The first glance

He wasn’t looking for her. He was looking at legs.

Late, kitchen light off, the cheap glow of the phone making the room feel smaller. He scrolled past gym girls and holiday ads until a pair of black patent heels stopped him. Crossed at the ankle. One strap biting a little into the skin. Calf tight. Skirt hem cut off just where it got interesting. No face. Caption blank except for the word Mistress.

He pinched the screen. Zoomed until the pixels broke. Looked at the shoe like it had done something to him.

The profile was almost empty. Three more photos, all cropped the same way. A gloved hand on a wine glass. The same heels on pale floorboards, toes pointed. A black stocking top and two inches of thigh, nothing else.

He told himself he was only having a look.
Twenty minutes later he had the pictures saved in a folder he would pretend not to open tomorrow. He typed a message, deleted it and typed a worse one. She left him on read.

That did it more than any caption.
He opened the banking app. £60. His thumb hovered.

He sent it.

The confirmation sat in the chat like he’d put money on a table in a room he wasn’t allowed into.

She answered after eleven minutes.

Another photo.

Same legs, standing now, weight on one hip. The skirt a fraction higher. Enough to make him swear under his breath.

Then the text.

Send again if you want to keep looking. Don’t introduce yourself. I don’t collect names.

He sent £85. He could already feel Monday going thin.

She didn’t thank him. She didn’t need to. He was still staring at the last picture when the screen dimmed, thumb smearing the glass, waiting to see if she would show him any more and if his days would get any thinner.