Chapter 3
Soren
A rriving at Cupid’s Court, we use the side entrance, away from prying eyes. The moment the heavy, velvet curtains of the club fall behind us, a swell of primal energy engulfs me. I inhale deeply, letting the thick, musky scent of arousal fill my lungs. I can almost taste the fervent desire that clings to the dimly lit air, mingling with the faint hint of expensive perfume and the sharp tang of sweat.
The club’s atmosphere is an intoxicating blend of opulence and carnality, a sanctuary where society’s rules are left at the door and baser instincts rule.
“Are you ready to play?” Mickey’s voice is a low murmur beside me, his breath hitching just slightly as he takes it all in.
I glance over at him, noting the flush of excitement on his cheeks, the hungry gleam in his eyes that mirrors my own. “Born fucking ready,” I confirm, the anticipation vibrating beneath my skin, resonant and insistent.
As celebrities, we don’t have to move through the throng of people to get to where we need to be. There’s a woman waiting for us off to the side, and after a final glance at the writhing bodies, we walk over to her. The moans and gasps we leave behind mask our footsteps, and just before we turn the corner, I turn back around to look at them.
It’s early evening, but by the way people are already going at it, you get the feeling they’ve been here a long time. Some are openly fucking, seeking the thrill of being watched, while others are lost in their own worlds. Not everyone here craves the privacy of a room; this is a place where exhibitionism isn’t just welcomed—it’s celebrated.
My lips curl up as we reach the greeter—a vision wearing a scrap so small it can barely be called a dress, the club’s logo, a stylized bow and arrow, barely covering her tits. Her smile is practiced, but there’s a glint of genuine interest as her gaze roves over us.
“Welcome to Cupid’s Court, gentlemen,” she purrs.
“Thank you. We’re ready to check in,” I state simply, offering no more than a curt nod in response to her advances. She’s attractive, sure, but she’s not for us.
“Of course,” she replies, undeterred by our lack of engagement. She moves on to taking our names and checking our IDs. “Right this way,” she says once the formalities are concluded, leading us down a corridor lined with doors, each promising its own secrets and sins.
As we follow, I can feel the weight of Mickey’s gaze on me, the silent conversation we’ve perfected over countless games on the ice and nights like these. There’s no need for words; we both know what we want, what we need.
The hostess halts before a nondescript door and retrieves a key from the plunging neckline of her scant attire. With a flourish, she unlocks the door and gestures for us to enter.
“Here’s your private room. You have until sunrise,” she says, her voice dripping with a seduction that fails to find its mark. “If you need anything… anything at all, just press one on the phone inside and I’ll be right there. Have fun,” she practically purrs.
I want to laugh at her choice of words since those are the exact words I had tattooed onto the skin just above my dick when I was younger. “We definitely will,” I rasp after her retreating form.
“Thanks,” Mickey grunts, his hand already on the doorknob, eager to close the world out and lose himself—and me along with him—in the dark promises of the night ahead.
The door shuts behind us with a definitive click, sealing away the cacophony of lust that permeates Cupid’s Court.
“So sexy,” Mickey rasps as he surveys our private sanctuary, a smirk playing on his lips.
My focus is drawn to the center of the room where she waits. “Yep,” I rasp, licking my lips in anticipation.
“My dick’s been hard all fucking day,” Mickey chuckles, stepping forward.
I run a hand down my face, taking in the beauty waiting for us. “The whore looks good on her knees,” I say, the corner of my mouth ticking up in amusement. “Don’t you think?”
The only reply I get is an eye roll at the demeaning nickname, as Mick usually calls it. Don’t know why he feels that way when it’s nothing but the truth. She gets paid for sexual services, that’s the literal definition.
My body comes alive as I watch the woman kneeling before us in only her lace underwear. She’s vulnerable, her body a canvas of pale skin and curves. Her hands rest delicately on her thighs, her head bowed. The mask she’s wearing spans across most of her face. It stops just above her lips, and only has holes for her nose, rendering her sightless but aware of our presence.
At our request, she’s wearing some unique earbuds that distort our voices somewhat, but even with those in her ears, she should be able to hear us move around. Her chest rises and falls with a rhythm that speaks to the anticipation charging the air between us.
She sits perfectly still. She’s a good fucking whore, and if she keeps it up, I won’t have much use for her.
Mickey enjoys creating a connection, his own twisted way to reenact the ghost of a past love. It’s kind of fucked up since his ex, Simone, totally ruined him, but I’m not judging. How can I when I crave the kneeling woman’s pain?
Being professional NHL players, we need a place like Cupid’s Court to get our fill. Not only are we faceless here, but it’s also a safe place to act out our needs with women who know what they’re signing up for.
“She’s beautiful,” Mickey rasps, already unbuttoning his shirt.
“She is,” I confirm, removing my suit jacket and shirt before kicking off my shoes and socks, so I’m only wearing my pants.
I walk around the room, trailing my fingers over the assortment of implements hanging on the wall—whips that promise a sting, floggers that offer a thud, paddles designed to leave a mark. Each one speaks to me, whispering promises of the control I ache to exert.
The table beside them is a testament to luxury and depravity, laden with toys still gleaming from their packaging. Butt plugs, dildos, restraints—all tools of the trade in Cupid’s Court.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Mickey asks, crouching in front of her.
She lifts her face. “Abby,” she replies, her voice a melodic whisper that vibrates through the charged air.
“Is that the truth?” I can’t resist the urge to test her, to gauge her reaction.
The whip in my hand sings as I snap it through the air, and I’m rewarded with the sight of her body tensing, readying for an impact that doesn’t come. It’s a delicious moment—power and fear wrapped in one tense breath—and it draws a smile from me.
“Y-yes,” she insists, a tremor betraying her nerves. She hesitates then adds, “May I ask a question?”
I take a moment to appreciate her beauty, the way the light dances across her skin, casting shadows in all the right places. There’s a raw elegance to her posture, a silent invitation begging to be accepted.
When Mickey looks at me, I just shrug. “Of course,” he murmurs, gently cupping her face in his big hands.
I smirk when she relaxes into his touch. This is the mistake they all make, they believe his soft caress, assume he’s the lesser evil. Spoiler alert; Mickey is a dick. He’s my best friend and I love him like family. But where I play with their bodies, he toys with emotions.
“Should I call you anything? Like ‘Sir’ or—”
The corners of my mouth twitch upwards. “Your mouth will be too full to call us anything,” I interject with a scoff, delighting in the taunt. The whip rests in my grip, supple and eager as I draw near and trace its tip up her spine. Her body shivers, and the sound that escapes her is nothing short of music to my ears.
I circle Abby like a hawk eyeing its prey, my annoyance simmering just below the surface. People toss around BDSM like it’s some kind of catch-all term for anyone who likes it rough. They don’t get it.
Not everyone is about the lifestyle; for me it’s about the moment—the power. I’m not looking to own anyone. I just want them beneath me, surrendering because I make them, not because it’s their default setting. In my world, those are two very different things. Others might disagree, but whatever.
Coming to a stop, my eyes land on her hair. I love the crazy black and white locks that perfectly represent both me and Mickey. And what do you know, the white-haired dick is already playing with her white strands, having gathered them in his hand, tickling her skin with the ends.
“Are you aware of the rules, Abby?” I ask sternly.
Her head snaps toward the sound of my voice, “Yes.” When I don’t say anything, she licks her soft-looking lips. “I’m not allowed to remove the mask, and I’m to do what you say.”
I’m immediately annoyed and impressed that she added the last part. “So if I tell you to cut yourself, you’ll do it?” I ask. My tone is low and dark, and I smile cruelly when she shivers.
“Of course not,” she spits.
“So, what are the rules?” I ask again, wanting her to give me an answer that isn’t drone-like.
She inhales slowly, her bra-covered breasts rising, grazing Mickey’s shoulder. “I’m yours until sunrise.”
“Is that all?” Mickey asks, tightening his hold on her hair until she whimpers.
Turning my attention away from the whore on the floor, I walk over to the wall and replace the whip with a leather flogger. My fingers tighten around the handle when she says, “I think so. I don’t know what it is you want me to say.”
The sight of her submission fans the flames within me, but it’s her reaching hand that breaks my resolve. With a sharp flick of my wrist, the flogger connects with the curve of her ass; the sound cracking through the silence. “Sit still,” I snarl, my voice dark with warning.
She cries out, a mix of pain and surprise, and I savor the sound. It’s making me fucking hard. It’s raw, it’s real—it’s music to my ears.
“What are the rules, Abby?” I coldly repeat the question.
“I-I don’t know,” she stutters.
Mickey, ever the gentle one, hushes her with a tender touch, even as he devours her mouth. His hands roam over her, claiming the flesh beneath the skimpy bra, urging her to focus on him and only him.
“Just answer the question,” Mickey rasps when he pulls back. “Tell us the rules.”
Abby takes a shuddering breath. “If I say stop, you’ll do it. You won’t… you’re not allowed to keep going.”
“Bingo,” I growl. “But tonight I’m going to do things to you that’ll make you use that word without meaning to. So pick another one.”
“I… I…” she trails off, her shoulders deflating.
“Shh,” Mickey shushes her again. Then he reclaims her mouth, his hands cupping her tits, squeezing the soft flesh until it almost falls out of the tiny cups in the bra. “Focus on me, Abby,” he rasps, and it’s not just a command—it’s a plea. Mickey needs this connection, always seeking something deeper, something more meaningful than the corporeal.
While he does his best to manipulate her into relaxing, I run the flogger across her shoulders and down her back. She shudders under the touch, but doesn’t stop kissing Mickey.
The leather flogger is an extension of my will, a silent partner in this twisted tango of flesh and desire. I watch her shudder under its caress—her skin becoming goose pimples, her breath hitching—as it traces the path down her spine. Mickey’s lips are locked with hers, their kiss deep and consuming.
“Choose a word, Abby,” I insist.
Mickey shoots me a glare when she moves back, releasing his lips.
“No,” Abby says, shaking her head. “If you can’t tell whether I really mean it when I say stop, it sounds like you shouldn’t have this power over me.”
There’s something familiar about her the moment she says that. Something in her voice, like I’ve heard it before. I’m distracted by the way my cock throbs in response to her sass. I want to make her skin burn for speaking like that to me, but knowing what my friend wants, I let them make out while I pick out a pair of nipple clamps, even choose one for her clit.
After removing my pants, I return to them. “Take off her bra,” I say to Mick, who quickly disposes of the fabric.
My eyes are immediately drawn to her beaded nipples, and I lick my lips as I move closer. Without warning, I bend down and grasp one, soaking up her cries when I put the clamp on it. She makes less noise with the second one, but the way she bites her lip tells me she’s holding back.
“What a good whore you are,” I rasp. “Spread your legs wider.”
Doing as I say, she parts her thighs as much as possible while staying on her knees. The crotchless thong perfectly shows her rosy pussy lips. “And you’re all bare,” Mickey says huskily.
Instead of touching her, he stands up and quickly slips out of his clothes. Unlike me, he doesn’t keep his boxer briefs on. I silently quirk my brow at him, but he just grins in response. Fisting his cock, he lazily gives it a few strokes before moving in front of her.
“Open your mouth,” I demand. Since we’re now standing next to each other, she won’t know which one of us said it.
Mickey slips the tip of his pierced cock into her mouth, and she obediently closes her lips around his length. As her cheeks hollow, he groans and pushes himself further into her mouth. The moans and whimpers coming from her make my own hardness throb.
Her hands come up, almost touching his thighs. I know it’s so she can steady herself, but she still doesn’t have permission to move.
With a flick of my wrist, I send the flogger across her back. Once. Twice. At the first hit, she rears back, looking around, confused. The second time, she cries out. When I land the third blow, it catches her side-boob, and she instinctively covers herself like that’s going to stop the pain.
“Remove your hands,” I growl. She whimpers. “Now.”
Straightening her back, she lets her hands fall to the side, clenching them when I hit her again for the fourth and fifth time. To my dissatisfaction, she doesn’t cry out again. Instead, she bites down on her lip, so hard a line of blood trails down her chin. Fucking beautiful.
“Let’s see if you liked that,” Mickey rasps, getting down on his knees and shoving his hand between her legs. “Ohh, you did. Very much.”
She moans and cocks her head to the side, widening her legs again.
“Is she wet?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Fucking soaked,” he answers, his tone filled with gravel.
“Are you wet?” I ask, wanting to hear her say it.
“Yes,” she murmurs.
“Show me,” I command.
She hesitates. “How?”
“Present yourself to me like the whore you are.”
Nervous laughter falls from her lips, but I’m not amused, so I swing the flogger again. I laugh cruelly as she scurries to her hands and knees, arching her back and spreading her legs wide. “Is this what you meant?” she asks, a hint of curiosity and want in her tone, like she genuinely wants to please me.
“Very good,” Mickey says approvingly. “Lower your head on the floor and use your hands to spread those delicious cheeks. Show him your holes.”
Normally, I find it boring when the women are too eager to obey our commands. But this anonymous beauty, Abby, is different. I don’t know what it is about her. Perhaps it’s the air of innocence, or maybe the fact that she seems eager for the right reasons. No, I think it’s the way she manages to satisfy the both of us, meeting our needs in a way that doesn’t seem forced.
Most women don’t get wet until Mickey gets his hands on them for real, but this one is different. Her cunt is glistening, her folds swollen, and she’s panting hard. The sight has me so painfully hard; I shove my boxer briefs off and cup my junk.
“Do you know how hard it makes me to see you like that?” I rasp.
I don’t normally have sex with the woman we buy. That’s Mickey’s preference, not mine. I can get my dick serviced anytime, anywhere—I don’t need a sex club for that. It’s the darker side of my appetite I satiate here. But tonight, with her, I might just make an exception.
“Crawl over to him,” Mickey commands. Then he leans in closer, whispering something in her ear that I can’t hear.
She moves her head in the direction she thinks I am, which is all wrong. But before I can say anything, Mickey leans forward and captures her lips in a kiss while pulling on the nipple clamps, swallowing up her whimpers and moans. When he lets go of her mouth, I speak up.
“Crawl backwards, whore. Follow my voice.”
I keep talking to help her as she hesitantly backs her delicious ass toward me. With each movement, I give my cock another tug and squeeze. Pre-cum oozes from my slit, and I can hardly believe just how fucking turned on I am.
“You did good,” Mickey praises her when the soft globes of her ass graze my leg. “Remember what I told you?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Do it.”
I try to catch my friend’s eyes, but he deliberately avoids my gaze, and I clench my hands at my side. He’s not meant to keep secrets from me, especially not with the whore we’re paying for. How do I know if she’s acting without permission if I don’t know what orders he’s given her? I might be a piece of shit, but I don’t punish without reason.
Looking down at the whore on the floor, I watch her turn around, slowly rising to her knees. Her hands reach for me, and when they land on my thighs, she immediately runs them up my skin to my aching cock.
I groan as she closes one hand around the base while the other gently cups my sack. “Fuck.” I squeeze my eyes shut and throw my head back as her warm, wet mouth closes around the tip. Gone are the thoughts about this not being part of my plans for tonight. All that matters is her tongue snaking around the crown.
When I open my eyes again, I find Mick perched right behind her with a dildo in his hand. He looks up at me and winks, handing me the toy. I take it, and fist one hand in the whore’s hair, wrenching her off my cock, smiling when she whines in protest.
“Lick it,” I rasp, rubbing the dildo across her lips. “Make it as wet as your cunt is.”
Her tongue darts out, and she eagerly coats the toy in her saliva. Once I’m satisfied it’s wet enough, I give it back to Mickey and nudge her lips with my hardness. “Open wide,” I instruct.
At the same time, Mick growls, “Arch your back. Show me you want it.”
I can’t see exactly what he’s doing, but I know the moment he pushes the large dildo inside her. She lets go of my cock, throws her head back and moans loudly. “Oh, my… fuck!”
Tightening my hold on her hair, I pull until she whimpers. “I didn’t say you could stop, whore.”
“S-sorry.”
“Take me deeper,” I grunt, my hips surging forward until the tip of my dick hits the back of her throat.
The wet noises from her cunt and mouth are fucking divine, and I struggle to hold back. I want to make her scream my name, both from pleasure and pain. I want… I want to… “Goddamn, Abby,” I groan, fucking her throat harder.
She gags and sputters, and it doesn’t take long before tears stream down the parts of her face visible to me. I count to ten before pulling back, allowing her to take a deep breath before my hips surge forward again. I repeat this over and over, ignoring her garbled cries, her husky pleas to let her breathe.
I’m so focused on the feel of her mouth I don’t realize Mickey has moved closer until he yanks my hand away from her hair and pulls her off me. For a moment, I can’t move, carefully watching the string of saliva connecting her lips to my dick.
“What the fuck?” I growl, finally coming to my senses.
“She needs to breathe, dickhead,” Mickey replies, winking at me from behind her. He softly scoops her up in his arms and carries her over to the massive bed in the corner. “Look at you being all brave, sucking his dick without complaining.”
I shake my head, doing my best to hold back my anger at being interrupted. This is Mickey’s game, and no matter how much my balls ache with the need to nut, I won’t interrupt.