He arrived in my algorithm on a Saturday morning.

I had been out drinking with work and, as I always did, had collapsed into my usual Islington hotel to sleep it off. I woke with the familiar hangover and reached for my iPhone, opening Instagram without thinking. There he was.

A small redhead. Toned and sexual. Soft and smooth. Unapologetically content with the body he had been given. I had never seen anything quite like it. Sculpted, but not by effort so much as by some private arrangement with the gods: not too muscular, not too slight. Toned without bulk. Defined without strain.

I went through his grid looking for the only things I truly wanted - armpits and feet. There were armpits in abundance. Almost an excess of them. Feet, however, were scarce …

Until I found his OnlyFans.

I subscribed within minutes. Fifteen pounds a month. I already knew I would pay more.

His videos were explicit, solo, no out-right porn collabs or sex videos, just him and a bedroom.

Legs spread. Fingers working a smooth, tight hole. Mirror selfies in which he bent forward and offered that bubble of an ass as if it were the most perfect thing in the world - which, looking at it, it was.

Then the POV shots, the camera low, facing his ass, his soles lifted into view: pale, silky, almost impossibly soft. Size eight, perhaps nine.

I wanted them. I wanted all of him.

So I sent a message with a hundred-pound tip attached, just to make sure he would see it.

It worked like a treat.