As I lay sobbing on the ground, I finally get to my senses. I look at her on the sofa, her eyes closed, enjoying that moment after a good orgasm the french call „petit mort“ or something like that. And I realize she doesn't give a damn about me. I was just some sort of fucktoy for her, like a vibrator you use and then put away again. She never even bothered to tell me her name, the bitch. I sure don't need that. With tears running down my cheeks and still sobbing I start to get into my skirt, put on the top but don't bother with the heels.
Then I head for the door. She finally opens her eyes to look at me. „Fuck you. If you think I'm your fucktoy, you're wrong. I'm out of here, I don't need no friggin' dyke abusing me. I thought you cared at least little bit for me, but I was wrong“ i hiss at her.
I find the door locked, but at the key is in the keyhole. I'm out in a second, while she is getting into her clothes. Then I head for the elevator, luckily it is still there.