Page 7 of Don't Run
Like he can read my mind, he gives me a wolfish grin from behind his red mask and steps out of my path so I can finally get to the personal lockers.
Oh, tonight’s gonna be fun.
DESPERATE LITTLE THING
Bodies.
Bodies.
And more bodies.
Everywhere.
Drenched in melanin and bathed in candlelight.
That’s all I see on the second floor of Midnight Manor.
Damn, I thought the plush conversation pit downstairs had my attention, but the scene before me has me mesmerized.
The carpeted stairs absorb my footfalls until I hit the landing and let my eyes take in everything before me. I expected doors upon doors of private rooms. And I’m guessing the hallway to the left has that, but what catches my attention is the open area right off the staircase. My steps slow as I take it all in.
Billowy, dark curtains are draped from above, covering the ceiling and lending the open space a more intimate feel.
Leather sectionals and love seats are arranged around a common focal point—the raised platform against the only wall.
There, a large man kneels in the center of the stage, fully dressed in a light blue button up and dark navy slacks. Hands behind his back, he’s completely bound, the bulge in his briefs the only part of him not restrained by the intricate rope. Something I only know because his pants are unzipped but not unbuttoned, leaving his dick print standing out on full display in contrast to the belt still tight around his waist. A black half-mask shields his eyes, but the pleasure and agony is written beautifully all over the rest of his tawny, brown face. Above him, a woman about my complexion circles him slowly in sky high heels, her hand on top of his head as he tucks his chin to his chest in submission.
Inching closer to the performance, I note the people on the couches, their masks in place but their clothes missing as they indulge in one another.
One woman has her head thrown back and her lover’s head lost between her spread legs.
Another woman is bouncing on a man’s dick, her whimpers painting the air as she fights to keep her eyes on the stage.
The man beneath her thrusts up, pounding her hard from below, sending his partner’s heavy tits bouncing from the momentum of their passionate fucking. I can’t help the way my mouth waters when I glimpse the cream she’s leaving on his dick with every deep stroke.
Shit.
I smooth a hand over my skirt, not really tugging it down to cover my legs, but mindlessly caressing myself as I watch the people around me.
My gaze returns to the stage to find the man’s dick out, cock ring in place around the base as his domme uses the toe of her shoe to tease his engorged shaft.
My, my, my.
Black and gold candelabras set up around the stage are the only source of light, but even in the dim lighting I can see the reddish—damn near purple—coloring of his sensitive, swollen dick.
Moving her hand to the back of his head, the domme works the hem of her short skirt up with her other hand and shoves her sub’s face into her cunt. Without a moment’s hesitation, the obedient sub feasts on her, his head bobbing and dick twitching as he pleases her.
Fuck, they’re both beautiful. And damn if I don’t love a submissive man.
Ignoring the pulse between my legs is a lesson in restraint as I slip onto one of the couches by another woman watching the show. Her wristband matches mine, and her plump bottom lip is trapped between her teeth as she fidgets on the leather cushion.
The pleated skirt of her cheerleader costume covers just as much as my skirt—nothing. Pressed together, her thick thighs pry my eyes from the glint of the belly ring visible from her cropped cheer top.
Moments later, she looks at me from the corner of her eye, and I don’t even pretend to not be staring.
The black lace mask fitted snuggly on her face is an exact replica of mine, pulling a smile out of me when she turns to look at me head on.
“Hey.” I sound shy, and I don’t care. Men don’t deserve my coyness, but beautiful women bring it out of me effortlessly.
