Harlan Crowe leaned back in his leather chair, the dim light of his office lamp casting elongated shadows across the room. It was just after 9 PM on December 15, 2025, the Chicago streets below his window glowed under a blanket of fresh snow. He’d poured himself a third scotch, the amber liquid swirling in the glass as he anticipated her arrival. His pants suddenly became tighter, indicating that the Viagra pill was kicking in. He had popped it as soon of as his client, Elena, had called to say she was on her way to talk about her late fees. Elena Ramirez was his young client, age19, desperate, and utterly at his mercy.

Married for just a year to that brute Victor, she’d come to him seeking escape from the abuse. But her youth and vulnerability only fueled his Harlan’s dark desires. He’d engineered this moment meticulously, dropping a single sheet from her file—a fabricated invoice—behind the sofa mere minutes before her text confirmed she was on her way. The door clicked open, and there she was, still in her T.G.I. Friday’s uniform after her shift: a fitted black polo shirt that clung to her torso like a second skin, the fabric stretched taut over her full, fat breasts, nipples faintly outlined from the cold outside. Below, black pants that hugged her hips and thighs, accentuating the curve of her ass—round, firm, and swaying slightly as she stepped in, toned Latina thighs and skinny calves, like Shakira. Her black sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. Her dark hair was tied in a messy ponytail, strands framing her olive face, wide brown eyes wary but resolute.

“Elena, good, you’re here,” Harlan said, his voice smooth but laced with the slur of intoxication. His eyes locked on her ass immediately, drinking in the way the pants molded to her cheeks, the subtle jiggle with each step. Lust surged through him, immoral and unchecked—a predator’s hunger for this teenage waitress, her body a canvas of youthful vitality he craved to defile. At 45, divorced and jaded, he saw her not as a person but as an object: those legs, toned from endless hours carrying trays, leading up to an ass that begged to be grabbed, spanked, claimed. Her breasts heaved slightly with her nervous breaths, full C-cups straining the polo’s buttons, inviting his gaze to the valley of cleavage peeking through the unbuttoned top. She was petite yet curvaceous, 5’4” of forbidden fruit, her skin smooth and unmarred, a stark contrast to his own aging form.

“Mr. Crowe, about the payments—” she started, her voice tentative, but he cut her off, gesturing vaguely toward the sofa.

“First things first. I dropped a paper from your file back there, behind the sofa. Be a dear and grab it for me?” He watched, cock stirring in his slacks, as she hesitated, then nodded, turning toward the furniture. As she bent over, ass presented to him like a gift, the pants pulled tight, outlining the perfect globes, the seam riding up between them. Harlan’s breath hitched; he imagined peeling those pants down, exposing the soft flesh beneath, his hands kneading, spreading. Immorality thrilled him—this was power, taking what he wanted from a girl barely out of her teens, her desperation his leverage. He rose quietly, the scotch fueling his boldness, and approached from behind.

Elena knelt, reaching behind the blue pleather sofa, her fingers brushing the paper. The room smelled of his cologne mixed with the faint fryer grease clinging to her clothes, a sensory reminder of her lowly job. Tension knotted her shoulders; something felt off, the office too quiet, his presence too close. Suddenly, his hands were on her hips, gripping hard through the fabric.