ONE #2
I’d asked myself the same question every time, yet the answer never came. I couldn’t believe there were so many women into these kinds of kinks, let alone willing to share them. What was it that drove them? A trauma from their past? Or was it something else, something darker, more primal?
My lips curved into a bitter smirk, but before my mind could stray too far into that forbidden corner, I shut my eyes tight.
The sting of the contacts was harsh and biting, yet it grounded me.
It wasn’t pain exactly, but it felt real enough to distract me from why I was here; the thought that I was completely dead inside. Or on my way to that.
The poison of the night was a woman with the username Scarlett – thirty-three, according to her profile.
Her picture was a masterpiece of mystery and seduction.
A Venetian mask adorned the upper half of her face, elaborate and laced with beads and metallic accents.
Something pointy dangled from its rims, catching the light like jagged claws poised to pierce her skin.
It wasn’t just a mask – it was a weapon in its own right.
Her photo was a side view. Her delicate jawline curved into an ear studded with dangling earrings.
I had counted at least eight on that ear, each one more intricate than the last. Her lips gleamed blood red like an invitation and a warning.
The lighting in the photo was low, intimate, a stage obviously set to lure and disarm.
Which it had.
I was completely fucking disarmed.
Drawn tightly into a low bun, her dark hair framed an olive complexion that hinted at Mediterranean roots. Italian, perhaps?
Her profile listed several languages – a fact that intrigued me more than it should have. There was nothing sexier than a woman with brains.
She was educated – that much was obvious.
The kinks field on her profile had been starkly empty except for one solitary, tantalising word: ‘Exploring’.
My dick twitched at the thought. To imagine a woman like her wanting to explore something like this – with me… Her surrender – if she surrendered – would be my undoing.
But I forced out a heavy breath, my fingers tightening against my thighs.
No illusions, no expectations. This wasn’t the place for fantasies beyond the ones we paid for.
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ I muttered under my breath, my voice rasping against the low hum of the room. Hope was a poison far more dangerous than anything in my duffel bag.
Pulling out the phone from my jeans, I checked the screen.
Three minutes left. Three minutes that stretched like a lifetime as I sat there, staring at the closed door of the second adjoining changing room.
It mocked me in its silence, taunted me with the promise that it might swing open at any moment.
Yet, it stayed firmly shut, testing the limits of my patience.
It had always been one of my finer qualities – patience.
I had honed it over the years, just as the past had honed the darkness in me.
Its prime purpose had been to orchestrate the meticulous elimination of shadows that haunted that past – a masterpiece I took no small amount of pride in crafting, though it concluded with far less fanfare than I had imagined.
But here, in this neon-lit room with my blood running hotter by the second, that patience was challenged.
And that fucking door…
It called to me, daring to give in – to rise and rip it open, to catch her before she was ready. The thought was nearly impossible to resist. But I stayed put, my fists flexing and tightening as I imagined what she would look like when she stepped through.
Leather? Lace? Both?
Neither?
A pulse of heat shot through me, my dick stirring to life as though it could sense her presence on the other side.
I let out another sharp breath, trying to steady myself, but the images wouldn’t stop.
They’d all been beautiful so far, the women who’d seen me here.
Each in their own way, each a different kind of temptation.
But beauty wasn’t enough – not for me. When things started to get real, when the spark of fear ignited in their eyes…
That thrill was a high like no other. And yet, it was always the same: the fear grew too raw, too overwhelming, and they would bolt for the exit before things could reach their natural conclusion.
I hated it. And I loved it.
The sound of the door handle turning snapped me from my spiralling thoughts. My breath stuck in my throat. The click of the latch felt deafening in the stillness, a single note of anticipation that thrummed through me like a devil’s symphony.
My throat barely managed a quick swallow, my pulse a roaring drumbeat in my ears.
Please, I sent a prayer to the devil, let her be as fucked up as I am.
‘What am I doing?’ I murmured to myself, staring at the keycard slot as if it might actually answer.
The card trembled in my grip, caught between my fingers like evidence of my sanity finally splitting at the seams. I clenched it until the edge bit into my palm, a petty punishment for walking this far. For wanting this.
The red light above the slot blinked – once, twice. Mocking, more than contemptuous.
But also… welcoming. Like a mouth curled into a secret smile, waiting to swallow me whole.
I could still turn back.
Blame the weather, the time, the heat clinging to my skin like guilt. I could call a cab and return to the world without ever knowing what was behind that door.
But I had seen what happened in that world, too. The men who smiled openly still lied. Still took. And I was still unravelling.
I cast a sidelong glance at the mirror. The woman staring back looked like she had stepped out of a magazine: crimson lips, lined eyes, brown contacts. And a Venetian mask.
A stranger in drag, almost.
I exhaled, long and low.
The mask…
That was it, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just the itch of curiosity that dragged me here like a loose thread I couldn’t stop pulling.
It was the mask. The illusion. The armour that hid what trembled underneath: anxiety, shame, the stitched-up remnants left behind by the man who was meant to protect me.
But that was ancient history. One I’d left behind in the States.
The keycard had stolen the warmth of my palm. It was beginning to feel weightless. Damning.
I didn’t know if I’d come here to take control or to hand it away.
I only knew that the door hadn’t opened yet, and I hadn’t told my feet to leave.
But I needed to break the cycle of nightmares and nights spent checking the locks; the routine that chipped away at what remained of me.
Despite myself, I moved before the decision fully formed. The card slid in with a finality my heart hadn’t agreed to yet.
The light smiled green at me.
My heart thundered as I made that first, condemning step over the threshold.
The low thrum of ambient music blended with the sound of my quickened breath.
The space was dark, decadent, a velvet-clad secret that seemed to welcome and judge me all at once.
The red carpet stretched like blood beneath my feet, its richness muted by the shadowy, purple walls.
There were no paintings, no ornaments save for the mirrors.
Here, identity didn’t matter, judgment didn’t exist despite my imagination. Only desire. Only fantasy.