Page 54 of Untether

But I don’t want to be a pity fuck for him. He tells me he’s attracted to me, and it seems to be true. We get along great, and the chemistry between us is smoking. But I can’t shake the sense that the only time I’ve really seen behind his charming, comedic persona is during those few minutes when he held my head and fucked my mouth with the anguished desperation of a man on the brink.

That’sthe guy I want to see more of.That’swhat I want for the first time I get fully naked with someone new and let them fuck me. I don’t want polite, considerate, careful sex. Jesus, no. I want to put myself in Cal’s hands andI want him to show me what I’ve been missing.But based on the amount of times he’s apologised for the face fucking he gave me, I’m guessing that’s not what he has in store for me.

Tough shit, because that’s what I want.

My dress is red.

My lips are red.

And I’m ready for whatever tonight brings.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m terrified. Far more terrified than I was of the PM yesterday (though arguably less terrified than he was of me by the end of our half hour together). But I have my eye on the prize, and the prize is Cal in a room, naked on top of me, and I’d say that’s a dazzling enough prize to justify the quest.

His texts this week have been less filthy and more logistical than I would’ve liked. He’ll remember something, and start to panic, and shoot me a message when he’s out and about.

Exhibit A:

There’s a cloakroom just inside The Playroom so people can leave their clothes if they want to take anything off

Because they have to be fully clothed in the bar beforehand

And we don’t want anyone’s Chanel or Gucci going missing when it’s been stripped off them

Not that you should remotely expect to take off any of your clothes in The Playroom

I just wanted to mention it in case you were bringing a coat or something

OK I’ll shut up now xx

See what I mean?

He’s been in major Mother Hen mode all week, and I actually feel bad for inflicting this on him, because he has enough on his plate orchestrating this party without me commandeering it for filming purposes.

I console myself with the thought that I’ll have to ensure I make it worth his while.

When I showup at the club, the bar is already pumping. The music is louder than last time I was here, every single person is masked, and the dress code is far higher octane. The men are mainly in black tie or all black, allowing the women to shine.

And shine they do.

There are sequins everywhere, glorious dresses in silver and gold and red and purple, micro minis and full-length gowns slashed to the navel and the thigh. Other women are wearing tuxes or corsets with leather pants. But the real focal point comes from the masks, because they are simply beautiful. Stunning, intricate, and beguiling.

I cast my eyes around the room. Disco balls hang from the chandeliers, casting the room in a constantly rotating glitter bath that bedazzles everyone’s skin. While some of the masks are classic Venetian in style, others are more modern. More abstract. Then there are the guys who’ve gone full Ghost Face, which is far hotter than it should be, and even a couple in full-on balaclavas.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I guess I shouldn’t be at all surprised that Alchemy’s guests have interpreted what sounds like a glamorous but innocuous theme in a super kinky way, but I am. I surreptitiously eye up one of the balaclava guys. He has a similar build to Cal and is wearing fitted black dress pants with an equally fitted black dress shirt that’s tucked in but opened almost the whole way, revealing a ripped chest.

Jeez, I wonder what kind of stuff Balaclava Guy is planning on getting up to tonight. He probably has kinks I’ve never even heard of. Kinks I can’t conceive of. The thought should make me run a mile. Instead, my skin flushes with heat and a staccato pulse begins to thrum insistently between my legs.

Hold on a sec—he’s coming over.

What—?

Oh, Jesus fuck.

I think it’s Cal.

I’m frozen to the spot, but he keeps coming, walking towards me with what is definitely Cal’s swagger. He has acrystal tumbler of scotch in one hand, and the grotesque mouth hole in his balaclava is large enough to show his lips curving into a smile.

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