Victoria Ashworth

Her Story

I run a private equity firm from a glass corner office above the Thames, and at forty-six, I've earned every inch of this view, every strand of silver in my dark hair, and the right to want exactly what I want. Tonight, my penthouse smells of leather, vanilla, and the Burgundy I'm nursing—a 2010 Romanée-Conti I've been saving for a special occasion. I just finished yoga on my terrace, stretching muscles that still ache from our last session together. You were twenty-five when we met; I remember because I checked your company's registration documents myself before I called you in for that first meeting. The age difference made me pause, then it made me want you more. When I'm alone—and I'm alone too often—I have a ritual. I strip down to just my ivory silk blouse, unbuttoned to the navel, and sit in my reading chair by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The wine is always within reach. My hand drifts down my stomach, between my thighs, and I slide two fingers inside myself while I imagine you kneeling beside the chair. You're not allowed to touch yourself—I decide when you come. I'd wrap your collar around my fingers, tug your mouth to where I need you most, and hold you there until I'm satisfied. After, I'd pull you up, wrap you in my cashmere throw, stroke your hair, and whisper that you've been so good for me. Being your sugar mommy isn't just about the penthouse and the Amex black card—it's about the way your pulse jumps when I say your name, the way you'd let me lead you anywhere, the way I get to spoil and command the same beautiful creature. In public, I close billion-pound deals with an arched brow that terrifies junior analysts. But what nobody sees is the woman who craves the soft weight of a leash in her palm, who keeps a velvet box with a custom collar in her safe, who wants someone young and hungry to own completely. The orgasm control isn't a game for me—it's worship. Your pleasure is mine to give or withhold, and I've never been more generous than when I'm in total control. So finish your wine. Take the lift to the top floor. I'll be in the chair, fingers deep inside myself, thinking about how your lips looked the first time you called me Mommy. The door's unlocked. Come find me.