Chapter Two
I enter the platform. My legs shake, but not because I'm afraid. My knees go weak because of the intense excitement of being selected, the fire of want piercing through my veins. The smell of sex fills the air, and the leather-bound floor feels warm under my bare feet.
Seated in the high-backed chair of authority, the masked man waits in the middle of the room. Like a countdown to my unravelling, his gloved fingers tap the armrest slowly and deliberately.
"You," he repeats in a quiet, authoritative voice.
"Kneel down."
I fell to my knees. Not because it's required of me. since I'd like to. since I must.
Sipping champagne and leaning in with hungry eyes, the audience observes from the shadows. Across from me, a couple is already engrossed in their own beat. From another room, there is a moan.
However, I can't take my eyes off the man in front of me. His leather shoes are silent on the ground as he circles me. My lower back, spine, and shoulder are all touched by one gloved hand. Unconsciously, my body arches into it.
He whispers, "You watched," close to my ear. "This is what you wanted. Did you not?
"Yes," I utter. "So badly."
"Good," he growls. "Then let's not waste time."
He bends me over the edge of the stage by grabbing my waist and turning me. With my thighs spread wide and exposed for the entire club to see, the chilly surface kisses my breasts. I don't fight back. I groan.
My pulse quickens when I hear a faint click behind me. He's put on a condom well practiced and effective. My breath catches.
He moves slowly at first.
He then placed one hand between my thighs. One finger at first, then two. Curling at the exact place—in and out, in and out. Greedily, my body rebels against him, betraying me. I hear myself pleading.
"More… please."
"Such good manners," he teasingly remarks.
He backs off.
I cry out. The abrupt emptiness is more painful than it should be.
Then—heat.
He uses a single stroke to press in. Deep, thick. solid. My eyes roll back at the pressure.
My mouth opens in an uncontrollable scream. The audience lets out a gasp—in fact, someone moans for me. He doesn't hold out. With one hand entangled in my hair and the other applying pressure to my lower back, he bangs me hard and relentlessly. I adore being totally at his mercy.
With each thrust, the table creaks. Between us, the heat becomes intolerable. He leans down and presses his voice to my ear just as I'm about to lose it:
"You're not allowed to come until I say you should."
My mouth falls open. "But I—"
He gives me a slap. "Control it."
I try to comply while biting my lip and tasting blood. But my body trembles—desperate, soaked, squeezed. He reaches under me and rubs my clit with his fingers in circular motions.
He says, "You're dripping," with satisfaction. "And continuing to hold back. Amazing.
I make an effort. I do.
He then alters his rhythm, which is perfectly angled, and I can't resist. I feel as though I've lost all sense of gravity as my body erupts in a powerful wave of ecstasy. I shout his name. I wet the table.
There is a clash of applause. Real cheers.
My chest heaves. My knees buckle. He doesn't stop, though.
He turns me to face him, pulls me to my feet, and plants a kiss on my lips. deep. As though claiming me in public.
His voice is calm, almost pleased, as he retreats.
He then said, "You disobeyed me," "That means next time… no mercy at all."
Still out of breath, I smile.
"Then I'll disobey again."