Page 2 of His Hold

First, I have to be able to recognize him. That wouldn’t be too hard. I’ve seen his pictures online. And men like Nikolai elude power and are always surrounded, a pack of wolves bowing to their alpha.

Surely it won’t be too difficult to pick him out from the crowd. Next, I have to somehow grab his attention, hence the dress and the hair and the extra time on makeup, all of it a weapon to lure him into my trap. Then…

I don’t know what's next, but I’m prepared to fight to the end, to sink my teeth into him until we’re both bleeding.

Finally, I see him—tall, surrounded by shifty, muscular men in suits. The sight sends a jolt of terror and want through me so strong I nearly stagger. It has to be Nikolai.

When he slips out from the crowd and jostles upstairs, I wait, with my watered-down drink I didn’t touch, keeping my eyes on the stairs.

I count the minutes. Five. Ten. Then I move.

Now, on the landing, I pause to take a look around. The second floor is smaller and less crowded, and here I’m taken in by the décor. There’s a small chandelier, springing lights around the space, casting shadows that writhe like lovers. There’s a raised platform in the shape of a cock where I see two ladies eating each other out in a 69 position, their tongues plunging deep and desperately, while men offer up money and loud oh fuck, that pussy must taste so good. She’s dripping. I could fuck her all day. Or both of them.

The music is sensual, of course, and carries a weight across the room. In my complete amazement, I realize I’ve lost sight of Nikolai.

I’m at once rounded up by fear. It’s the first time I’ll be coming this close to him. Losing his tail so early into the night is never quite a good sign, and I know it firsthand.

“Where the hell did you go?” I whisper as I push past the poles, edging toward the door at the far end. It yawns open into a hallway stinking of expensive cologne and stale lust, that clings to me like sweat.

I feel goose bumps rise up my arms the farther I walk. Here, the doors seem to be made of glass with the upper half of it left transparent, offering glimpses of depravity I can’t unsee. I don’t know if this is the new normal for elite strip house, but this feels nearly sinful.

I see him now. A red haired lady kneels before him and takes his cock in her mouth, her lips stretching wide around his thick, pulsing length. I glance away quickly, my cheeks burning crimson at the sight of her kneeling, but it’s too late. The image sears into me.

Don’t get me wrong, I have watched porn and masturbated to it. In fact, lately, it seems to be the only way for me to calm myself down, chasing that edge of release. But this isn’t porn, at least not like I’m used to. This is real life. Here, in front of me, a man is being sucked into a whirlpool of pure ecstasy while I watch.

I shouldn’t, but I do.

As much as I hate to admit it, I’m oddly turned on by this.

He gathers her hair in a fistful, presses himself to her mouth and thrusts, his hips driving forward with brutal intent. His thrusts are powerful. Solid. Delicious, each one a filthy promise of what he could do to me. It’s the kind of thrust I’d expect from a professional, a man who knows how to fuck until you’re broken and begging.

The jacket he was wearing downstairs is gone, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his forearms flex with each vicious thrust. I press closer, breathing heavily, afraid I’ll be caught but wanting to watch anyway, my nipples hardening against the fabric of my dress.

Watching is wrong—filthy, addictive. But I can’t look away.

She makes a sound of choking when he takes his cock too far down her throat, her gag a wet, desperate noise that sends a shiver through me. He slips it out and she coughs but her mouth is still open to him, her tongue sticking out, drooling and eager to take his fullness down her throat again like a willing slave to his cock.

“Keep that mouth open for me,” he growls. He has a slight accent. Russian. His voice is so addictive, like warm honey and rainstorm, and I groan, biting my lip to stifle it. Thankfully, he doesn’t hear me over her sloppy, needy slurps. “Your body is mine tonight to do as I please.”

“Yes, please use me,” she says, nodding emphatically, her eyes wide and glazed with submission as spit drips down her chin.

I want to laugh at this, but I don’t because watching them, watching him thrust and pound her mouth like that, claiming her with every ruthless inch, I realize I’d let him do whatever he wanted, too. I’d let him shove that cock down my throat until I couldn’t breathe.

I’m so hot right now, damn it, my thighs clenching as I imagine him turning that feral stare on me, forcing me to my knees, making me his.

He pulls his cock out of her mouth, slaps it against her lips and tongue, smearing her spit and his precum in a wet, glistening mess before pulling her up on her feet with a grip that brooks no defiance.

He sits down on the only chair in the room, leans back against the headrest with a lazy, predatory sprawl, and motions for her to come to him.

“Get on top of me and don’t get off until I come.”

I pinch my thighs together, disgusted at myself even as heat pulses deep between my legs. I shouldn’t feel this. Not here, not now, especially not for a man who probably took Irina from me.

The things I’ve learnt about him are awful. He's a murderer, a thief, a manipulator, everything I despise, yet my body doesn’t care about morality or revenge. It only recognizes hunger, a primal need clawing its way through reason.

My hand moves on its own, slipping beneath the edge of my dress, seeking release from the tension vibrating through my body. Even as pleasure spikes sharply when my fingers graze my hardened nipples, shame swirls through me fiercely. I twist harder, punishing myself for the traitorous desire flooding me, wishing pain could drown out the lust.

Because it’s easier to hate him when I’m numb, when I’m empty. Not when I’m quivering with need and imagining myself in her place, straddling him.

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