11. POLITE IN PUBLIC, FILTHY IN THE PLAYROOM
POLITE IN PUBLIC, FILTHY IN THE PLAYROOM
The Oily Cat didn’t judge. It absorbed. It inhaled shame, lust, grief, and longing in equal measure and exhaled something that almost tasted like redemption.
Tonight, the air pressed in with a strange density, and something electric crawled beneath my skin.
The oil lamps along the hallway burned low, casting elongated shadows on the floor.
Light flickered against dark-paneled wood, and for a moment, everything existed in slow motion.
The sounds from downstairs were muffled, but I could still make them out—the low roll of conversation, the distant clink of glass, and the occasional burst of laughter that rang hollow.
The scent in the air was as familiar as my own perfume.
Tobacco, cheap cologne, and the unmistakable musk of arousal—of expectations soon to be bartered and bought.
It clung to the curtains, to the velvet chairs, to skin, and no one left the Cat without carrying some of it with them, whether they realized it or not.
I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the lace of my corset.
The fabric was tight, cinched in just enough to make my breath shallow, but I preferred it that way.
The corset, the heels, the bloodred lipstick, they weren’t just for show, they were part of the performance.
They were my armor. I ran my fingers along the hem of the corset, checking for fraying, even though I knew it was perfect.
I had a ritual before every night began, and I didn’t deviate.
Rituals made chaos feel manageable, and here, chaos wasn’t just expected, it was currency.
A soft creak came from the hallway beyond my door, boots on wood, a signal that the night was beginning. I made my way downstairs, the old banister cool beneath my fingers, as the murmur of voices swelled with each step.
Violet was holding court, perched like usual on the armrest of the worn velvet sofa near the entrance, spinning one of her well-polished lies.
Tonight’s tale? A brief stint in the circus.
Contortionist. Acrobatic marvel. The kind of fantasy that made rugged men like the miner beside her imagine her folding in ways that had nothing to do with the rings or trapeze, and she knew exactly what she was doing.
Violet didn’t tell stories for amusement, she told them to disarm, to draw men in like a slow pour of honey over a knife’s edge.
Her laugh cut through the fog of tobacco and whiskey and the poor bastard beside her didn’t stand a chance.
He was already leaning in too close, already halfway gone.
Further into the parlor, Maeve played her own quiet game.
She was draped over the back of a loveseat, her hair a red veil that shimmered with candlelight.
The man in front of her, older and desperate, was whispering like he thought secrets might unlock something in her. But Maeve wasn’t listening, not really.
Her eyes were scanning the room, catching every movement, every drink poured, and every whisper shared.
She looked disinterested, almost bored, but I knew better.
She didn’t waste her energy on pretending to care.
Maeve dealt in scarcity; her attention, her smile, her touch, nothing was given freely.
And that’s what made men want her more. She had the air of someone who’d once had everything ripped away and now kept every piece of herself behind lock and key.
At the bar, Elona and Nell were locked in another one of their heated debates.
I didn’t need to hear the words to know it was about something pointless, but passionately defended.
Politics, probably. Morals, maybe. Or simply the illusion of choice.
Elona gestured wildly, one long-fingered hand slicing the air while the other clutched a glass of dark liquid, and her cheekbones caught the light like daggers.
She had that same feral glint in her eyes that made men mistake her for a challenge, not a threat.
Until they tried something, then they learned that Elona wasn’t built for softness, she burned too hot.
Too bright. The kind of woman who made you think about your own mortality with a devious smile.
And the fools kept coming anyway, drawn like insects to the inevitable fire.
Emil stood by the door, arms crossed, unmoved by the heat and noise of the room in front him. His attention moved constantly, tracking everything without ever looking impressed by it, his expression unreadable.
I stepped into the parlor, the piano put out a slow and aching tune in the corner that was just melancholy enough to make everything feel more romantic than it deserved.
A couple of miners sat hunched at a table near the back, slurring through a game of cards, their laughter clumsy and rough-edged.
At the bar, a lone man nursed his drink, eyes fixed on Maeve like she was a puzzle he was desperate to solve.
I felt their stares before I ever saw them.
That familiar, unwelcome heat, crawling up the back of my neck.
And when I finally looked, nothing had changed.
That same unmistakable blend of hunger and conquest burned in their eyes, as if wanting me was enough to claim me.
As if I were something to take, not something that could bite back.
Maybe tonight, I’d let them believe they were the ones in control.
And maybe tonight, I’d remind them how wrong they were.
I crossed the room, letting my hips sway with lazy confidence, until I reached Violet, still perched on the couch armrest. Her attention was half on the miner beside her and half on me, eyes lighting up as I approached.
“Birdie, darling, you look delicious tonight,” she purred, lips curling into a smirk.
I winked. “Hopefully I taste just as good as I look.”
The miner swallowed hard. Violet caught the shift in his expression and chortled. “Well, we do aim to please, don’t we?”
“Only when they earn it.” I teased, my eyes scanning the room.
Then I saw him. The one who’d been watching me from the corner booth since I walked in. He was trying to look casual, leaning against the table as if he hadn’t been burning holes through me since the moment I stepped downstairs.
Sweet thing. He probably thought he was being subtle.
I took my time crossing the room, my heels clipping against the floor with just enough bite to slice through the noise, and with each inch I closed, I could sense the tension in him coiling tighter.
I stood before him, an inch too close, close enough to make him nervous, and could feel the heat roll off him. Could see the way his breath hitched, how his hands twitched at his side like they were fighting the urge to move.
“Do you want me?” I asked, daring him to pretend that he didn't. If he was going to eye-fuck me all night, why not let him experience it properly?
I watched his throat work as he swallowed, his Adam's apple shifting up and down.
“Yes,” he whispered, the word breaking on it's way out.
I let my fingers trail along his collar, my nails dragging lightly over the fabric, and I felt the stutter of his heartbeat through the thin cotton.
He was unraveling already, bit by bit, one teasing touch at a time, and the power of it surged through me.
This raw desire twisted into something I could mold, control, or even break if I wanted.
I hadn’t let this side of me out in weeks, and now, it was hungry.
I leaned closer, brushing my lips against the warm pulse at his neck, tasting the salt of his skin, my teeth grazed him lightly.
“Then you’ll have to pay for it first,” I murmured, my breath hot against his ear as my hand slid lower.
“That's how you'll earn every inch of me.” His body trembled under my touch, cock already straining against his pants, begging for attention he hadn’t earned yet as he fumbled for his wallet.
With the cash in my hand, I caught his wrist and pulled him through the crowd, guiding him upstairs to one of my favorite playrooms. At the center, a large circular bed dominated the space, draped in black silk sheets.
In the corner stood an ornate padded chair, its leather arm and leg straps gleaming, ready to bind and expose.
Nearby, a wooden chest table held feathers, oils, and a coiled whip waiting for its turn.
But the real star was the tall, multi-paneled mirror spanning one wall, reflecting every angle of surrender.
“Strip,” I commanded, my voice impatient. “Turn around and face the mirror. I want you to watch yourself.”
He hesitated, looking at me like he wasn't entirely sure he had heard me correctly.
Then he reached for his buttons, fumbling slightly, his shirt falling open to reveal a chest dusted with dark hair, his muscles tightening with nerves.
His pants dropped next, cock springing free—thick and veined, already leaking pre-cum from the tip.
He stood there, naked and vulnerable, eyes locked on his reflection as I circled him like a shark.
I stepped behind him, my hands sliding over his shoulders, down his arms, feeling him shiver.
“Don’t speak unless I tell you to,” I ordered, my fingers wrapping around his cock, stroking slowly from base to tip.
He gasped, hips bucking involuntarily, but he kept his eyes on the mirror, watching my hand work him—squeezing the shaft, thumb circling the slick head, milking out more of that clear fluid.
His balls tightened under my palm as I cupped them, rolling them gently, then tugging just hard enough to make him groan. “You’re already shaking.”
“I—”
“Don’t . . .speak . . .unless I ask you to.” I repeated, releasing him abruptly.
His jaw flexed, but he nodded in agreement.
“You’re pretty when you’re obedient,” I whispered, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, “but you’ll be beautiful when you beg.”