Page 42 of Ruinous Need
The jerk of the muscles in his jaw. The darkening of his eyes. The way he rakes a hand back through his black hair in frustration.
Viktor is attracted to me, even when he’s trying very hard not to be.
I roll my eyes and pout at him. “People contain multitudes. Pole fitness is a massive trend right now. It’s good for any dancer’s muscle definition and cardio.”
“I can’t invite people into my lounge while there’s a fucking stripper pole here, Lisette.”
“Why not?” I pout. “I could show them my routine.”
He lets out a groan at that. “Haven’t I made it clear that I don’t like to share?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe you want a private show then.”
To my surprise, Viktor lets me lead him to a chair and sit him down. He shrugs off his jacket with a resigned sigh, and I resist the urge to throw the routine out the window and kneel between his thick legs to undo his pants. He looks on with the indulgence of a parent being dragged along to a dance show.
The second I put on the music, something changes.
This feels intimate. I feel powerful.
He’s been in control of me. That’s how this dynamic works. But when I let my body go through the motions of the routine I know so well, anticipating exactly how Viktor will react, it feels like the tables have turned.
I watch his black eyes glint, turning into the polished onyx that cuts right through me to my soul.
Dancing in front of Viktor is something that would have had me frozen with fear a month ago. My phobia has always been different when it’s not ballet. Pole fitness is not what got me into this predicament. But even at pole class, I still had to relax my breathing and work up to it with small performances.
Now, for whatever twisted reason, I feel safe enough to dance in front of him. Maybe that’s because I’ve done much more humiliating things, like soaking his hand with cum or begging for his cock, than just dancing.
Despite a month in confinement without a proper studio, I feel good. Energized.
I try to focus on the routine and disregard the bulge tenting his pants, because if I focus too much on the size of it, my heart rate will sky-rocket enough that I forget my grips.
He doesn’t applaud when I’ve finished. He just rises to his feet and pulls me close to him. He tilts my chin up so I’m looking at him.
“You know that just because you’re a fucking excellent dancer, that doesn’t get you out of your punishment, right?”
Viktor’s hands drop to his waist and he removes his belt in one smooth, practiced motion. There’s a purpose to it. He’s already decided how he’s going to punish me for this. He was probably planning it out in his head the whole time, while he looked like he was enjoying the show.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He encircles both my wrists with one hand and drags me over to the pole, where he loops the belt in a criss-cross and secures it to the pole. My hands are bound halfway down the metal pole.
If I turn sideways, I can see myself reflected in the wall of mirrors. I’m already breathing hard from the routine. The way he’s man-handling me, shoving me into the position where he wants me, makes it impossible to catch my breath.
Viktor leaves me like that for a second, uncomfortably bent with my ass out and my hands bound, while he takes something else from his pants.
A knife. I see the sharp blade glint in the mirror.
Fuck. He’s not going to — all thoughts fade out of my head the second that blade touches the strip of exposed skin between my shorts and sports bra.
“You wore these little shorts just to tease me with that ass.” He traces it along the seam of my lilac booty shorts, down the centre of my ass, and the pointed metal tip is so sharp that the fabric falls away with barely any effort.
“You want to act like a slut, Lisette? Then I’ll treat you like a slut.”
I watch my shorts flutter to the ground in the mirror across the room. I’m sweating from the routine and from the anticipation of what he’s about to do to me. My hands slide lower down the pole.
Viktor hums in approval at the sight of me tied to a pole in the center of his lounge, unable to even cover my nakedness. With the angle he’s tied me at, my breasts are threatening to fall out of the bra too. He yanks the fabric down and they bounce free.
I clench my thighs together in a futile attempt to hide my arousal.
