Four
NICKI
My eyelids feel like they’re lined with sandpaper. The first blink takes three times longer than it should, the second not much better, and by the third, I’m not sure I’m actually awake at all.
Looking around, I realize I have no idea where I am. I’m lying on a bed with sheets softer than a feather. The ceiling above me is a red, dark crimson. Blood-wine red, the kind of red that eats light instead of reflecting it.
The room tilts hard enough to make my stomach lurch when I lift my head. Fuck. My arms are lead, my legs are worse.
The needle prick. I remember the needle prick. My hand flies to my neck and finds the tiny raised dot, still tender, and my heart jackrabbits against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Whatever he shot into my neck is still swimming through my system, turning my muscles to water and my thoughts to sludge.
“Breathe,” I whisper to myself. “Breathe. Just keep breathing.”
As I crane my neck to look at the entire room, my heartbeat picks up. Oh, God… this is… no, it can’t be. But… it is. And I don’t need to keep looking around to know all the walls are crimson, that all the furniture is dark wood.
Or that there’s a bookshelf crammed with props: masks, leather cuffs, a whip coiled on the top shelf like a sleeping snake.
I’ve seen this room.
I’ve watched this room.
Hundreds, thumb-scrolling through my For You page at two in the morning, pausing on the videos where a man with a tattooed chest and a white mask does push-ups or pours whiskey down his throat or just stands there, arms crossed, staring into the camera like he’s thinking about exactly how he’d ruin you.
This is Dominic’s Red Room of Terror. His signature. His brand.
My tongue is thick in my mouth. I swallow, and it hurts. My eyes drag down to my body. My ‘HOT GIRLS READ SMUT’ tank top is still on, rumpled and riding up my stomach, but my denim shorts are gone.
Pressing my legs together, I feel it—the sticky, cooling drag of dried cum on my inner thighs, flaking when I shift my legs. His cum. From the library.
The memory slams into me with the force of a truck: his cock buried inside me, his hand around my throat, the shelf rattling with every thrust.
My cheeks burn. My pussy clenches, empty and aching. Fuck… that was hot.
“D- Dominic?” The name forms on my lips before my brain has fully caught up, my voice raspy and thin. “Is that you?”
I see movement at the edge of the room, where the shadows are deepest. A shape detaches itself from the darkness and steps into the dull red glow of what must be a hidden lamp somewhere.
The white mask stares back at me, expression fixed in its perpetual silent scream. Below it, his chest is bare, the tattoos a riot of ink across skin: dragons coiling around his ribs, mermaids diving along the lines of his obliques, tribal patterns climbing his shoulders.
His arms are crossed over his chest, and on the back of his right hand, four distinct crescent-shaped marks stare back at me.
My bite. From the library. I remember my teeth sinking into his palm, the taste of copper, the way he didn’t even flinch.
He laughs. Low, dark, unhurried, the sound vibrating through the mask and filling the room like smoke. “Hey, Nicki.”
My name in his mouth sounds wickedly delicious.
“Welcome to the Red Room.” His voice is deep, controlled, with that particular deadpan quality that makes everything he says sound like either a threat or a promise. “Glad you could make it. You’ve been an invited guest for a while.”
“I didn’t—” I start, but my voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “I didn’t accept any invitation. You drugged me. You fucking kidnapped me. Why? Why me? What is this? My followers will know I’m missing.”
He uncrosses his arms and reaches into the pocket of his jeans. What he pulls out is small, black, rectangular: a digital timer. He clicks it on, and red digits flare to life: 30:00. He sets it on the bedside table next to me, angling it so I can see the numbers from where I’m lying.
“Here’s the deal,” he says. His fingers tap once on the timer’s face. “For every orgasm I can give you in the next thirty minutes, I’ll answer one question. Any question. You want to know why I brought you here? What happens next? Earn it.”
I push myself upright on the bed, my palms flat against the smooth covers, my legs pressing together so tight my thighs ache.
Scanning the room, I only see one door. The one behind him, obviously. There are no windows that I can see. My chances of getting past him, even if I could stand without my knees buckling, are approximately zero.
“That’s insane,” I argue. The words come out steadier than I feel. “You can’t just… that’s not how this works.”
He tilts his head, the mask’s empty eyeholes fixed on me, and I can feel him smiling behind it. I know I can. I’ve watched enough of his videos to know exactly what that tilted head means.
Dominic taps the digital timer. “Better not waste any time,” he drawls.
The red digits blink: 29:47.
“O-okay,” I agree shakily.
The words barely leave my mouth before he joins me on the bed. His fingers find my pussy without hesitation, as if he’s mapped my body from memory. Two fingers slide through my wetness—fuck, I’m already dripping—and he curls them inside me with a precision that makes my thighs jerk.
“Jesus Christ,” I gasp.
He works me open slowly, then faster, adding a third finger when my hips push back against his hand. The stretch burns, and I hiss through my teeth, but my body doesn’t stop. It fucking welcomes it, clenching around him, sucking his fingers deeper.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. The thought hits me like a slap: he’s done this before. Many times. With other women. The jealousy that lances through my chest is so sudden and so vicious it makes me dig my nails into the velvet covers.
“Stop thinking,” he says, his voice muffled by the mask. “Just feel what I’m doing to you.”
Nodding, I bite my lip to stop from screaming as he scissors his fingers. But… fuck. “Dominic,” I cry, my back arching. “That feels so good.”
He hums in agreement. “Your cunt feels fucking amazing, Nicki,” he growls, dragging his palm across my clit.
“Oh, fuck!” I scream. I’m right there, teetering on the edge. And I just need a little more to… “Yes!”
The first orgasm tears through me so fast I don’t have time to prepare for it. My spine bows, my heels dig into the mattress, and a broken, ragged sound rips out of my throat before I can swallow it down.
My pussy pulses around his fingers in violent, clenching waves that don’t stop, and I ride it out.
“That’s one.” His fingers don’t stop moving, drawing out the aftershocks until I’m whimpering. “You’re such a good and responsive girl, aren’t you? My good girl.” The pet name sends a fresh wave of heat between my legs.
Before I can recover, his hands are on my hips, dragging me to the edge of the bed. My ass hangs half-off, my legs spread wide. As he kneels there, he swings my legs over his shoulders.
“Are you ready for my mouth?” he asks.
“Y-yes,” I moan eagerly. Finally, I get to see his face.
I practically tremble as he removes the mask. But much to my chagrin and pleasure his entire face is pressed against me. I can’t fucking see his features from this angle.
His tongue is flat and hot against my clit, lapping through my folds with the focus of a man who’s determined to consume me. I grab fistfuls of his hair—short, soft between my fingers—and hold on as he eats me like he’s starving.
His tongue circles my clit, flicks against it, then sucks it between his lips, and the second orgasm hits me like a freight train.
“Fuck! Oh, fuck, Dominic…” His name tears out of me unbidden, and I don’t have the capacity to regret it because I’m coming so hard my vision whites out at the edges.
My thighs clamp around his head, my hips bucking against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t fucking stop. He pulls my thighs apart wider, his grip bruising, and then his tongue drags lower, pressing against my ass while his fingers curl inside my pussy.
The dual sensation is so intense I scream, my voice cracking on a “wait!” that he ignores entirely. His tongue works against my asshole, wet and relentless, and his fingers find that spot inside me that makes my entire body convulse.
The third orgasm rips through me, and this time the sound that comes out of me is barely human—a raw, shattered sob that echoes off the crimson walls.
My fingers knot in the sheets, my body shaking so hard the bed frame creaks, and I come with his tongue on my ass and his fingers buried deep inside me.
“Don’t you dare stop,” I hear myself say next, the words dissolving into a moan as his fingers scissor again. “Oh, more. More, Dominic. Please!”
I lose track of my orgasms, of anything, and just feel. The way he’s using my body’s downright addictive, and even though I know I shouldn’t want it, I do. I want it—him, and everything that entails.
Dominic reaches for the side table, and I quickly push myself up on my elbows so I can see his face. But… he’s put the mask back on. Fuck. When the hell did he do that?
My jaw slackens as he casually pulls out nipple clamps, connected by a thin chain. Before I can protest, he tears my tank off and roughly pinches my right nipple. The sharp bite of pain makes me cry out.
“Dominic!”
With the right clamp in place, he moves on to the left. Making sure the chain pulls taut between them, which sends another jolt of agony-pleasure straight to my clit.
“Fuck!” I arch off the bed, even curling my toes.
That’s when I feel it—something buzzing against my clit, hard and relentless, while his fingers continue their assault inside me.
A vibrator.
He’s holding a vibrator against my clit, and the combined sensation of the clamps pulling at my nipples, the vibrator buzzing against my oversensitive clit, and his fingers curling inside me is too much.
The next orgasm hits with barely any warning, a violent, full-body shudder that has me grabbing his forearm to steady myself. My nails dig into his skin, and I feel him groan against my thigh.
“That’s five so far, baby,” he grunts, and the vibrator doesn’t stop.
Six comes less than a minute later, my body shaking so hard I’m gasping for air, my voice reduced to broken whimpers. The clamps have turned my nipples into throbbing points of pain that feed directly into the pleasure.
My pussy is so sensitized that every stroke of his fingers borders on torture, and still I push my hips down, begging for more with my body when my voice fails.
The seventh and eighth orgasms come in the final minutes, so close together they blur into one continuous wave of sensation that has me sobbing. I’m beyond words at this point. Fuck, I’m beyond feeling anything but the pleasure and pain he gives me.
My body is limp against the mattress, my chest heaving, sweat soaking on my skin, and my thighs tremble with aftershocks that don’t seem to end.
The timer beeps—a sharp, electronic sound that cuts through the haze—and Dominic straightens.
He looks at the clock, then back at me. “You did so well, baby,” he praises. “Eight orgasms in half an hour. You’ve earned yourself eight questions.”
My limbs feel like they’ve been replaced with concrete. My pussy is swollen, aching, every nerve ending firing sporadic signals of pleasure-pain that make me twitch against the sheets. I can’t move. Literally cannot move.
After freeing me from the nipple clamps—which hurts worse than having them on—Dominic climbs onto the bed. He lies down on his back, pulling me with him and positioning me so my head’s on his chest and one leg swung over his hip.
“Ask away,” he murmurs.