Financial meltdown. Cindy had been a bad girl. Maxed out her credit card on silly things. Sexy things. Shoes. High-heeled fuck me boots. Scarves. Weightless wisps of silk. Dresses. Elegant evening gowns. And underwear. Silky sheer panties. Plus stuff for their bedroom. An antique cabinet. An ornate mirror. A Rococo chair.

“Comfy chair,” Don said. Sitting back, he watched Cindy model her new outfits. Don liked the dresses. The scarves. The fuck me high-heeled boots.

“Should I take it all back?” Cindy asked, twirling around, the dresses and panties and fuck me boots all off now, the silk scarf trailing in an airy wisp.

“Come here,” Don said. “You need to learn how to properly use a credit card.”

Cindy sat in Don’s lap, facing the antique dresser. She could see herself in the silver mirror. She watched Don scrape the underside of her nipple with the edge of plastic. Soon Cindy’s nipple was full and fat. Her other nipple puffed firm and full as if in sympathy.

Cindy wiggled herself more fully onto Don’s erection.

“No,” Don said. “I want you to come just from the credit card.”

But Cindy couldn’t help it. She squeezed her core rhythmically with each slow scrape of the credit card against the underside of her nipple. Her hand slipped down to her muff, her forefinger eased into the top of her cunny slit. She caressed her clit in time to the credit card’s teasing scratch.

“In the old days,” Don said, his eyes locked on Cindy’s in the mirror, “a word for orgasm was spend. I want you to spend now, my love. Spend on my cock.”

Cindy’s eyes flickered. Her cunt, out of control, contracted, again and again. Without reserve, she spent.

“Mmmm,” Don said. “Now that’s what I call meltdown.”