Chapter 11 #2
I barely had time to take it in before Luka walked me down three mirrored steps that caught every distorted angle of my thighs, the curve of my ass, reflections multiplying and warping as we descended.
At the bottom, blood-red vinyl benches circled the space, stitched in jagged seams like exposed muscle.
At the center waited the apparatus.
A complex creature of steel and black leather stood there—narrow, angled, reinforced with rings, straps, and buckles. Every line of it was designed for a single purpose: to showcase a body.
Luka stopped beside it and bent close, lips grazing my ear. “Up.”
The single word punched straight to my core.
I perched on the edge, palms braced against the slick leather. A ripple of awareness moved through me. People were watching.
Above us, masked faces angled down—glossed mouths, bare shoulders, leather and latex catching the light. A silent gallery taking in the new body on display.
Luka hooked my ankle and drew my leg up, planting my stiletto on the lowest rung. “Spread.”
My breath hitched. I opened for him, thighs scissoring apart, and the microskirt sliding high enough to expose the curve of my ass and the thin, already-damp gusset of my thong.
Luka’s hands never lingered—efficient and impersonal. He lifted my arms and draped them over the bench’s upper supports, positioning each limb exactly where he wanted it.
But he didn’t bind me.
“Hold.”
I engaged every muscle to maintain the pose—heels braced, thighs parted, spine stretched by the angle he’d chosen for me.
He was putting me on display. No, not just display—on offer.
The gallery of masked faces ringing the pit didn’t jeer or call out. They observed. Some with open hunger, others with cool, evaluative stillness. No one looked away.
My pulse thudded. Heat surged under the collar—lights, air, bodies, and Luka’s presence at my side—all feeding the same rising fever.
Luka flicked open a pocketknife, quick and casual. The blade caught the light. For a moment, he weighed the knife in his palm, then slipped it under the top edge of my corset. No warning. Just one clean slice.
The boned leather parted, the tension releasing as the laces unspooled and my breasts spilled free.
A ripple moved through the crowd. Attention settled like a weight.
Luka palmed my breasts, working the weight, kneading the flesh, then caught a nipple between his thumb and fingers and rolled it hard. Pain snapped through me. I gasped, my back arching despite myself, the sensation collapsing into heat that coiled low in my body.
His masked face hovered close, breath warm against my cheek.
He said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
My arms trembled. The metal supports pressed into my palms, the angle pulling at my shoulders as I fought to hold the pose.
When my elbow dipped—barely an inch—he struck the inside of my thigh. A quick, stinging slap.
“I said hold.”
Each word dropped like a weight onto my skin.
“I’ll tell you when to move.”
I gripped the steel harder, knuckles whitening, elbows locked. Luka’s gaze traveled the full length of me—slow, consuming—pausing on every place I strained to keep control.
He crouched, knife flashing again. This time, he cut the skirt away—one clean slice along the seam. The leather peeled like a shed skin and landed in the lap of someone in the front row.
Luka didn’t look at them.
He looked at me.
He hooked a finger under the thin strap of my thong, snapped it against my skin, then slid the blade beneath it and severed it with a flick. The blade left a line of cold on my skin. The thong peeled away, exposing me to the lights, the air, the gallery.
Luka straightened, the knife still loose in his hand, his other palm settling heavy on my thigh.
“Look at them.” His voice was quiet, controlled—far more dangerous than if he’d raised it.
I lifted my chin, throat tight against the collar. The crowd ringed the pit, still and intent. Masked faces. Bodies angled forward. Attention sharpened to a single point—me.
“They want you,” Luka said softly. “Every last one.”
He slid his hand up my thigh but stopped short, never giving me the contact my body was reaching for.
“This is what you came for. Isn’t it?”
I froze.
Luka waited. The silence stretched. Then he leaned in, his mask brushing my ear.
“I fucking asked you a question.” His volume didn’t change, but his words were scalding.
I couldn’t answer. With the heat, the lights, the weight of their attention pressing in from every direction, my thoughts scattered.
Luka ran two fingers between my thighs and spread me open for the room to see. The sound that escaped me was raw and honest.
“You’re soaked,” he said, his voice carrying just enough to make the words public. “You like this. Being watched. Being wanted by everyone in the room.” His eyes locked on mine through the mask. “Don’t you?”
A fresh flush prickled my skin. There was nowhere to hide from the intense blue of his gaze, from the way he stripped every excuse out of me.
“Answer me, mila.”
My voice crawled up from somewhere raw. “I came for you,” I whispered. “I like…being wanted by you.”
Behind the mask, Luka’s eyes narrowed, cutting through the latticework of shadows.
He grazed his thumb over my clit, pressing in slow, deliberate circles. The contact was light—testing—but the sensation flared hot and immediate, my body tightening around it.
“Are you sure?”
I tried to answer, but the friction shorted out my words, turning them into a breathless whimper instead.
Luka thrust two fingers inside me, deep and sudden. My back arched off the bench, a cry tearing loose before I could stop it. The stretch, the invasion, the way he knew exactly where to press—my control shattered almost immediately.
A rumble—low, appreciative—rolled through the front row. I felt them watching, listening, waiting.
Luka worked me with his hand, each thrust purposeful, engineered to wring reactions out of me, to make my body answer when my voice couldn’t.
He held the knife up, blade gleaming—not as a threat but a mirror. He angled the blade toward my face.
“Look at yourself.”
The curved steel caught the image—the mask, my mouth open, the flush of my blood-heated skin, every line and strain and need impossible to hide.
“Look at what they see.”
He lowered the blade, and the reflection shifted—my body spread open, his gloved fingers disappearing inside me, the glistening pink smeared across metal.
I wondered if he’d cut me, mark me, leave a tally of the moment on my skin.
Instead, he snapped the blade closed and pocketed it.
“That’s what they want,” Luka said, voice aimed at the gallery. “Everyone in this room would kill to get a taste of this cunt tonight.” He tilted my chin up with a finger. “But you want me?” His eyes held mine, cold and searching. “Only me?”
“Yes.”
He pressed his palm to my throat, thumb flicking at the collar.
“If I take this off”—Luka slipped a finger under the leather—“you belong to the room.”
The pressure at my neck eased just enough to make the absence feel dangerous.
“You can have every single one of them.” His voice was soft, almost intimate. “Is that what you want?”
I shook my head, a quick, frantic motion that sent my hair clinging to the sweat at my nape. “No.”
At the edge of the pit, a man leaned forward, elbows braced on knees. His mask was a glossy midnight that erased his face. The overhead lights caught a sweep of iron-gray hair. “Take it off,” he called, his voice polished and loose with drink. “Beautiful thing like that shouldn’t go to waste.”
A dry, expectant laugh rippled through the other spectators.
Luka pumped his fingers faster, the heel of his palm grinding my clit.
My body reacted instantly, betraying me again, the heat and attention collapsing into one unbearable current.
With his other hand, he toyed with the buckle at my throat, testing it, lifting the leather slightly away from my skin.
His voice rose just enough to carry. “You heard him.” He loosened the collar, cool air sliding against the sweat at my neck.
“If you want to see what this place really offers,” Luka said, calm and merciless, “I’ll take this collar off and set you free.
” His fingers paused on the buckle. “You’ll have the fuck of your life.
Anyone you want.” He stilled his hand, then rolled his wrist, grinding hard against my clit. “Isn’t that what you came for?”
“No,” I gasped, and despised the whimper in my voice.
Luka gripped my jaw and forced my head back, locking my gaze to his. “Say it.” The words were quiet, precise as a garrote.
“I’m yours,” I choked. “I want you. Only you.”
The gallery’s noise shifted—disappointment or amusement, I couldn’t tell.
The man who’d spoken earlier stood and shook his head. “What a shame.” Then he left.
Luka didn’t appear fazed. Or even to notice. His attention was entirely on me.
He worked me harder, every movement calculated, every shift dragging me closer to the edge. The pressure built fast. My body tightened, bracing for the inevitable collapse—the loss of control, the moment the room would watch me come apart. The crest rose, relentless and unstoppable.
But Luka stopped.
Just like that. He pulled out. The heat vanished, replaced by cold air and a hollow ache. My body jerked, chasing the sensation that wasn’t there, the need crashing through me so hard it stole my breath.
“Say it again,” he said softly. The words barely carried over the bass.
Tears burned my eyes—rage, want, frustration, all tangled together. “I’m yours,” I whispered, my voice raw.
He let the pause stretch, the silence a vise. Then he reached into the shadow behind the bench and brought something into the light—chrome, humming, unmistakable.
He pressed it to my clit. The vibration hit high and sharp, my body reared, trying to lift off the bench.
I cried out, the sound torn straight from my throat.
“Don’t move,” Luka commanded. “Keep those legs spread, no matter what you feel. Or I stop.”
The warning locked my muscles harder than any restraint.
He increased the pressure. The world narrowed instantly—masks and leather and bodies dissolving into heat and noise and the unbearable focus of sensation. Somewhere close, someone sucked in a breath. A low moan echoed from the benches.
But nothing mattered except Luka’s voice.
“All you have to do is say the word,” he murmured, close enough that the syllables vibrated through my jaw. “I’ll take the collar off. You’ll have all of them. Hands, mouths, cocks—anything you want. No limits.” His breath brushed my cheek. “That’s what you really want, isn’t it?”
I crushed the steel in my grip. My fingers tingled. “No,” I forced out, the word ripped raw as the vibration climbed higher, driving straight through every defense my body had left.
The edge hit fast.
Too fast.
I broke on a sob instead of a plea.
Luka held me there, right at the threshold. Then he lifted the toy away.
The loss slammed through me. Every cell in my body shrieked for the pressure to come back, for any friction at all, but nothing did. I was left on the bench, legs spread wide, dripping and exposed, the toy’s ghost still vibrating somewhere inside my bones.
“Why?” he demanded, the word hard enough to bruise. He gestured toward the watching crowd. “No one here would deny you. You’d be worshipped, devoured, ruined in every way you crave.” His gaze cut back to mine. “But you still want me?”
I couldn’t swallow. The words whiplashed inside my chest. “Yes.” I nearly sobbed it. “Why would I want anyone else?”
Luka went still. Utterly, frighteningly still. The mask erased his expression, his hand motionless against my thigh. The chrome toy, glinting in the pit’s lattice of light, hovered just out of contact. The entire room hung in the balance—me, the gallery, even the air.
For one awful second, I thought he’d leave me there—spread open and shaking, a ruined centerpiece for the club’s consumption.
Then Luka’s breath eased out, slow and ragged. And he pressed the toy back against me.
The vibration was a bullet—immediate and obliterating. My body seized. I shrieked, loud and unfiltered. Luka bracketed my jaw with his gloved hand, forcing my face up, mouth open for every noise I couldn’t contain.
The first orgasm hit like a fucking tsunami. My vision shattered along the edges, black and white and nothing in between. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I could only ride the tremor of it as it tore through me.
But Luka didn’t pull away. He turned the dial higher.
The oversensitivity hit instantly. I tried to twist away, but he slammed a palm against my inner thigh and held me open, forcing me to take every nerve-shredding second. I choked on a scream.
Around the pit, the crowd reacted—ragged inhales, low groans, the slick shuffle of bodies shifting to get a better view.
By the time the second wave hit, I was gone—no thoughts, no memory, just sensation and sound and the helpless convulsion of my own body. My thighs shook, my hips bucked, everything inside me tightened and released, gushing hot and uncontrollable.
Through the blur, Luka’s mask turned toward me, the slash of blue sharp and intent. “Tell me again,” he said, voice stripped down to nothing but tension.
I tried—God, I tried—but words were gone. All that came out was broken sound, breath and noise dragged out of me while the last of the pleasure rolled through my body and left me shaking.
He pressed the toy harder.
The sensation tipped me over again, another shudder tearing through me, leaving my muscles weak and unsteady, eyes wet behind the mask.
He closed a hand around my throat. “Say it.” The control in his voice cracked. “What do you want?”
“You,” I sobbed. “I want you. Only you.”
The room fell away.
The crowd, the lights, the heat—gone.
The vibration stopped.
“Good girl.”