His Turn (The Turning Series Book 3)

by JA Huss

  Jordan is wearing a tux, but it’s a nice tux. Not the usual I-wear-this-to-the-Club-every-Saturday-night kind of tux. It’s slim-cut trousers and perfectly tailored jacket. It’s black on black on black and accentuates both his youth and his strength.

  I find myself smiling as I watch him come inside, Nadia on his arm, his eyes searching for mine.

  We meet from across the room. Hold the moment. He smiles back.

  Nadia is wearing the silver dress we sent. Tight, hugging her small curves, and long with a hint of a train that drags across the floor as she takes a few tentative steps into the lobby. She is showing skin on her shoulders, between her cleavage, and a hint of leg from the ankle to thigh from the side slit in her dress. She looks around the room too, but doesn’t immediately find me upstairs in Smith’s bar. So I enjoy the fear in her face. The wondering of what will come next. Almost hear the beating of her heart as her chest rises and falls.

  She has her arm hooked into Jordan’s and she pulls him closer to her as people approach to say hello.

  She finally looks up and sees me. Just the barest hint of a smile as she looks away.

  I get up, button my suit coat, and check my watch as I walk to the stairs, hop down the half flight that leads to the second-story elevator landing, and take it all in.

  The waiters are looking up at me and when I nod my head, they begin the ritual of closing the outside shutters while others pull the curtains closed on the inside. There’s a net filled with black and silver balloons hanging from the ceiling. Confetti will fall, the lights will dim, and we will ring in the New Year at midnight moaning and writhing.

  We have a few more minutes until nine o’clock, so I clear my throat and take a glass of champagne off a tray being held by a waiter at my side.

  The thrum of lively conversation dims to a low hum, then falls off completely as I wait. Every head turns up to look at me.

  Power is the word in my head at this moment. I don’t wield a lot of power in this place. I’m just a player among players most nights. But this night belongs to me and they all know this.

  “Welcome back to the Turning Point Club New Year’s Eve Party,” I say, smiling down at everyone. “We have no new members this year, so you all know the drill.” We had one new member, but I withdrew his membership after his mistress confronted Rochelle a couple weeks ago. “Please take a mask off the tray and put it on.”

  The waiters are there now. The trays of champagne they were carrying a few minutes ago have been replaced with trays of black eye masks. Trimmed in silver lace for the women. Trimmed in black leather for the men. Every hand reaches for one. Every face is covered.

  I look at my watch again, realize it’s time, and give another nod. The steel shutters are pulled closed on the outside of the revolving doors and we disappear from the rest of the world.

  Every man wearing black, on black, on black. Every woman wearing a silver gown just like Nadia’s. And when they look up at me again, they are faceless. Anonymous for all intents and purposes. They are equals.

  I find Nadia and Jordan, standing off to the side, and slowly descend the stairs. Everyone is quiet when I join them in the lobby. Every face on me. Every man wondering if I will choose his woman as this night’s sacrificial lamb.

  But I don’t choose their women. I choose our woman.

  “Come with me,” I tell Nadia, once I’m standing right in front of her, my hand outstretched. I don’t bring dates to the party. I always take someone else’s.

  Her eyes flick to Jordan’s—a hint of panic in the cut-out cat’s-eye shape of the mask. But he gives her nothing in return. We didn’t tell her what we do at this party, but she’s about to find out.

  She lets go of his arm and wraps her hand around mine, letting me lead her to the center of the room. Bodies part to reveal a small circular dais with three steps leading to a platform encircling a steel pole that climbs all the way up to the ceiling. There are eye hooks welded to the side, and chains hanging off them.

  “Give me your hand,” I tell Nadia. She takes a deep breath and opens her mouth as if to say something, but then looks over her shoulder at the quiet and waiting crowd, and gives up.

  I have to tuck away a smile and a chuckle as I hold her hand, nod my head at the steps, and she begins to climb. When she’s on the top step—her head peeking just high enough above the crowd to really see the room—her eyes dart around with hesitation, or anticipation, or, hell, maybe even appreciation.

  I join her on the top step, take my own opportunity to appreciate the view, and then raise her arm above her head and bind her wrist into a soft leather cuff. I do it again for her other hand until her breasts are pushing up and out, pressing against the thin mesh of transparent silver fabric that makes up her bodice.

  The men begin to murmur. Probably wishing they had taken more notice of her when she walked through the door with Jordan. But now she’s in a mask, so she is no one to them. No one but the girl on the dais in the center of the room. No one but the centerpiece of their night. Nothing but mine.

  But they all know I like to share just as much as they do, and so they know they will all get a turn in the game.

  “What’s going on?” Nadia whispers under her breath.

  “Don’t interfere,” I say. “Right?” I glance down at her, my hands on her breasts, evil grin on my face.

  “That’s not fair, Elias. I didn’t—”

  “Shut up,” I whisper back through clenched teeth. “You’re not allowed to talk.”

  I kiss her then. She breathes heavy into it. Her lips are tight against mine for a moment, but my hands are sliding down her body, tracing the curve of her waist, pulling her close to me. So she gives in. She has no choice, not really. She can say no. But she won’t.

  “You can say no,” I remind her. “Everything we do here is based on mutual consent. So say no now, Nadia. I’ll let you go, even let you leave—although it’s against the rules until we unlock the doors tomorrow morning. But then you’ll never know how the game ends. And you’ll lose, Nadia. If you walk out now, you’ll lose Jordan, you’ll lose me, you’ll lose everything because I’ll just choose someone else to play with.”

  She wants to look behind her. Desperately wants to find Jordan’s masked face in that crowd to see what he thinks about all this. But she gives up before she really tries. She knows what he thinks. He brought her here wearing a uniform disguised as a dress.

  Everyone is quiet as we have this private conversation. It’s not unusual for the night’s sacrifice to be nervous. There’s often soft negotiation going on at this point in the night.

  “Don’t—” she says. But she stops.

  “Don’t what?” I ask, letting my body press into hers. I have my arms around her now, her back pressed into my chest. One hand slides back up the curve of her breasts and takes her face. My thumb presses against her jaw as I turn her head in my direction. “Better say it now, Nadia. Because if you don’t, I’ll definitely do it.”

  “Fuck you,” she whispers.

  “OK,” I reply, turning around to face my crowd. “Let the night begin.”

  People laugh, take long, fluted glasses off trays once again offering champagne, and resume the opening festivities.

  I find Jordan in the crowd. He’s got his hands all over a woman standing next to her husband. Or maybe she’s just a date and not a wife? I can’t tell. Every man is a faceless black tux. Every woman a faceless silver dress. At any rate, Jordan is already engaged. Everyone is already engaged. Nadia is nothing but a footnote in a long story about to begin.

  “Just have fun,” I tell Nadia as I kiss her one more time. “I trusted you last night.”

  “I was too easy on you, obviously,” she spits.

  “I bet you won’t make that mistake again, will you?”

  She looks me in the eyes. “Never again.”

  Two men have wandered up to us, their eyes bright with mischief, drinks in hand. They stare at Nadia like they’re hungry and sh
e’s a good meal. I feel Nadia swallow hard under the pressure of my hand on her throat.

  And then I grab her breast and pull the low-cut v of her bodice open to reveal a nipple.

  “Very nice,” one of the men growls. “May I touch her?”

  “Of course,” I say, pulling the other side of her dress open to expose her other nipple. “As soon as I’m done here.”

  More men gather as I fondle Nadia. I hold her close, pressing my hard cock into the curve of her ass. “You can close your eyes,” I whisper, leaning into her neck to nip at the sensitive skin. She draws in air through her teeth, letting me know it hurts. “I’m going to blindfold you soon. But you can close your eyes now. It’s just my hand on you right now. And you can keep that illusion in your mind all night, if you’d like. Pretend it’s me, Nadia. And only me.”

  She doesn’t close her eyes, so I drop my other hand to find her thigh, slip my fingers inside the slit of her dress, and push them right up against her pussy. I play with her through her panties as the men crowd us. Getting closer, and closer until they are a mass of male bodies encircling her.

  Her pussy isn’t wet at first, but her shoulders relax and press against my chest, and then I feel the wet spot forming on the silky strip of fabric between her legs and push it aside to find her clit.

  She begins to pant a little. And the next time I look at her face, she’s got her eyes closed.

  “You’re a sick bitch,” I whisper into her neck.

  But she says nothing back. She knows.

  “You can have the blindfold as soon as you come for me. And then I’ll let them touch you, Nadia. You will have many hands between your legs tonight. You will orgasm for all of them, if they tell you to.” I push two fingers inside her and say, “Open your legs wider. Let it happen. Be here, Nadia. You’ve already agreed to play along, so you might as well be here.”

  Her legs part, just a little. Just enough for me to push my fingers all the way inside her. I wiggle them and she moans.

  “That’s a good girl,” I say, using my other hand to pet her hair. “You’re a very good girl.”

  I use my thumb to strum her clit. Soft, slow circles as I continue to pump my fingers inside her.

  “Do you like it?” I ask, my own breathing becoming heavy now. “And don’t lie to me.”

  She hesitates. Maybe just enjoying the way I feel. Or maybe trying her best to resist and coming to the conclusion that she can’t. “Yes,” she eventually murmurs, eyes still closed.

  “Then come for me,” I say. “Right now, in front of everyone. Come for me.”

  She wiggles against the pressure of my fingers. Playing along like the good slut she is. My hand applies more pressure. My mouth finds her neck and I breathe into her ear, whispering, “Come, Nadia. Come for me,” as I continue to stimulate her. “Everyone is watching. Waiting for you to give in.” Her eyes are hopeless now. Tightly shut. Enjoying me. This. Them.

  “If you’re very good,” I say. “I’ll fuck you tonight. I’ll fuck you in private. After everything is over. I’ll take you upstairs and put you on top of me. Slide my cock deep inside you. And Jordan will join in. He’ll put his face between your legs as I fuck you. He’ll lick your clit when I make you come on my dick. He’ll—”

  Her body seizes up, stiffening with the coming of her climax. Her moans spill out with the wetness on my fingers. She clamps down on me, her orgasm releasing on my command.

  I laugh a little as I watch the other men around us. Their zippers open, cocks in hand. Pumping hard and furious for our little show.

  “I hate you,” Nadia whispers. But her eyes are still closed. Her body soft against mine. Her breathing slowing.

  “I don’t care,” I whisper back. “I’m in love with your surrender.”

  Chapter Sixteen - Nadia

  Bric’s words awaken something inside me. Anger. Fear. Regret. Shame. All these things run through my mind when I open my eyes and meet his gaze. “I didn’t surrender,” I say. My voice is so low it barely counts as a whisper.

  He just grins like a man who has all the power. Fool. “OK,” he says, running his fingers through my hair as he leans in for a kiss. “I’ll let you think that for now. But you won’t feel that way tomorrow morning.”

  He lets go, his hold on me gone, and steps off the small platform. Jordan is suddenly behind me, lifting a blindfold up to my eyes. “Do you want this?” he asks.

  He wants my permission. Jordan is like that. He knows when to ask and when to command. He’s all about give and take. A stark contrast to Bric’s bullish, mandatory domination.

  “Nadia,” Jordan says, irritated with my silent contemplation. “Answer me.”

  Bric has retreated to an elaborate high-back silver chair, something akin to a throne, directly in front of me. He meets my gaze with a stern face.

  “Yes,” I say. Because it’s easier to pretend I’m in control than it is to watch Bric’s smug satisfaction with my implied surrender.

  “Good,” Jordan says, covering my eyes with the blindfold. It’s soft. Cotton, maybe. But it pushes the mask I’m already wearing against my face, making the stiff silver lace trim scratch against my cheek. If we were alone I’d ask to take the mask off. But we’re not. And he’ll say no because of that. So I don’t ask. “Just try to relax,” Jordan says. “We won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  I trust him, I realize. I know he’s not going to let anyone hurt me. And I know if Bric wasn’t here, he probably wouldn’t even be doing this. But Bric is here. And Bric is in charge, not Jordan. So his promise doesn’t mean much.

  He secures the blindfold without further comment and then moves away. His absence creates a chill up my spine.

  “Master,” a male voice says off to my left. “May I play with your sacrifice?”

  “Of course,” Bric says. “That’s why she’s here.”

  The man’s shoes tap on the smooth marble of the pedestal as he steps close to me. The chill is gone now. Replaced by his heat. At least on the outside. Inside I’m ice. I don’t react when his hands move up and down my ribs. Or when they gather my breasts to squeeze. But when his mouth touches my nipple, it peaks. Hard and pointy. His tongue slips over it in small strokes. His teeth nip and make me hiss in a breath of air through my teeth.

  “Master,” another male voice says. “May I play with your sacrifice?”

  “Of course,” Bric says. “That’s why she’s here.”

  This man doesn’t immediately approach. He takes his time. Probably studying me like a specimen. But then—hands. Now there are two sets of hands on me. Two mouths on my nipples. I lose track of who is who, and, after the tingle between my legs becomes a throb, I no longer care until one man leaves and I feel the cold rush in to replace his heat.

  “Master,” a third voice says. “May I rip her dress?”

  Oh, Jesus. I swallow hard. Imagining what everyone sees. There have got to be a hundred people here tonight. Well over a hundred including the servers.

  “Yes,” Bric answers from his throne. “She is my gift to you tonight, gentlemen. Do with her as you wish. Just make it a good show, will you? I don’t want to be bored.”

  More hesitation. Like they’re deliberately waiting to follow through to make me uncomfortable. Make me wait. Make me want it.

  And then two hands grip the two sides of the bodice—already exposing my breasts to all the people in attendance, and rips the dress. All hope of being covered up tonight goes away with that rip. The sound of the thin mesh fabric tearing echoes in my head.

  He doesn’t stop there. The back of the dress is ripped open too. And then the skirt becomes tatters of silk and falls down my legs.

  This man doesn’t ask permission when he presses his fingers between my legs. He doesn’t need to. I am nothing but Bric’s offering to his members.

  I lose track of the hands after that. I lose track of their mouths. Their tongues. Their faces. Their kisses.

  Around me people become aroused. They are fucking,
I realize. Getting off to the show called Nadia tonight. Moaning and writhing to the dance I perform with these strangers.

  I want to resist the feelings. I want to hold up my head and be immune to them. Scream at them that I am not their plaything. Tell them I’m here because I chose to be and not because I was ordered.

  But does it matter?

  Either way, I’m here because he put me here. Elias Bricman put me here and I’m the one who gave him that power. I handed it over willingly.

  So fuck it. I decide to enjoy it. Everything. Every man. Every mouth. Every finger inside me. Every tongue on my skin. I take every bit of it and picture Bric’s face as I give in.

  I come on someone’s fingers. Moaning into someone else’s kiss. A hard cock presses against the small of my back. I lean into him. Letting him wrap his arms around me. Letting him press his thick head between my ass cheeks. Letting him enter me as someone else plays with my clit.

  I come again. And again. And get fucked over and over and over. So many times, I lose count, but it’s up there around seven, maybe eight times as the night passes and people around me fuck, and suck, and get off. Women are screaming with pleasure. Men are groaning and ordering them to get on their knees or take them deeper.

  They are talking dirty to each other—and me. Always talking dirty to me. So many whispers up to my ear as the hands caress my body and rub me raw… until I’m so exhausted, I can’t stand upright. I slump, making the chains holding my arms above my head taut. Making the leather cuffs pull at my wrists until they burn.

  And when I’m finally released, I fall to the floor, my body spent and worthless, as I lean against the cold, hard steel of the pole.

  The blindfold comes off and the first face I see is Bric, staring down at me with those dark, inky blue eyes. Then Jordan is there. It’s midnight, I realize. People are standing around, naked, spent. Slumped just like me. And they start counting down from ten… nine… eight…