CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
ZARA
An energy buzzes to life as we meander through the crowd at Magie Noire, as if the whole place is holding their breath because Axel has arrived. He was here a few weeks ago though. So, it’s that he’s here with me. Here to use the club he owns.
I purposefully don’t scrutinize faces. The last thing I need is to be hung up on an identity.
The night of the Prohibition Ball, I recognized a woman.
I’d killed her husband a few years ago. He’d been involved in a large trafficking ring.
It seemed she’d moved on and gotten herself a better life.
Hopefully. But it stuck with me throughout the evening.
I don’t want any of that to taint my experience here.
When we reach Axel’s door, his explanation of the setup is clearer. It’s the first room in the owners’ wing, so one whole wall is glass, facing the voyeur hall.
“Security confiscates all phones and weapons before a member enters this area, so there’s no possibility of pictures or safety issues.
” He shuts us inside, leaving us in the dark until a candle bathes the space in a golden glow.
“We’ll start with dim lighting. Right now, any voyeurs will only be able to see a silhouette of us.
No details. You have control of the situation the entire time.
If you’re willing to give them more, you can light another candle, adjust the dimmer switch on the overhead to what you’d prefer, or turn on a sconce.
Otherwise, I’ll alert you when I’m going to change it. ”
“Okay.” There’s a slight quaver laced through my agreement, but it’s adrenaline more than jitters.
The space is simple and classy, more elegant than I’d have expected but so Axel. Chandeliers and plush velvet and a four-poster bed. Warm, neutral colors, toys galore, and even some multipurpose furniture. But I suspect the show-stealer of any BDSM dungeon is Axel’s commanding tenor.
He swaggers toward me—sure and regal—skimming his fingertips over my bare shoulders in a tantalizing tease. “Are you ready to begin?”
“So ready,” I breathe because my entire body is trembling with erotic fantasies.
He dips his chin, but his quirked lips reveal how much he’s relishing my fervor. “What’s your safe word?”
“Coin.”
“Good girl. Let’s get you out of this dress.” He leisurely works the buttons of the corset bodice, which has the thrill of what will transpire utterly wrecking me.
It takes a painfully long time, and he chuckles at my impatience until he rucks the mess of silk and tulle down to my feet, instructing me to step out. I do with my heels still on and my bare ass facing the glass wall. He prowls around me, never acknowledging the onlookers. Only admiring me.
“Look at what a mess you made.” He tsks in feigned disapproval, trailing one finger along the thin string covering my pussy and dipping inside me while I squirm for more. “Always so greedy.”
The lingerie is designed to feel like bondage, with various straps bound around my waist, breasts, and hips.
Axel picked it for me. It does a poor job of covering anything, and it bites into my skin, but there was a lining added to my dress with that in mind.
He wanted me to ache for him all during the ceremony and reception.
It worked. Every brush was like a pinprick of flames.
That’s only heightened by the observers we have. I don’t dare crane my neck to catalog them directly, but there’s a horde of them. Most are clad in more playful attire too.
Axel removes his finger and traces my lips, forcing it inside for me to suck. His eyes are hooded at the sight, just as undone as I am. “So pretty when you hollow those cheeks,” he praises. “I might have to put your mouth to work earlier than I planned. Kneel while I hang up your dress.”
Before I comply, I point to the row of candles he has out. “May I?”
His sapphires flash with hunger. “You may.”
I use the lighter to ignite another wick, casting the room in shadows and warmth, and murmurs from the hall transcend the glass. When I kneel, I know our audience can see the details of my wedding-day lingerie.
Shame drapes over me as I question myself again. Why does this excite me so much?
Axel crouches before me, lifting my chin. “Who holds it all?”
How does he know without seeing my face or hearing my voice?
“You do.”
“I do.” His jacket is gone, and his sleeves are pushed up to brandish his corded forearms—every part of him is striking. He tucks a rogue curl behind my ear, veneration written in every line on his face. “And I say you’re perfect and sexy and mine. So, what are you?”
“Perfect and sexy and yours,” I repeat.
“Brilliant and brave,” he adds, weaving his fingers into my hair and conquering my mouth.
It’s soft and reassuring. Dominance, imposed with the caress of a feather. Total annihilation. And over before I want it to be.
“Should I put you on the spanking bench to remind you, or do you think bound and tortured with electric stimulation and endless orgasms will drive the lesson home better?”
My head bobs in dazed glory.
His thumb sweeps over my lip, freeing it from my teeth. “Words, my beautiful wife.”
“Orgasm torture, please.”
“So polite,” he croons. “Climb on the bed and sit between the posts.” As I comply, he follows me, outlining what he plans to do.
“I’m going to remove your panty string. Your pussy will be bare to anyone watching, especially if the lights are brighter.
Each time you orgasm, I will remove another cord of your lingerie until you are stripped of everything but your collar.
” He lingers there before growling his final sentiment. “Including your shame.”
That’s why I can do this—live out a fantasy I nearly didn’t admit to, but desperately craved. Because he approaches everything with such thought and care. It’s cathartic instead of terrifying. Even before we truly begin.
“It’s all yours,” I vow, waiting on the bed for his next direction.
“That’s my fearless Thorn.”
Using a switchblade, he carefully cuts the thin strip covering my pussy.
Then he has me scooch to the edge of the bed, stretching my arm up toward the post, where he cuffs my wrist, and repeating it all on the other side.
It has my chest jutting out and my spine snapped ramrod straight due to the reach.
He bends my legs, resting my heels on the lip of the footboard and attaching a spreader bar to each ankle, which keeps my thighs open.
Finally, he checks to be sure my circulation is okay, touching each of my fingers and verifying that I can feel the sensation. Once he’s satisfied, he takes a step back and smirks at his work. “Comfortable?”
“Absolutely,” I sass. “Why don’t we watch movies like this?”
“You just bought yourself a bound-and-gagged Netflix night. Any other smart-ass remarks, Mrs. Noire?”
I can’t help but smile that he can no longer call me Miss West. “No, sir. I’m quite comfortable.”
That seems to please him.
“I’m going to blindfold you to start.” He removes his tie to illustrate that. “I’ll be turning up the lights after each orgasm, but all you’re to focus on is my voice, my commands, and your pleasure. Understood?”
“Understood.”
He places a handheld metal counter in my palm, curling my fingers into the right position on it. “Every time you come, you press the counter. If you drop it or miscount, you’ll be punished.”
“Got it.” I swallow, my bones vibrating with lust from the buildup of two days of edging and now a throng of onlookers and this agonizingly slow process to guide me to the coveted finish line.
He wraps his black silk tie around my eyes. It’s loose enough that if I look down, I’ll be able to discern the level of light without the complete awareness.
“Are you going to be part of this show? Will we both be exposed at some point?”
“When you’ve earned it,” he replies from somewhere farther away.
A faint amber glow shines through the seam of my blindfold. More light. More visibility. More murmurs from the audience—louder this time.
“And when is that?” I rasp, attempting to calm my nerves while he makes me wait here, alone, blind, exposed. Desperate.
“When you beg for my cock after”—his tuxedo pants brush against my calf, rough and alluring, and he tugs the barely there cup of my bra down to free my pebbled nipple, tweaking it for emphasis—“five orgasms.”
That shoots right to my spasming core, my thighs shaking. Five. I’m about to give him one right now, at just the thought.
“Fuck, Zar,” he hisses, plainly noting the tremors cascading through my limbs and how absurdly wet I am. “I haven’t even started. You’re glistening so pretty, and you’ve been such a good girl. You waited two days for me. I think I’ll just keep you in a constant state of arousal.”
That could work.
An electrifying charge—not a metaphorical one—sweeps down one arm, across my breasts, and up the other.
It’s like calloused fingertips chafing my heated flesh, heightening my need.
I knew I’d fucking like this. Another request. Electrostimulation delivered through a wand and various attachments, designed for erotic pleasure.
He drags it over my nipple, and it’s a little more sensitive, but delightfully so.
When he thrusts two fingers inside me, the charge cascading over my breasts grows in strength. He must’ve turned it up. He pumps in and out of my wet entrance, the crude sound of my arousal filling the room, and his thumb circles my clit as he zaps my nipple with the electro wand.
An unfiltered moan springs from me. Part shock, part salacity.
There are so many sensations—the leather binding my wrists and ankles, the taut strings of my lingerie, the cool air hitting my most sensitive parts, the subtle jolts of electricity and the coarse itch of it grazing my skin. Axel’s fingers and hushed groans.
And the darkness keeps me shrouded in it all.
“Oh my,” I pant, rocking my hips into his hand to increase the friction. “I’m so … oh God, I’m so close already.”