by JA Huss
Nadia sheds her coat and drapes it over the side of the booth, the glow from a portable heater enough to keep us warm. I do the same, mostly out of habit, and then she slides into the half-moon curve of the seat, giving me room to slide in beside her, and raises her arm in the air, just as I settle.
It’s not as cold back here at all. Almost too warm. Like the bodies on the dance floor are generating heat and forming a wall of insulation against the outside world.
A server—dressed in a strategically ripped leather corset that bares her nipples to me, and nothing but garter straps and fishnet stockings down below—appears, presumably from Nadia’s waving arm, but I’m not sure about that. A bottle of Louis XIII in a limited-edition decanter and two snifters are placed in front of us.
“Who’s paying for this?” I yell over the music.
Nadia smiles at me, leans into my ear, and whispers, “You are.”
OK.
This is not my kind of place. At all. But I can’t help but take it in. Everyone is young. Young men—boys, really. And girls, not women. Even the server looks too young to be serving.
Nadia’s age, I realize, suddenly feeling old and out of place in my five-thousand-dollar suit. They are holding red Solo cups in their hands, splashing beer and whatever else onto the bare concrete floor that will quickly become sticky.
Nadia pours the drinks. About five hundred dollars’ worth of alcohol goes into each snifter. I take it from her offering hand out of habit and sip. It’s good. Good. Something I’d find waiting for me on the top shelf of Smith’s bar.
I’m not missing the dichotomy of the illusion. We are separate from the crowd. Wholly and utterly separate.
Nadia’s hand is on my thigh, caressing her way towards my cock. She grabs it, holds it in her hand. Squeezes as I grow from her touch. Her body is pressed to mine and I realize—she’s got power over me right now. She’s taken me out of my world and flung me into hers. This is her kingdom, not mine.
So I let her touch me. She is, after all, in charge, I guess.
“How long?” Nadia says, leaning into my ear. Purring the words. I can smell the fruity brandy on her breath. I turn my head and kiss her, unable to stop myself.
“How long what?” I ask back, my tongue reluctant to leave her mouth as I speak.
“How long since you’ve been to a party like this?”
I pull back and look into her warm brown eyes. The flickering strobe effect of the lights makes them green, then yellow, then brown again. “College, probably.”
“Hmmm,” she says, leaning in for a final kiss before turning her head to watch the crowd.
College parties with Smith and Quin. We were just beginning to play our game back then. Smith wasn’t even in college, but was, at the same time. I envied him back then—and still do now—because he never had any responsibilities he didn’t ask for.
And Quin. With his good-natured-all-American looks and upbringing. He did everything right and still came out like the rest of us. Deteriorating even as we rose in status and stature. I liked Quin more than Smith back then.
He was easier. Simpler. Honest. We almost fucked once. Back then when everything was new and exciting. Just the two of us sucking each other’s cocks one night in front of a girl. We did it to turn her on and it worked. We fucked her afterward instead of each other.
A momentary lapse, maybe. Or entirely deliberate. I never understood that night. Don’t even understand it now.
Two people are grinding on each other not far away, the boy’s hands on the girl’s ass, lifting up her skirt to reveal the fact that she has no panties on, giving everyone a peek. He looks at me, watches me watch him as their bodies sway together in the thumping music, then bends her over so I can see her pussy. His hand rests on the small of her back and then slides down between her ass cheeks, fingers reaching even before they enter her pussy, making it glisten in the lights. She’s wet from his touch.
I drag my gaze up to his and he smiles while I sip my brandy.
“Do you want to dance?” Nadia asks, pressing her body against mine. We’re already sweating. Already hot and we haven’t even started yet.
“What do you do here?” I ask her. “Just party? That’s it?”
“No,” she says, leaning in to kiss me again. “I do more than party.”
“Show me,” I say. We are reading each other’s lips mostly. The music is so loud. And it occurs to me that this is a very different kind of intimacy. Conversation that depends on watching the lips of your companion and not hearing the actual words that come out of her mouth.
“Let me out and wait here,” she says, her request mixing with the thumping beat.
I stand to let her out, her fingertips brush against my shirt, dragging along my chest. I look at them, then her face. She smiles, her hand dropping to my dick again. Squeezes it as she stands up and leans in to kiss me. “Remember our rule,” she says when she pulls away. “Don’t interfere.”
My heart beats faster as she walks away, her hips and shoulders swaying a little. Like her body can’t help but move to the beat. She is a dancer, after all. I should’ve said yes to the dance.
She stops a little way off, hands clasped behind her back. She’s in profile, so I watch—enthralled—as her back arches, pushing her breasts up and out, her peaked nipples in stark outline against the backdrop of flashing lights.
Then she points. I follow the line of her arm right up to the tip of her finger. Searching for her target.
A boy appears from the crowd. Young, handsome, shirtless. His chest rising and falling in rapid succession, like she makes him breathless.
He’s been dancing, I correct myself. He’s hot, and sweaty, and breathing hard from the dancing.
But I don’t believe it. It’s her who makes him breathless. His hands are on her body as soon as he’s close enough. Feeling their way up and down her slim waist, then reaching for her tits.
I almost walk over there, but her glance stops me. Don’t interfere.
She points again and another boy appears, then another. Same age as the first—Nadia’s age. Same hard bodies. Same handsome faces. Same undeniable attraction. They smother her for a moment. Their arms surrounding her. Hands seeking more. Knees pressing between her legs. For a moment I’m transfixed by the four of them. I see me, and Smith, and Quin with our chosen one, but with the power structure in reverse.
Is this how she plays her game? Is she me?
She turns away from them, walking back to me. They follow like dogs. When she gets back to our table she leans against it, like she needs help standing. I move aside, letting her have her space. None of the boys even bother looking at me. They only look at her.
Waiting for instructions, I realize. She kisses one. Her hands on his face. Like she needs to hold him. He kisses her back. I watch his tongue touch hers, his hands at his side, as if she gave a command, but I know she didn’t.
They know her. She has played with them before. And I don’t care what she says—she has fucked them before.
The other two wait patiently, still with eyes only for her. Her regular players waiting for her commands.
Nadia is a top, I remind myself. In her real life, she is a top.
She looks every bit her chosen role right now.
Her fingertips reach for the other two now, the first still kissing her as she plays with their chests, draws them into her. Closer and closer until they are nothing but a mass of bodies moving together. Writhing to the hard beat of the impromptu club.
Her hand presses on the shoulder of the one closest to me and he drops to his knees. The first one—the one she’s kissing—leans into her until she bends at the waist, letting her back rest on the table.
My cock is so fucking hard.
He—the first one—lifts up her top. A silky, pale chemise that belongs in the bedroom. He exposes her breasts. Squeezes them as she closes her eyes and opens her mouth. I can’t hear the moan that passes through her lips, but I feel it. I moan to
o.
The third boy lifts up her legs and opens them, just as the second places his face between her legs and begins to lick her.
The first is bent over the booth, still kissing her mouth. I don’t feel her moans now, he does.
Her back begins to arch as she enjoys the one between her legs. The third player caresses the back of the first and I wonder how far this will go.
People are watching. Some of the young men already jerking off. Some of them with girls on their knees, taking out their cocks.
It’s Turning Point Club. But not private. Nothing about this moment is private. And even though it should make me angry, even though I should want to take her out of here right now and whisk her away, back to the world I live in—the world I control—I don’t do any of that.
I just enjoy the show. The whole show. All of the people. All of the music. All of the club.
Nadia begins to writhe and I know she’s about to come. So quick, but it’s too erotic not to come. Too many eyes to not be ready. Too much stimulation. Too much hard music and way too fucking hot.
The third boy has his hand between her legs, his fingers playing with her clit as the second one licks.
I grab my cock again, wishing I could fuck her, right here, right now, in front of all these strangers.
She moans loud enough to be heard. Her body twists as the boys touch her, lick her, kiss her.
She comes all over the third boy’s fingers and when she calms down, breathing hard and eyes still closed, she reaches for his hand, finds it, guides it up to her lips, and puts his fingers in her mouth.
Her eyes open and she looks right at me.
She smiles, then lifts a leg and kicks the boys away. They back off, unperturbed, and slink back into the crowd, which has gone from clubbing kids enjoying an illicit party to writhing erotic orgy. All on the command of Nadia Wolfe.
She stands up and turns to me, her silky shirt falling back down to cover her tits. Her fingers reach for me, begin to unbutton my shirt, and then she pulls it open, exposing my chest. She is hot and sweaty from the thrill of other men.
And I don’t care.
I stand up and take her hand, pulling her towards me. Kiss her. My hands on her face as I hold her close. And then I push her face first onto the table, pressing her cheek into the hard wood. I lift up her skirt so I can see her pussy. Wet and glistening in the flashing lights from being licked to orgasm.
And then I look over my shoulder, find the first guy who gave me a peek at his girl, and give him a peek at mine.
He smiles big, gives me a thumbs up—all the while, his girl is sucking his dick—and then I turn back to Nadia Wolfe, take out my cock, and push it inside her as hard as I can.
I fuck her. I fuck her until I come inside her pussy and then pull back to watch the creamy evidence of my arousal leak out from between her lips.
We dance after that. Her body is a work of art. Her long hair stuck to her face from the sweat. My fingers inside her sometimes. Her hand on my cock sometimes.
We drink the brandy but get drunk on each other. We get drunk on the night, on the dancing, on the sweat, and the lights, and the music.
I fuck her again when we get to the car. Face first on the hood of the cold metal. Her moans loud, and clear, and erotic as they echo through the dark night and turn into screams of ecstasy.
People watch us.
People I don’t know. People I don’t trust.
People like me.
Chapter Fourteen - Nadia
My whole body aches when I wake. And not the usual kind, because I can’t even remember a time before my body was in a constant state of ache from dancing. It’s the… hangover kind. Uggggh. I groan, rolling over, to check my phone for the time. “Jesus,” I mumble, closing my eyes. Way too early.
“I gotta go,” a deep voice says. I open my eyes again, searching for the voice. Bric is here. “It’s New Year’s Eve and there’s a lot of shit to do before the party.”
He’s buttoning his shirt. Almost dressed. I just stare at him as he reaches for his tie. What in the ever-loving fuck is he doing here? There’s no way I was drunk enough to bring him home. Not like a… a date or a one-night stand. Or, God forbid, a relationship.
I do not bring men home with me after a party. Not even Bric.
He finishes with his tie and goes for the coat, shrugging it over his broad shoulders and adjusting his collar. It’s wrinkled as all hell. And he’s got dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He looks like I feel.
“Do you want me to pick you up? Or just come by?”
I have no answer for that. Because I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“Be there before nine then. We lock everyone in at nine.”
And then he walks over to me, leans down, and gives me a kiss.
A goodbye kiss, I realize.
“I hope you’re not planning on going back on our deal, Nadia. I gave you control last night. We did it your way, inside your world. It was fun.” He shrugs. “But now I get to have it my way. And we do it inside my world.”
“Yeah,” I croak out. My throat is dry and thick and that’s all I can manage.
“Good.”
He walks out. I hear the jingle of his keys, then the small squeak of the front door. The click as he closes it behind him.
“What the fuck did we do last night?” I say it as I attempt to sit up, but my head is fucking spinning.
Then I remember the brandy. A whole bottle of brandy. As if on cue, I see the empty bottle sitting on my nightstand. It’s bejeweled with sterling silver and crystal. A collector’s item decanter and not really a bottle, which is probably why we brought it home with us.
“Yuk,” I say, trying to get some moisture in my mouth as I get up, walk into my bathroom, stick my mouth under the tap, and gulp water.
I stop drinking when my stomach feels like a water balloon and drag the back of my hand across my face. Stare at myself in the mirror.
I’m naked. So yes, I brought him home and fucked him in my bed.
I glance at it, appalled.
My pussy is sore. My tits ache and there are bruises on them. Little fingerprint-shaped bruises. My hair is a tangled mess of darkness that mimics my eyes. I’m pale, and skinny, and not at all attractive.
I remember letting Chad, Matt, and Kevin play with me at the table. Bric’s attentive glare taking us in as I made them get me off. Then I remember Bric pushing them aside and bending me over and holding my face against the wood as he fucked me from behind.
The rest of the night… dancing? Drinking, obviously, and more fucking. Which I do not remember.
I crawl back into bed, pulling the soft fluffy blanket around my body, glad it’s cold in here because I feel hot. And then pass back out.
Sometime later my phone wakes me dinging a text.
Jordan.
Sending a package. Open the fucking door.
I realize someone is knocking at the door. Probably has been knocking at the fucking door for a while and I didn’t hear them, which is why Jordan needed to text.
I drag myself out of bed, pull a robe around me, and stumble out to the front room. I don’t look at myself in the hall mirror—I can only imagine it’s worse than the last time. I pull the door open.
“Delivery,” the guy says, looking pretty pissed off. “Sign.”
I sign his clipboard and he reaches down to pick up a large black box with a white bow. Hands it to me. I don’t have a tip, but he knows this. I’m in a fucking robe. So he says, “I’ve already been tipped. Enjoy your package.” And then he turns away and walks down the hallway.
My phone rings in the bedroom and I know this is Jordan, so I get my shit together and run, almost fall on my face when I stumble over a rug, and catch it before it goes to voice mail. “Hello?” I say, breathless and disheveled.
“I’m picking you up. Bric thinks you’re going to stay home and you two made a deal. I heard all about last night, Nadia.”
“Yes
…” And then I realize we’re in character. “Sir,” I finish.
I can feel him smile on the other side of the phone. “You’re going to need those manners tonight. Bring them with you.”
“Are you going to be there?”
He’s silent.
“Sir,” I add, rolling my eyes.
“Of course I’m going to be there. I’m playing the game, aren’t I?”
I wasn’t sure, asshole. I was just asking a simple fucking question. But I don’t say any of that out loud. Instead I say, “What time would you like me ready, sir?”
“Eight-thirty. Be dressed and downstairs. I don’t want to come up. And Nadia, wear the capelet I bought you for Christmas.”
Jerk. “Yes, sir—”
But before I can finish I get hang-up beeps.
How is this my life? Any of it. Well, besides the dancing. I don’t even remember having fun last night and I know I’m sure as hell not going to have fun tonight. They’re going to boss the hell out of me. It’s not going to be anything like the other night when they softened me up with that massage. It’s going to be humiliation to the extreme.
So don’t go, a little voice says in my head. Stop all of this. Put it behind you. Let go of the past and start over.
I would. It’s a good idea. But I can’t.
Because I like it.
I like when Jordan forces me to obey him. Not because I want to submit, but because he expects me to fight about it. He expects me to rebel. He expects me to be bad.
I am bad.
And that makes me smile.
I go back out into the living room and pick up the package. It’s heavy and big.
The box is glossy black and the ribbon is smooth white satin. I set it down on the couch and pull the bow, making it fall apart and puddle into a soft heap.
Then I whisk it aside, lift off the lid, and peel back the white tissue paper.
The gown is exquisite. I know this before I even pick it up and lift it out.