“Look at him,” Dahlia taunted, yanking his head back by his long, beautiful locs so the whole club could see his face twisted in pleasure and shame. “Your strong husband, gagging on my fingers while my dick splits him open. Taking every inch like he was born for it. This is what real obedience looks like.”
The whip cracked across his ass between thrusts, leaving welted stripes that matched the bruised flush of his wife’s thighs. He groaned around her fingers, body straining, his erection straining and twitching in his wife’s warm, wet mouth.
“Don’t you dare come until I tell you,” Dahlia snapped, slapping his ass with the palm of her gloved hand.
The woman moaned louder, slurping and gagging, working her husband’s turgid length with messy devotion, her other hand sliding between her own thighs as if the entire performance had left her dripping too.
Mistress Dahlia’s pace grew brutal, relentless, until the man’s muffled groans turned ragged and his wife’s body shook with the effort of taking him. The club was a riot, stomping, clapping, screaming as Dahlia stood tall, leather shining, every thrust a declaration of ownership.
I couldn’t breathe. My thighs were clenched so tight under the table that they ached, my panties soaked through. Watching them come undone under her control made my body throb with raw hunger.
Because it wasn’t just the couple breaking.
It was me.
And I wanted it. Her whip. Her strap. Her mouth.
And God help me, I wanted James watching too.
The crowd was continued chaos, hollering, and begging for more as the man writhed on all fours, his wife sobbing with pleasure, and The Black Dahlia stood tall above them.
None of that compared to what was happening in my booth.
I had my hand shoved between my thighs, my trench coat spread across my lap to hide it, fingers sliding over the soaked lace of my panties. Every thrust she gave him made me grind harder into my own palm. Every crack of the whip made my clit pulse.
I wasn’t even pretending to resist anymore.
The sight of her, leather gleaming, mask sharp, lips painted in blood-red control—was enough to make me dizzy. I imagined her dragging me onto that stage instead, bending me over, stripping me bare, making me scream her title until the whole club knew who owned me. Mistress.
My breath came ragged, my hips rocking against my fingers.
And then the lights shifted.
Softer, brighter, just enough to cut through the haze of smoke.
Dahlia pulled free of the man with a flourish, leaving him shaking, his wife curled against him. She stood center stage, chest heaving under that leather corset, her gloved hand resting lightly on her strap as if daring the next submissive to step forward.
Her gaze swept the crowd.
And landed on me.
For one suspended moment, the air left my lungs. Her eyes locked on mine, sharp and merciless even behind the half-mask. I froze, my hand still buried between my thighs, panties soaked, caught in the act like she had orchestrated it.
My chest tightened, my clit throbbed, my lips parted—but no sound came out.
The corner of her crimson mouth curved.
And then she winked.
Heat shot straight through me, my stomach flipping, my pussy clenching hard enough that I almost came right there.
Before I could breathe, before I could blink, she turned. Her coat swirled dramatically around her legs as she exited the stage, disappearing behind the velvet curtains, leaving me trembling, wet,and ruined in the shadows.
I sat there gasping, thighs shaking, fingers sticky, every nerve on fire. The Black Dahlia had just seen me, not the crowd, not the chaos, me, and she knew exactly what I’d been doing in the dark.
I couldn’t move.
My thighs were still trembling, my hand damp, my breath jagged in my chest. Every inch of me was buzzing, wrecked from the way The Black Dahlia had seen me, marked me, winked like she already knew I was hers.
