by Adore Ian
So, yeah, I fear losing control over the persona I’ve crafted for myself. Hell, I fear losing control over everything. It’s why I think I like to be dominated in the bedroom. It’s the one place I can let go and allow someone else to take care of me. But out here in the real world? Hell. No. If anyone knew how weak and pathetic I really am, what kind of family I come from…
Marrin: My mind is in the gutter again. Will you be awake when I’m off?
Damian: Depends
Marrin: On?
Damian: What’d that guy mean when he said this isn’t your city job?
Marrin: If you play your cards right, maybe I’ll tell you.
My other job involves shifts at an exclusive members-only club Alice owns called the 13th Floor. It’s located about forty-five minutes away in the city. I suppose it’s technically a burlesque strip club but it also incorporates interactive erotic performances. The best way I can describe it is to say it’s Cirque du Soleil meets the Crazy Horse in Paris meets Lust, the erotic dinner party place in New York. It’s edgy, titillating, and exclusive. It caters to sex kinks and fetishes on the upper floors, which is why I usually only waitress in the main lounge. If I do work upstairs, I’m usually performing. I rarely strip, but if I do, I never show more than I would at the beach in the summer.
Performance wise, if it involves dancing, I do it all. And while I love aerial silk dancing, pole dancing is my forté. That shit is hard work and should honestly be an Olympic sport.
Jake is not a member, nor could he afford to be. All he knows is it’s a fancy club for high rollers and that I waitress there. But he’s an ass, so I wouldn’t put it past him to twist the story.
I smile internally, thinking of how blown Damian’s mind would be if I showed him my skills on the pole. But he doesn’t need to know. At least not right now because he’s wearing a face that says he wants to ask more questions, and because right now all I can think about is how anxious and on edge I am—and how badly I want to get lost in him.
3
Damian
I’m still brooding over what happened when Marrin knocks on my door. It’s 2:47 A.M. and she looks as though she’s just jumped out of the shower. Her hair is damp and she’s wearing a slender robe with what might be thigh-high stockings.
“May I come in?” she asks.
Hell yes.
I step aside and no sooner is the door closed than she’s on me—crushing her body and mouth against mine.
“Mar—”
“Don’t,” she says, wrapping a hand around my cock and stroking me through my thin pajama bottoms.
I’m instantly steel in her hand.
“Shit, baby.” My eyes close. I’m pretty sure she intends to fuck me in this doorway and I’m one hundred percent sure I’m going to let her. But after a second, my damn conscience overrules my dick and I pull her hand away. “Mar, I don’t care where you come from.”
She freezes, and I swear I can see the wall she’s erected between us.
Shit.
I have absolutely no idea why I’d felt the need to say that.
She blinks, and for a second, I think she’s going to leave. But then she says, “I don’t care what you think and I didn’t come here to talk.” She drops her robe, revealing thigh-high stockings held up by a black, high-waisted garter skirt.
Good. Fucking. God.
She’s not wearing a bra.
Her bare breasts just appear before my eyes like a magic wish from a genie. All the blood that should be fueling my brain rushes to my cock. I’m so hard it hurts.
She pulls my pants down and my dick springs free. She kneels and licks me from base to tip, and then stares up at me as she takes me into her mouth.
I brace my hands on the wall and almost come at the sight of her. Marrin on her knees before me, sucking my cock like her life depends on it—and maybe it does. Because the way she’s staring up at me tells me she hasn’t just come here for sex. She came to escape something. She runs her teeth gently up my length and—holy shit—that’s fine with me. She can use me to escape her problems. I’m happy to do that actually.
I keep my eyes on her as she devours me like a popsicle melting in a midsummer sun. She squeezes my balls—fuuuck—I’m pretty sure I’m in love with this woman. Pretty sure I’d do anything for her.
“Please, Sir,” she begs, a wary edge in her eyes.
And I realize what she needs, the part I’ve forgotten to play.
Marrin
“Touch one of those titties for me, Red. Let me see you roll that pretty pink nipple in your fingers.”
I’m liquid at his command. I obey, and almost immediately, my anxiety leaves me.
I moan, spreading my knees a bit wider and sucking him harder. His cock is velvety and firm and salty at the tip. He reaches down and pulls my damp hair into a ponytail in his fist, controlling the rhythm as I suck him off. Lust-fogged eyes consume me as I touch myself for him.
Abruptly Damian pulls me up and pushes me against the door. He doesn’t come any closer. Just stands there surveying me. He rubs his jaw with a hand, his tongue running along the inside of his bottom lip, considering. As if he can’t decide where to gorge himself first. I feel the same.
But I’m aching to be touched, fucked. So I say, “Please, Sir.”
He grabs my swollen nipples, pinching hard. My eyes roll back as sharp, exquisite pleasure spreads like lightning from my breasts to my core. I moan.
Damian yanks me off the wall by the nipples. Pain and pleasure mix in me, coiling tighter and tighter. As if he can tell, he releases my nipples only to take two greedy handfuls of my breasts. I whimper, biting my bottom lip as he works my flesh.
My body is on fire. Every commanding, possessive touch goes straight to my pussy—and the bitch is hungry. If I’m not already dripping, I’m about to be. I rub my thighs together, feeling my swollen clit protruding from my outer lips.
Noticing, Damian pulls me forward by the breasts, close enough to let me feel his hot breath on my face but too far away for me to kiss him. I still try.
Drunk off his touch, I lean forward, desperate for his mouth, for any part of him to be inside any part of me.
His smirk aims to torture. “Sorry, Red. Your pleasure belongs to me. Keep your legs apart. I want that sweet little clit swollen and aching for me.”
Oh. My. God.
He releases me and I almost cry at the lost contact. But then he throws me over his shoulder like a rag doll, smacking my ass hard enough that I don’t know whether I yelp from pain or pleasure. Probably both. He carries me into his room like a Neanderthal might an unsuspecting female to his cave, stolen from her group for the sole purpose of keeping him well fucked for the winter.
Why does that idea turn me on so much?
Damian throws me down on his king-size bed and grabs my ankles, spreading my legs for his viewing pleasure. Liquid heat gathers in my core at the selfishness, the dominance. At the fact he left his pants on the floor by the door and is utterly naked and hard before me. I drink in the sight. He’s tattoos and muscles and pure, unadulterated man.
He groans eyeing my red lacy thong. “You’re killin’ me, Red.”
He begins stroking himself, and for a moment, I think he’s going to stand there until he comes all over me.
He hasn’t done that. Yet.
Instead he moves to the nightstand and grabs a sleeve of condoms. I track him the whole time, eyes flickering between his massive cock and his mouth. He saunters back to the end of the bed, watching me. He knows I’m having a hard time focusing as he climbs onto the bed to kneel over me.
My breath is erratic, anticipation eating me alive from the inside out.
He bends my knees toward the ceiling and slowly unfastens the garters. They snap free and he glides large, calloused hands down my thighs to my knees then back toward my hips, pushing the garter skirt up until my lacy red thong is in full view.
“Jesus H. Christ, baby,” he groans. “This pussy is drippi
n’ for me.” He runs a finger along the damp fabric between my legs.
I fist the sheets at my sides. “Oh fuck, Sir. Please—please.”
He sits back. “Take the thong off, Red. I want to see this pussy bare for my eyes and my eyes only.”
The command does wicked things to my body and I obey, lifting my hips and raising my legs straight into the air. He hisses in a breath at my flexibility and I make a show of sliding off the thong, enjoying every second of torture I see in his hungry gaze. I dangle the red lace from between two toes, waving it in surrender.
I sweep it across his face once, twice—
He rips the thong from me with his mouth then balls it up in a hand. “I should shove these in your mouth, Red.” My eyes glaze. He chuckles. “But I think you’d like that too much.” I think he’s right. He jerks his chin to the condoms. “Roll one on me.”
I practically jump off the bed to appease him. I rip open a wrapper—
“Pussy where I can see it,” Damian demands.
Heat, like lava, flows to my lady parts, and I adjust my position so I’m sitting up, legs spread wide so that my wet, needy pussy is in full view.
I roll on the condom.
His length is obscene.
Damian wastes no time hauling me up to claim my mouth—hard and passionately. He dips a hand between my legs, and for a moment, my body is so excited he’s finally touching me I can’t tell where exactly he is touching me. Every nerve like a live wire sparking in a thunderstorm.
His fingers circle my entrance. “So wet for me.”
I moan between kisses.
He teases me. Moving my wetness in wider and wider circles, then in smaller and smaller ones. The heel of his hand presses my clit but not enough. I need more.
I rock into him.
He smiles into my mouth, mocking me.
“Tell me what you want,” he commands.
“You,” I breathe.
His hand between my legs vanishes and suddenly my head is being yanked back by the hair. Not hard (we’re not that hardcore) but enough to get my attention and send a jolt of pleasure straight through me. “That’s not how you address me, Red.”
God, I’m wound up so tight a stiff breeze could set me off. “I’m sorry, Sir. I want you, Sir.”
“Better.” His fingers resume their teasing, but he doesn’t release my hair. “Be more specific.”
“Inside me, Sir.”
“Where exactly?”
The fingers that were between my legs push into my mouth, and I wrap my lips around them, tasting myself. “My pussy.”
Damian replaces the fingers in my mouth with a brutal kiss—one he punctuates by thrusting those fingers into my aching core.
I’m so wet we both hear it. Every slip and slide. It feels so good I forget how to kiss. Forget we are kissing.
He pulls away. “Elbows and knees.”
I move so fast, he chuckles—but stops when I arch my back and press my greedy pussy against his cock. He inhales a curse.
Hot hands grip my hips, and we groan as his blunt head forces my body to yield to his intrusion. He’s thick and hot and hard as granite as he presses into me. The feel, the pressure of him, is exquisite.
The whole world narrows to his cock.
“You okay, baby? You need anything?” he asks, sliding out a few inches then pressing in deeper.
I shake my head, unable to remember what words are or how to use them.
He leans down and kisses my spine. “Let me know if it hurts.”
I nod, growing wetter at his concern and knowing I shouldn’t.
Damian has one of the biggest penises I’ve ever encountered in the wild. The first time I saw it, I flat out told him I wasn’t having sex with him. There is such a thing as too big and he’s right on the border. He’d spent the next ten minutes explaining to me that he buys special condoms, always has top-shelf lubricant on hand, and that he’s learned how to ready a woman for his penetration. I was still skeptical by the end of the sales pitch, but I was also horny and desperate. And, as I’m learning, horny and desperate tend to win over logical thought.
Like I said, my pussy’s a hungry bitch.
I exhale a curse when Damian finally sinks himself to hilt. I relish the feel of his hips pressing against my ass, his balls brushing my clit. He stays there a moment, enjoying the sensation before pulling back and sinking deep again. I turn my head to watch through the mirrored doors of his closet. I love the sight of a man’s hips when he’s thrusting into a woman.
Even better when I’m the woman.
He pushes and pulls me over his length while continuing to thrust with his hips. The sensation is maddening. He quickens the pace and I fall forward, moaning into the mattress. But Damian fists my hair and forces me to look at him over a shoulder as he fucks me deeply.
“You like that, Red?”
I nod, wishing the position allowed for him to bury his tongue in my mouth, too. His lips are perfection and the way his mouth hangs open looks so good it should be illegal.
He begins kneading one of my ass cheeks with his free hand when something dark and covetous flashes in his eyes.
Damian
I’m thinking about how much I want to kiss Marrin when all at once, what Jake the Jackass said comes back to me. I’m not bothered that Marrin slept with him. I’ve slept with plenty of women—some of whom were, and still are, jackasses. What bothers me is that he’d talked about her sexual preferences as if he were going to use it against her by telling a bar full of people.
Then I remember she’d told me to back off—which she had every right to do.
But Jake had been acting like a grade-A douchebag, and I would’ve stood up for any of my friends like that. I don’t tolerate douchebag very well.
“Marrin,” I say, watching her in the mirror. I grab her arms, pulling them back like the reins on a horse. Her torso lifts into the air and her beautiful, soft tits bounce with each thrust I gift her. I pull out. “I didn’t like the way that Jake guy spoke to you.” I thrust in hard and deep enough to elicit a moan from her lips.
I pull out painfully slowly, staring at her in the mirror.
“I didn’t like what he said”—a hard thrust back in, a slow pull out—“I didn’t like the way he looked at you”—another hard thrust and slow retreat—“and I wanted to kick his ass for ever thinking he could have you.”
Sure, it’s a shitty way to broach a conversation she doesn’t want to have, but right now I think I’m pretty fucking clever for framing it in a way that will only turn her on more. She likes to be dominated, and I’m rewarded when her pussy tightens around me. I decide to push further. Pun intended.
I haul her up so her back is pressed to my chest. I palm her soft breasts—and fuck if her pussy doesn’t clamp down even harder on my cock. Jesus, she’s so close to coming.
I position her so her hands are braced on the headboard. I kiss and nip her shoulders and back, hands roaming her body like the gift it is. She’s completely at my mercy. I fucking love it.
I pinch one of her nipples and her clit at the same time. She nearly screams, bucking.
“Do not come, Red.”
“Please,” she begs. “Oh fuck—please, Sir. I’m so close.”
I release her nipple and grip her hip to stop her from moving. “Do not come. I’m serious. This pussy is mine, Marrin.” She nods vigorously, looking down at my fingers between her legs. “You’re too good for Jake.” Again she nods, white-knuckling the headboard. “Understand?”
“Yes,” she gasps.
“Yes, what?”
“Sir. Yes, Sir. I’m too good for him.”
“And?” I release her clit and start moving my fingers in slow circles.
She moans, head falling back, silver-white hair tickling my hips. “My pussy is yours, Damian. Oh fuck.”
Marrin
“You’re mine,” Damian declares, then he fucks me to completion, rubbing commanding circles into my clit.
> Pleasure explodes through me as I take all of him to hilt over and over. I can do nothing but hold on as my orgasm tramples me like a stampede. I’m powerless beneath his touch, beneath the onslaught of my own pleasure.
Damian comes a second later. Grunting and fucking.
When it’s over, I sag against the headboard.
He lays me down beside him, his arms envelop me tightly, and I’m too exhausted to pull away.
Once I’ve recovered, I gather my things to leave. He asks me to stay, knowing I’ll give the same answer I always do. When I refuse, he walks me to the door and watches me until I disappear into my apartment.
I look at him through the peephole while I slide the locks. It’s not until I get to the third one that he finally retreats into his apartment.
I empty my bladder and clean myself up.
As I’m climbing into bed, I get a text.
Damian: For what it’s worth, you are good enough.
4
Marrin
“What’s eating you?” Priya says, walking into the dance studio at the 13th Floor.
I didn’t have class this morning, so I figured I’d get in early and work on a routine I’m choreographing for the new Femme Fatale show we’re developing for the club. It combines two of my favorite things: film noir and dance. I’m a film studies major, and I’d love to one day apply that knowledge as an artistic director for dance productions or something. I’m lucky Alice owns this club and that the current artistic director is letting me help out to gain experience.
The number I’m working on for the show features seven dancers who start in chairs and end up on the pole. I want it to look sharp and deadly, but buttery and smooth at the right moments to project a false sense of security. The best femme fatales are masters of this art. Constructed through the male gaze, they seem to project an unattainable ideal that draws in the male lead, then they turn. Or more accurately, the man realizes he’s allowed his emotions (and his penis) to cloud his judgment.
