The lights dropped to black.
The club fell silent as the smoke rolled in, curling like ghostly fingers along the stage. The bass dropped low, menacing, the kind of rhythm that made your bones hum.
And then she appeared.
The Black Dahlia.
She stepped into the spotlight in head-to-toe leather, every inch crafted to command. Her long coat was cut from glossy black hide, with sculpted shoulders tapering into a razor-sharp silhouette that swirled open as she walked. Beneath, she wore a corset—thick-boned, cinching her waist so tightly it looked carved—paneled in leather, polished until it gleamed, straps and buckles crossing her chest like armor.
Her breasts rose high above the top, the deep V of the corset lined with steel-rimmed eyelets and laced tight, leaving just enough swell of skin to tease. Matching leather panties hugged her hips, cut high, the edges studded with small nickel rivets that caught the light every time she moved.
Her thighs were sheathed in towering boots, the leather buttery-smooth but reinforced with panels that climbed over her knees. The heels—stiletto thin, steel-tipped—clicked against the stage like a countdown to punishment.
Her arms were wrapped in opera-length gloves, black leather stitched with embossed patterns like vines curling down to her knuckles. In her right hand, she carried a whip, coiled and glistening with oil, its braided leather handle capped with polished steel.
Her face was half-hidden behind a mask cut from the same leather, molded to her features. It arched over her cheekbones and curved down into sharp points, framing her painted mouth with her lips drenched in crimson.
Every buckle, every strap, every piece of her outfit looked hand-cut, crafted to sculpt the body into power and sex. It was luxury leather, the kind of tailoring that whispered money, cruelty, and control all in one breath.
When she stopped center stage, she didn’t have to say a word. The entire room bent toward her, like the leather itself had gravity.
My pulse spiked, breath caught in my throat. This wasn’t just an outfit. It was a uniform. A second skin. A declaration that she was more than a woman—she was Mistress, force, Black Dahlia incarnate.
The crowd pressed closer as the couple climbed onto the stage—a woman stripped bare save for the gleam of a collar at her throat, her husband in nothing but tight black briefs that left little to the imagination. Their eyes were glassy, wide, eager.
The Black Dahlia circled them like prey. Her boots clicked against the stage, her coat flaring, whip dangling from her gloved fingers. She didn’t even look at the audience. She didn’t need to. All of us were already hers.
She stopped behind the woman first, running the length of the whip handle down her bare back, slow and deliberate, until the submissive shivered visibly.
Then—CRACK.
The lash snapped against her thigh, the sound sharp enough to slice through the bass. The woman gasped, her body jerking, thenmelted into it, a moan tearing from her lips.
Another strike. Louder. Red blossomed across her golden light-brown skin, blooming like a signature. The crowd howled, stomping in rhythm as she worked her, each lash timed to the thrum of the music. By the fifth stroke, the woman was trembling, moaning openly, thighs pressed together as if the sting had driven her straight to wetness.
Mistress Dahlia leaned down, lips brushing the woman’s ear, her crimson mouth forming words I couldn’t hear. Whatever she said made the woman’s knees buckle—her moans turned guttural, desperate, like the whip was unraveling her from the inside out.
And then Dahlia turned to the man.
“On your knees,” she commanded, her voice silk over steel, amplified through the mic.
He obeyed instantly, dropping at her boots, head bowed. Dahlia dragged the tip of the whip under his chin, forcing him to look up, then smirked as she yanked his briefs down in one fluid motion. His dick sprang free, already straining, and the audience erupted in shouts and moans.
“Watch,” Dahlia purred.
Still trembling, she crawled forward, lying on her back as her husband’s dick hung over her face, his precum leaking into her open mouth as she begged their Mistress for permission to suck her husband’s dick. Granting her permission, the wet sound of her sucking his dick carried over the beat, obscene and hungry, as Dahlia stood behind him, lubricating her strap and his wanton asshole.
The harness was heavy leather, polished black, the strap thick and glistening with lube that Dahlia poured slow and deliberate, letting it drip over the toy before stroking it with her gloved hand. Every motion screamed intent.
The man groaned, still on his knees, his wife gagging softly as she took him deeper, her hand twisting the base of his big black dick. Dahlia didn’t ease him in—she bent him forward, planted one boot on the stage for leverage, and pushed the head of the strap into his ass in a single fluid thrust.
His body jolted, a muffled cry torn from his throat. Dahlia shoved two leather-gloved fingers into his mouth, choking him on them while she stroked him deeper, filling him, taming him, taking the submission from him that he was so eager and needy to give her.
“Yes,” she hissed into the mic, voice vibrating through the room. “Such a good fuckin’ boy. Taking this big black dick for Mistress. Take it. Take it for her. For me. For everyone watching.”
The crowd went feral.
She fucked him harder, her hips snapping, the harness smacking against his ass with every thrust. His wife moaned louder, sucking desperately, spit running down her chin as she tried to keep up with Dahlia’s pace.
