Day 13 Kinktober: BDSM

“You wanted to be watched, didn’t you? That’s why you wore this.”

His voice was a low frequency that vibrated straight through the leather of his glove as he traced the scandalous hem of the dress {{User}}’s friend had chosen. The world had narrowed to this corner, to the scent of his cologne cutting through the musk of the club, to the possessive weight of his gaze.

{{User}} could only manage a shaky nod, her throat too tight for words. How had she gotten here?

It started with a bottle of cheap wine and her best friend, Maya, waving a tiny black dress like a victory flag. “It’s called ‘The Veldt,’ and you’re coming. No arguments. You’ve been moping for a month. Time to reset your nerve endings.”

The dress was a slip of crushed velvet, so short it was barely a concept, and it clung to {{User}}’s curves like a second skin. Maya had styled her hair into wild, untamable curls and painted her lips a sinful, glossy red. “You look like a fucking snack, and I’m taking you to the lion’s den.”

The club was a throbbing beast of sound and shadow. The air was thick, a cocktail of sweat, expensive whiskey, and the sweet, skunky scent of weed. And everywhere, the spectacle of surrender. A woman, naked and kneeling, rested her cheek on a man’s thigh as he drank and conversed with friends. Another a man, naked was bent over a velvet ottoman, his reddened ass on display as a Mistress traced the welts with a cool, metal claw.

But {{User}}’s eyes stuck on him.

In a far corner, under a spotlight that caught the sweat on his skin, a tall, tattooed Dom put on a show. A sub, a blindfolded girl with a pretty mouth, was strapped down, her pale ass raised and offered. He wasn’t brutal; he was an artist. Each swing of the paddle was measured, controlled.

Thwack.

“One, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Her voice was a breathy moan.

Thwack.

“Two. Thank you, Sir.”

He’d soothe the sting with a leather-clad palm, murmuring something that made her whimper in gratitude. It wasn’t pain she was feeling; it was purpose. And he was the source. Every fluid movement of his muscular body, every glint in his dark eyes as they scanned the admiring crowd, spoke of absolute command. A warm, unfamiliar pulse began to beat low in {{User}}’s belly, a frantic rhythm against the thumping bass. She was mesmerized, her cunt clenching around nothing, a sudden, desperate ache building deep inside.

Then Maya vanished into the crowd with a wink, and she was alone. An unclaimed sub in a room full of predators.

The show ended shortly afterwards. He unstrapped the girl, helped her down, and sent her off with a soft pat. And then his head turned. His eyes, dark as obsidian, swept past the other onlookers looking over the crowd before locking onto {{User}}’s. It was a physical impact. The hunger in them wasn’t general; it was specific. It was for {{User}}. He’d been performing for a crowd, but now he was hunting.

He started toward her, and the sea of people seemed to part for him. He didn’t stop until the toes of his heavy boots were nearly touching {{User}}’s strappy heels.

“Fresh meat,” he said, his voice a rumble. It wasn’t a question. His gloved hand came up, but he didn’t touch {{User}}’s face. He hooked a single finger in the delicate silver chain that rested against her collarbone, giving it the slightest tug. “I saw you come in with someone. Your friend dressed you up and left you here as an offering?”

{{User}} swallowed, her mind screaming for a witty retort, but her body was too busy overheating. “Something like that.”

“Look at me.”

{{User}} forced her eyes up to his. The intensity there was staggering.

“You watched my entire scene. Tell me what you thought.”

“I… I thought she was lucky,” the words tumbled out, raw and honest.

A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. “Yeah? You want to feel lucky?”

His ungloved hand came up then, calloused fingers skating down {{User}}’s neck, over her frantic pulse, down to the daring neckline of her dress. He didn’t grope her. He traced. He mapped. His thumb swept over the swell of {{User}}’s breast, and her nipple tightened into a hard, desperate peak against the velvet.

“This is a pretty dress,” he murmured, his head dipping close to {{User}}’s ear. His breath was hot. “But it’s in my way.”

That’s when he’d said it. “You wanted to be watched, didn’t you? That’s why you wore this.”

She nodded again, a helpless little bob of her head.

“Good girl honesty gets you rewarded.. and lucky for you I’m feeling generous tonight your looking like just the submissive for me.. and trust me I’ve been looking for a long time... Now, let's give them a proper show let’s see how well you can handle being put on the spot for me.”

His hands moved to the straps of {{User}}’s dress. With a firm yank, he pulled them down her arms, peeling the velvet down to her waist and trapping her arms at her sides. The cool club air hit her bare tits and {{User}} gasped, her skin pebbling. A few nearby whistles and murmurs of approval reached her ears. {{User}} was exposed, on display, just like the girl on the table had been. Humiliation warred with a shocking, brutal wave of lust.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled, his eyes devouring {{User}}’s bare chest. “Pretty pink nipples, already so hard for me. You like an audience, you filthy thing.” He pinched one roughly between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the tight bud, and a jolt of pure electricity shot straight to {{User}}’s cunt. {{User}} cried out, her back arching, offering herself to him without a second thought.

His other hand slid down her stomach, over the velvet of her dress bunched at her waist, and cupped her through the soaked fabric of her thong. “And what’s this? Soaked already. You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?” He pressed the heel of his palm hard against her clit, and {{User}}’s knees almost buckled. A ragged moan was torn from her throat.