Miranda stepped out of the sleek black town car, her designer stilettos clicking on the cold marble steps of the upscale hotel. A chauffeur opened the door for her, and she ignored the besotted gaze of the man waiting on the sidewalk. He was no match for her, and she knew it.

“Good evening, Mr. Rutledge,” she purred, extending a manicured hand. “I trust you’re prepared to fulfill our… arrangement?”

Forbes’s richest 30-year-old, Rutledge was a scrawny, bespectacled nerd, all awkward limbs and nervous laughter. His acne-scarred face flushed as he fumbled to take her hand, his eyes drinking in her curves. “Ah, Miss Miranda, you look absolutely stunning tonight,” he stuttered. “I’ve been practicing my… poetry, to recite to you.”

Miranda rolled her eyes, covered the inside of his palm with her lips, and delivered a soft, sensual bite. The man trembled like a leaf. “Poetry, how quaint,” she said, withdrawing her hand and straightening her designer red dress. “Lead the way, Mr. Rutledge. I’m eager to sample your literary talents… and your considerable wealth, of course.”

Inside the penthouse suite, Rutledge nervously gestured for her to take a seat by the fireplace. The gas flames cast eerie shadows on the walls as he cleared his throat and began to recite a halting, rhyming ode to her beauty. The performance was abysmal, and Miranda’s gaze roamed the room, scanning for the mini-bar.

As Rutledge droned on, she spotted it – a selection of premium spirits, carefully curated for discerning guests. She sauntered over, poured herself a neat shot of Macallan 25, and tilted her head back to savor the burn. Rutledge paused mid-verse, transfixed by the movement of her throat, his eyes wide and desperate.

When she finished the whisky, Miranda turned and addressed him, her voice dripping with disdain. “Thank you for the… attempt at poetry, Mr. Rutledge. I must say, it’s a shame you wasted your time. You’d have been better off investing in a decent cock enlargement procedure.”

Rutledge’s face contorted in a mixture of shock and humiliation. “P-please, Miss Miranda,” he stammered, “I assure you, my… assets are quite adequate for a woman of your stature.”

“Indeed?” She smirked, glancing down at his crotch, where an alarmingly small bulge strained against the fabric of his bespoke trousers. “It looks more like a squirmy little wormy. No wonder you’re so afraid to utter a dirty word, with that pathetic excuse for a dick.”

Rutledge deflated, his shoulders slumping, his eyes welling with tears. “I know I’m not good enough for you,” he whimpered. “Please, just let me make it up to you somehow. I’ll give you anything you want.”

Miranda circled him like a vulture, her hips swaying with each step. “Anything, you say? Well, I do have a few… demands.” She leaned in close, her breath hot against his ear. “First, produce that sorry excuse for a wallet and count out ten thousand in cash. Then, you’ll verbally degrade yourself to me, explaining in explicit detail exactly how you intend to use that money to appease me.”

Rutledge nodded frantically, tearing open his designer briefcase and extracting a fat stack of currency. As he counted it out, Miranda watched with a wicked grin, her mind racing with ways to torment this pathetic little thing.

Once he’d finished, she pushed him to his knees and demanded, “Now, get on with it, toy boy. Describe how you’ll spend this money on me, and be sure to emphasize just how worthless you feel in my presence.”

With tears streaming down his face, Rutledge began to recite a humiliating litany of imagined acts: buying her expensive lingerie, lavishing her with diamonds, paying for private flights to exotic destinations so she could use him as her personal plaything. He emphasized his own insignificance, babbling about how unworthy he was of her time, how grateful he was to serve her in any way he could.

Miranda listened, sipping another whiskey, her expression a mask of cold amusement. When Rutledge finally collapsed in a heap, spent and sobbing, she allowed a small, patronizing smile to creep onto her lips.

“Good boy, Mr. Rutledge,” she cooed, reaching down to stroke his hair. “You’ve earned the privilege of watching me come, at least. But know this – you may have paid for this service, but you’ll never actually touch me. Your pathetic cock isn’t worth the risk of contamination.”

With that, she undressed herself, revealing her magnificent breasts and glistening sex. Rutledge watched, aghast, as she got on her knees and began to stroke herself, her eyes never leaving his face.

As she approached her climax, Miranda purred, “Cum for me now, toy boy. Imagine my hand is your pathetic dick, and you’re painting the room with your worthless seed.”

Rutledge’s eyes rolled back, and he obeyed, spurting a miserable, dribbling mess onto the plush carpet. Miranda laughed, a cold, cruel sound, as she brought herself to a shuddering orgasm, her cries of pleasure echoing off the marble walls.

As she stood, licking her fingers clean, Rutledge looked up at her with a mixture of awe, disgust, and defeat. Miranda just smiled – a smile that said, with perfect clarity, that she was the real queen in this twisted game, and this pathetic little bitch would never be anything more than her willing plaything.