Page 21 of Carved Obsession
I visited Metamorphosis for the first time after seeing him come here several times. There was always a steady flow of people going in. I got curious, so I did my research, and when I found out what it was, I had to snag a membership.
Little did I know that this fetish club would become a little obsession of mine.
Just like the man himself.
I never play, only people-watch and enjoy the delicious drinks. Twice we ended up here at the same time. Adrenaline might be my thing, but I wasn’t about to chase death at his hands. So, once I noticed his pattern, I began avoiding the club on the days Carter usually comes. The man is quite strict about his schedule.
Or so I thought.
He’s not supposed to be here today.
Yet, there he is, with a woman, breaking the pattern.
The blonde is ridiculously attractive, especially with her arms tied to a strap hanging from the ceiling, and a spreader bar keeping her legs wide open as she squirms and yelps. Because right between them, a thin metal pedestal stands with a large red dildo at the end of it, the tip spreading her pussy wide open. It looks to be completely soaked, and I bet none of that is lube. She’s brightly flushed, hair clinging to damp skin as her head leans against her arm. She’s facing the corner of the room, so I get a glimpse of her red ass and back, slightly purple in places from where Carter’s braided whip makes contact. Repeatedly.
And he’s still at it.
It has to be him...I’ve studied every inch of this man in photos and videos I found online while I was waiting for him to come for me. Granted, there wasn’t as much media as I thought there would be, and most were from various philanthropic events in Queenscove.
The philanthropic part was both shocking and pleasantly surprising.
But those photos were enough for me to notice and now recognize that chaotic black-and-gray throat tattoo that resembles a splintering explosion.
He turns, and the creepy eye on the back of his neck stares straight into my soul. There’s no denying it’s Carter Pierce under that half-skull mask.
And he’s touching . . . her.
I haven’t spoken those words, yet their bitter taste still coats my tongue.
He runs his middle finger down the naked woman’s spine, and when her muscles twitch, attempting to arch into his touch, my fists tighten.
Something about this image feels utterly wrong. It doesn’t fit. Something is missing.
The woman moans as Carter slides that one digit around her waist, over her hip bone, around her navel, and down her belly. He whips her thigh right as that finger reaches her drenched pussy, and the scream she lets out as he slaps her clit is charged with a wanton moan I feel straight in my core.
My fists clench harder, teeth grinding together, yet my own center throbs and yearns.
Why is this bothering me so much?
What’s wrong with this image?
God, the way he touches her, the way she tries to squirm, her moans and cries of pleasure and pain, they’re...exhilarating. With each assault, she seems to disappear deeper into a state of mind-bending pleasure I cannot even fathom. She smiles maniacally and cries passionately over and over again as Carter works her unlike anything I’ve seen since coming to this fetish club.
But that’s not the cherry on the cake. It’s his unbending attention. He doesn’t just watch her—he studies her. The effect of every touch, every strike, the way each of his words lands. He’s completely in tune with her and her needs. He stops before she even gets a chance to use her safe word. He restarts when her breathing calms and her lips quirk on one side. He brings her to the edge of oblivion and drags her back down on breathless cries I feel in my soul, and I’m close to weeping myself at the sight.
This is beyond impressive.
This—he—is mesmerizing.
Metamorphosis holds a good pool of interesting customers, and I’ve seen my share of incredible people playing together, but Carter is something else. With pulled-back shoulders, stance straight and proud; sinewy, tattooed forearms beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt; the dusting of hair peeking from his open collar, almost obscured by his tattoos; and the simple way he stalks...he’s nothing like the men I’ve seen play here.
He’s in a league of his own.
A masked god.
And the problem with this image finally dawns on me—her.She is the wrong one. Because it’s not me.
It’s goddamn infuriating!
