Amiyah #3
“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.
Shame rolled in hot, but it didn’t come alone. Right behind it was hunger, thick, raw, undeniable. I wanted her whip on my skin, her strap splitting me open. I wanted her laugh in my ear, telling me I’d been caught touching myself like a needy little slut in her presence.
I pressed my knees together, biting down on a whimper and froze.
Because across the haze of bodies, through the dim light and the smoke, another pair of eyes were on me.
James.
He wasn’t on the stage. He wasn’t watching the couple still trembling under Dahlia’s hand. He was watching me.
My stomach dropped, heat flooding my face. Had he seen? Had he watched me shove my hand between my thighs, grinding against my own fingers like I couldn’t control myself?
Of course, he had. His stare was heavy, confident, hungry. Like he’d been there the whole time, waiting for me to lose myself enough to forget I wasn’t alone.
I tried to sit back deeper in the booth, to shrink into the shadows, but it was too late. He moved.
Slow, deliberate, every step a reminder of the power coiled inside him.
The crowd seemed to part for him naturally, drawn into his orbit but not close enough to touch.
His black shirt clung to his chest, chains catching the low light, his slacks hanging low on his hips like temptation had been tailored just for him.
My pulse hammered as he closed the distance, eyes never leaving mine.
Shame knotted in my throat, heat still wet between my thighs. I should’ve looked away. Should’ve fixed my dress, smoothed my hair, pretended I hadn’t been caught fingering myself in a club full of people.
But I couldn’t.
I was caught, by Dahlia’s wink, by his stare, by the truth I didn’t want to admit: I wanted them both to see me fall apart.
James didn’t stop until he was standing right at my table.
I couldn’t breathe. My thighs were still pressed together, sticky and hot, my pulse slamming in my ears. He looked down at me like he could see every filthy thought still written across my skin.
Then he slid into the booth beside me.
The leather seat dipped under his weight, his thigh brushing mine, the heat of his body wrapping around me before he even touched me. He leaned back, arm draped casually across the back of the booth, but his eyes, his eyes burned.
“You were touching yourself,” he said, voice low, gravelly. Not a question. A fact.
My stomach flipped, my lips parting, shame and arousal colliding in one violent crash. “I—”
“Don’t lie.” His hand slid under the table, brushing against my knee, climbing higher. “I watched you. Couldn’t even help yourself, could you? Not when she looked at you.”
I shuddered, heat exploding through me. His fingers teased higher, dragging slow up my thigh, until I thought I’d combust just from the threat of it.
“James…” My voice cracked, betraying me.
He tilted his head, a cruel little smirk tugging at his mouth. “You liked her whip, her strap. You wanted it to be you bent over that stage.”
I gasped, shame clawing at my chest even as my pussy clenched hard enough to make me dizzy. “Stop.”
“You don’t want me to stop.” His mouth brushed my ear, his breath hot. “You want me to take you right here and make you come louder than you did for her just now.”
I was shaking, torn between pulling away and crawling into his lap, when a shadow loomed at the table.
I snapped my head up, breath caught. A staff member stood there—tall, dressed in Provocateur’s signature black, a silver pin gleaming at his collar.
“Ms. Patterson, Mr. Carter.” His voice was polite, formal, but carried weight. His gaze flicked to James, then back to me. “Your presence has been requested. Privately.”
James' hand stilled on my thigh. My breath hitched.
“Both of you,” the staffer added smoothly. “Follow me.”
The air between us went razor-sharp. James' smirk deepened, slow and wicked, as he slid his hand away and stood.
He offered me his hand like a gentleman. But his eyes told the truth: whatever waited behind that door wasn’t going to be gentle.
I hesitated, trembling, then slipped my hand into his.
And together, we followed.
The staff led us through the club, down a dimly lit hallway.. The deeper we went, the more the music and voices dulled, giving way to the hum of anticipation thick in the air. My pulse hammered in my throat. James' hand gripped mine steady, but his jaw was clenched, his eyes locked straight ahead.
I had no idea where we were going.
Until a heavy black door was opened and we were gestured inside.
The room was dark, the mood for seduction set, illuminated only by candles set into sconces along the walls.
Shadows danced across the furniture—leather benches, padded crosses, racks lined with floggers, paddles, ropes.
Toys gleamed on glass tables, steel cuffs and plugs, a collection of implements that screamed both decadence and danger.
And in the center of it all, with her back to us, stood The Black Dahlia.
Her leather coat hung heavy at her shoulders, the glow of her metal-heeled boots catching the light. She didn’t move when the door shut, didn’t acknowledge us at first. But when her voice came, it was smooth, sharp, final.
“James.”
He inhaled once, slow, like a man coming home.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“You know the routine.”
Without hesitation, he unbuttoned his shirt, stripped it off, and let it fall to the floor.
His chains clinked against each other as he toed off his shoes, unfastened his slacks, and stepped out of them until he was bare.
Then he sank to his knees, head lowered, hands resting open on his powerful thighs, like he’d done this a thousand times before.
My stomach flipped, my breath caught, and my body nearly buckled under the heat that swept through me, because James, the man I’d only ever seen commanding rooms, dominating meetings, running projects with absolute control, was on his knees in complete submission.
The sight nearly pulled an orgasm from my body right there. My pussy clenched, wetness slick between my thighs, the power of it overwhelming.
“Come to me.”
The Black Dahlia’s command sliced through the room, smooth as silk but unyielding as steel.
My knees wobbled. My mind screamed for me to move, to breathe, but my body froze in place, stunned, overstimulated, aroused to the point of pain.
“Amiyah.” Her tone gentled, just slightly. “Now, Gorgeous.”
I forced my legs to obey, every step trembling until I stood before her.
She turned slowly, the leather mask cutting across her cheekbones, crimson mouth curved in control. Then she slid one glove off, finger by finger, until her bare hand was revealed.
Her touch was a shock of warmth as she ran her fingertips down my face, lingering at my jaw before trailing to the soft curve of my neck.
“This,” she said, her voice softer now, lower, “is a safe space to submit, and I need you to know that you will always be safe with me. I will hold you as surely as I’ll put you on the ground, and if the ground is not where you feel safe, you can submit in other ways.
Submission is never just about you giving while I take, it’s about trusting that I’ll always care for you mentally, emotionally, and physically. ”
Her words struck deep, tearing through the haze of lust with something steadier, something grounding. Safety. Care. Awareness.
Tears pricked the backs of my eyes, not from fear, but from the sheer intimacy of it. She wasn’t just power; she was my sanctuary, and that turned me on more than anything had in my life.
I choked on a breath, my voice breaking. “Please. Please let me kneel for you. Let me show you that I want to give you everything, Mistress, please.”
The Black Dahlia’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smile.
“Then kneel, Princess,” she spoke, her voice filled with seduction as she began to strip me of every piece of clothing restricting her view of me.
Once I was completely naked, I lowered to my knees, my body folding in devotion before her, before my Mistress.