Chapter 26 #2
Leaning forward, she points her ass in my face, and she is beautiful to look at. I can stare, admiring her the same way I like to take in a nice car or the cut of someone’s suit or the soar of a ball on a golf course. None of those things I want in my mouth, though.
“Feels okay,” she says in a breathy voice. “Can I try something else?”
I nod, watching her sift through the rack and pull out a white see-through crop top with long sleeves.
Dallas joins her, picking up black thigh highs and kneeling at her feet as she moves back to the riser. He helps her out of her boots and into the socks as she pulls on the shirt.
And before he stands back up, she unbuckles her skirt and drops it in front of him. He quirks a smile, smoothing the socks up her thighs. My stomach hardens to a brick.
“Come here,” I tell her.
Ignoring Dallas’s glance, I hold out my hand and she takes it, stepping back up to me. Her stomach is golden and smooth, her belly button taut as the gauze of the shirt lingers over her skin. Hard, dark nipples poke through the fabric, her breasts entirely visible.
“You can’t go out in that,” I point out.
She rocks back and forth. “I’ll just wear it around the house for you.”
Oh, she’s good. I’ll bet my father’s friends are behind the mirror, just picturing her sweet piece of pussy walking all around my house dressed like this, ready not only at my desire but also at my father’s. How lucky we are.
Aracely tries on more outfits, acting like she’s in a dressing room at the mall and filming underage content for men on OnlyFans.
She dons a pair of overall shorts with suspenders and no shirt, a nice lavender bra and panty set that looks amazing with her skin tone, and some red stockings with lace trim and nothing else.
She sits on the edge of the riser, knees apart as she leans back on her hands, and I don’t know how long she stays there, gazing into the mirror, but I’m glad she takes her time.
Maybe she likes being watched. Or maybe she knows we aren’t really watching her anyway.
As she moves around, trying things on and putting on a good show for the voyeurs, I cast my eyes in her direction, but I feel his on me, and I have no idea why. He likes to fuck me, but I don’t have what she has. It has to be more pleasing to look at her.
He just wants to see my reaction to a hot girl.
Approaching me, she leans down, looking me in the eye and tugging at my tie. “Give me a long leash right now?” she whispers.
I swallow, watching her pull my tie off me and peel off my jacket. Unbuttoning my shirt, she licks her red lips, and I fight to stay quiet even though my entire body is tensing. I know we’re going to have to do something, but…
But once she has my shirt, she climbs into my lap and straddles me. Pulling on the shirt, she buttons it up and slips the tie around her neck, and my groin instantly warms with blood, gazing at the collar around her neck.
Helping her with the tie, I slip it through my hand, fisting it as I pull her head in next to mine.
Flexing my fingers, I clench the tie over and over again, almost able to imagine she’s someone else.
My cologne permeates the shirt, her smell changing from floral to musk, and I close my eyes just as she buries her nose in my neck.
We look like we’re doing something, but we’re not.
Not yet.
“Come here,” Dallas orders.
I lift my eyes, and she turns hers over her shoulder, and I’m not sure what he’s doing. It’s my performance that matters, the whole reason she’s here.
She rises, though, and walks over the riser to him, and he spins her around and pulls her back into his lap. She falls on him, and he wraps his arms around her waist—my shirt—and buries his mouth in her neck.
Immediately, though, his eyes close, his lungs filling with a long breath.
Fisting her neck, he grinds the collar of my shirt in his hand, his arms so tight around her.
Is he hard under her?
Opening his eyes again, he brushes his nose over the collar, gripping the tie at her neck. His mouth moves over her skin, but his gaze remains on me, dropping to my chest. She drops her head back, but her eyes are open. I can’t tell if she likes it, but she’s going along with it.
“Put both of your hands on her,” I tell him.
His brow falters until he realizes what I mean. I might want him, and I might have him again and again, but I need to remember that I’ll never be everything he wants.
I want to watch what he’s like with her.
Dallas looks at her, and she turns her head, looking at him. She nods, and he slides his hands into her open shirt, cupping her tits. I watch his fingers squeeze them and massage them as he dips his nose into her collar again.
They look good together. His friends would think they were a hot couple.
“You grew up together, right?” I ask.
Aracely tilts her eyes up to me. “Yeah.”
“What’s your favorite memory of him as a child?”
Dallas goes still, and she glances between him and me.
After a moment, she says, “He would disappear during storms sometimes.” A lump moves down her throat. “I was the only one who always knew where he was, but I never told anyone.”
I lock gazes with him.
“He was on the beach,” she tells me, “in the rain. By himself.”
I can’t imagine Dallas anywhere without either someone to fuck or something to drink.
But I like the image she paints of him, before his parents died and before life fucked with him. I wish I had that memory of him.
“Finger her,” I say.
A pinch appears between Dallas’s brows, and her chest starts moving faster with her breaths. Or maybe it’s his breathing that’s moving her.
“I want to see what you got,” he tells me instead.
My gaze shifts, almost glancing at the mirror, but I stop myself in time. He’s daring me in front of people who want to see what I’ve got, too.
“Yes.” I grin. “Time for the Den.”
Let’s see if he wants to play now.
—
“Take off everything on top,” Simona Leary tells us.
I hand her my jacket, Dallas removing his jacket and shirt. The door to the Den sits in back of the Wolfe Room, and once we’re through, the décor switches from black and purple to black and deep blue. The ceilings hang lower, the room smaller with more people.
And this is summer. So many people from the community are off around the world right now, he’s not even getting the full picture.
It’s enough, though. We just need to kill some time.
Simone hands us gold masks, and Aracely strolls back out from the dressing room with an attendant, her bottom covered in black leather underwear.
But the lock catches my attention. The leather covers as much as a bikini bottom would, but there’s a heart cut into it too high up to be for penetration. Is it for her to go to the bathroom?
Slowly, I reach out, and she lets me take her waist and trace my thumb over the hipline. A thick belt of metal is seared into the leather, the lock secured below her navel to keep the bottoms on tightly.
It’s a chastity belt. Pretty good idea, actually. Not being able to get at her will turn them on more, but I won’t have to worry about avoiding sex with her.
Her breasts are bare, her hair curtaining her eyes, and a heart is painted over her lips in red like the Queen of Hearts.
They should’ve locked up her mouth, too. Men can still get in that way.
We drift through the archway leading into the Den.
“No means no in here, right?” she murmurs.
“Nunca te diré que no,” someone says, drifting past.
I look up to see Jerome holding her eyes as he walks in. I didn’t know he spoke Spanish.
“What did he say?” Dallas asks her.
“Nothing.”
But I see the glint in her eyes before she pulls down her mask.
We head in to see that the feast is in full swing, several couples and groups playing at once as Dallas and I don our masks as well.
Unlike the Wolfe Room, this is where you come to get right to it. No heavy drinking—the glasses will be knocked over anyway. No dancing. No loitering and talking. Not much foreplay.
No cameras. No phones. No computers.
And be aware, the person behind the mask might not be as much of a stranger to you as you think.
We pass a shower in the corner, closed in on three sides with black tile and glass, two women tribbing against a wall, their tongues deep in each other’s mouths.
A small group of three men stands around a bed, one stepping up and rolling on his condom, taking the place in the young woman’s waiting arms when another is finished with her. In seconds he’s flipping her over, burying himself inside her as the others stroke themselves to get ready for their turn.
Fog lingers in the air, adding an extra layer of secrecy, and I can’t help but look around and wonder which bed or mound of pillows was where my father brought Sophia.
Nausea rolls through me, a cross between bile and a growl rising in my throat as I push away the images of her unprotected in here.
“Do people fly in for this?” Dallas whispers.
I shake my head, swallowing. “It’s all locals, relatives, or associates.”
No one in here isn’t connected to St. Carmen in some way.
We float around the room, Aracely’s hand in mine as we observe a couple going at it doggy-style in a filled tub, and a young woman on a couch taking three men at once.
“Jesus,” Dallas exclaims beside me.
The woman I recognize as Diana Setler by her pedicure. It’s always white polish. The three men—one under, one behind, and one in her mouth—all look alike, just different ages.
I lean into Dallas’s ear. “Her husband, her brother-in-law, and her father-in-law.”
He turns to me, his wide eyes meeting mine through our masks.
It’s not the sex people want. It’s the power to indulge without consequence.
That’s what this place is for. To use each other in front of the people who love them until eventually dicking up another man’s wife in front of your own doesn’t get you hot anymore. Then they move on to true perversion.
We pass a woman riding a man’s face, and a group of masked women sucking and kissing a man who’s strapped to a bed so tightly he can’t move his arms or legs.