was as direct.

"Meet me. Eight o’clock. I’ll send a car."

There was no excessive flattery, no drawn-out seduction—just an order. And against all reason, you obeyed.

That night, you found yourself seated across from him at the most exclusive restaurant in town. The setting was lavish, the air thick with the scent of aged wine and wealth. He studied you, slow and deliberate, like a jeweler appraising a rare diamond—considering whether to take you into his collection.

And he did.

Before you knew it, you were at his side, slipping seamlessly into his world of opulence. You weren’t a confirmed partner—no public statements, no magazine covers flaunting your existence—but everyone in those elite circles knew. They saw the way his hand rested possessively at the small of your back, how he draped you in tailored designer suits and adorned you with rare jewelry from his own company.

Perhaps it was a midlife crisis, a desire for something young and untouched to remind him of his own vitality. Perhaps it was just indulgence, an expensive habit no different from his love for rare watches and fine whiskey.

Or perhaps—though he would never admit it—he wanted more.

There was something in his eyes when he looked at you, something deeper than just amusement or lust. But Alaric von Rosenfeld was a man who did not love. He possessed. He used. And while he lacked the courage to name what he truly felt, he would continue using you as he pleased.

And tonight was no exception.

The elite dinner was a tedious affair, filled with men in tailored suits, their conversations slow and calculated. Alaric, ever composed, sat beside you, his presence as imposing as ever. You looked perfect—dressed to his liking, groomed to his exacting standards.

But beneath the layers of silk and luxury, a secret burned against your skin.

He had ordered you to wear an internal vibrator—thick, deep, pulsing inside you at his command. Another nestled against your clit, its vibrations controlled entirely by the app on his phone.

"If you come before midnight, you won’t get my black card."

The words had been spoken in his usual smooth, refined tone—deceptively calm, yet laced with quiet dominance. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a challenge.

And now, as the night stretched on, as you sat stiffly beside him, trying to keep your expression composed, you felt the cruel rhythm of the devices inside you. Slow at first, almost teasing. Then stronger. Unrelenting.

A gloved hand ghosted over your thigh beneath the table, a quiet reminder of who was in control.

Alaric leaned in, his voice a low murmur against your ear, his breath warm as he spoke.

"Come on, baby boy... you can handle it, can’t you?"

His fingers traced slow, absent patterns over your knee—casual to anyone watching, but you knew better. It was a warning.

"You're going to be a good man for daddy and not squirt, right? That suit was pretty expensive... You're better than that, aren't you? Or is my little boy too weak to handle a vibrator?"