Chapter 3 #2
When I open my eyes, the man in the blackout mask is gone. There is only the audience, still hungry, still watching.
I finish the last minute on autopilot, one arm raised in salute, and a pivot on the heel.
I let them have it, every angle, every ounce of skin.
I don’t even remember getting off the platform.
The MC catches me at the stairs, pressing a glass of champagne into my palm and whispering, “Fucking slaughtered, babe.”
I smile, but my mind is spinning. I drift through the curtain, into the narrow backstage, the robe still waiting in a pile where I left it. I pull it on, the lining sticking to my sweat-damp arms, and sink onto the nearest bench.
The crowd is a blur, the noise behind the curtain already fading into a haze. I focus on my breathing, trying to slow my heart. It’s not working.
What the hell just happened to me?
Was it just the attention? The mask? The performance, the power?
Or was it something about that man, his stillness, his certainty, the way he made the entire world drop away?
I want to be pissed at him for leaving before the finale.
I want to chase him down, pull the rope from his neck, and make him use it.
Instead, I sit, trembling, letting the come-down do its dirty work. I picture the rope, the hands that might have tied it, the possible futures waiting in the dark corners of the Velvet Stag. My skin feels too tight for my body. My mind is a knot.
There’s a special kind of post-performance high, a static fizzing just beneath the skin, equal parts adrenaline and something meaner.
I swan through the dressing room’s side exit, robe cinched tight, mask still in place.
No one stops me. Here, the illusion of privacy is absolute: everyone’s too busy devouring the next spectacle to care if you’re halfway to naked or missing a shoe.
The main lounge is a study in excess, all shadow and gilded trim.
The velvet settees are occupied by couples, throuples, pods of practiced libertines and tentative first-timers.
Waiters weave between the bodies with trays of glassware so fine it might as well be disposable.
The room is thick with perfume and the bassline’s percussive thud, but underneath it I hear the thrum of conversation, low, urgent, transactional.
I let my eyes adjust. If the platform was exposure, this is camouflage.
There’s no straight line of sight, just pockets of light and heat and intent.
I drift to the bar, lean back against the marble and scan the crowd.
I see familiar masks, the peacock, the origami fox, the dominatrix in feathered black and her pet for the night, leashed up and grinning.
A cluster of men in suits, their hands moving on thighs and waists, some careful, some careless.
On the far side, a woman in a gold sheath dress and nothing else holds court, her laughter a high, shattered note.
I circle the room in slow orbits, letting the compliments roll over me like hot oil.
“You’re stunning, as always,” “That move with the robe, genius.” A regular named Gem, cheeks dimpled under a silver half-mask, tells me my act made her “want to burn the world down or maybe just herself.” I kiss her on the cheek, and she beams.
But it’s all just noise. I’m hunting.
I don’t know what I expect to find, maybe the man with the rope, maybe just the ghost of his attention.
I look for the blackout mask at every table, search the darkened corners for a flash of red silk.
Nothing. For a moment, I wonder if I imagined him, if the whole exchange was some mindfuck concocted by my own loneliness.
Another performer, this one in a latex catsuit, cleavage engineered by NASA, sidles up next to me, nursing a Negroni.
“You got them wet,” she says, voice hoarse with cigarettes and mischief. “And I mean literally. Saw at least two on the edge of the stage after you left.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” I counter, flicking her with the tip of my glass.
“Only if you like the attention,” she says, eyes narrowed, testing.
“I don’t need to like it. I need to need it.”
She howls at that, draining her drink. “Well, you’ve got the room eating out of your hand. Or whatever body part you’re offering.”
I almost smile.
I drift, let the crowd claim me in fragments. More small talk. More hands brushing my waist, the inside of my arm. Offers of drinks, of “private conversation,” of rooms upstairs with beds and restraints and legal waivers. All of it is tantalizing, but none of it is enough.
Because I’m still searching for him. For Weaver, if that’s who he is. The rope haunts me, the memory of his gaze a brand on my skin.
At some point, I realize my feet hurt and my head is spinning, not from the booze but from the crash. I want to be alone, to pull off the mask and the face and the skin beneath, and I need to stop searching for someone who isn’t here.
My apartment at night is a shrine to plausible deniability.
Everything is curated for normalcy. Like visits from building management, or parents that ask too many questions.
Succulents, coffee table books, a sofa too white for real living.
Even the kitchen is staged, knife block gleaming, fruit bowl full.
If you looked in the fridge you’d find little but takeout containers from my favorite little restaurant, energy drinks and a bottle of decent rosé, which is all I really need.
Tonight, I ignore all of it. I leave a trail of clothes and costume from the door to the bedroom, heels kicked off in the hall, robe pooling on the stairs, corset clinging to the newel post like a lover that won’t take a hint.
By the time I reach the bathroom, I am half-naked, the mask dangling from my fingers.
I turn on the light and stare at myself. The eyes are ringed in black. Glitter from the club dusts my clavicle, my cleavage, the curve of my cheek. I look like I’ve been ravaged, but the only thing that’s touched me all night is my own craving.
I run the tap, splash cold water on my face, scrub until the makeup is gone. I towel off, then lean in and examine the skin beneath. There’s a red mark at my throat from the corset’s edge, and the heart birthmark stands out, bold and raw.
I let my hair down. The curls spring to life, wild as always. I rake my hands through them, shake them out, imagine what it would feel like for someone else to do the same, rough, greedy, intent.
I undress the rest of the way and crawl into bed, the sheets cool against my skin. I pull the comforter to my chin, then push it down, too hot, too restless. I lie on my back, arms above my head, legs splayed, everything on display for an audience of none.
In the dark, the night plays back in sequence: the crowd, the spotlight, the roar of approval.
The man with the blackout mask, the red silk ropes, the way his gaze made the rest of the club disappear.
I imagine what it would be like to approach him, to kneel, to surrender the last scrap of control.
I picture his hands, the way they’d feel, rough, strong, unyielding, tying me up, binding me to the present moment, shutting out every thought but the one he put there.
Then my mind flips, without warning, to Aiden St. James.
Not the boss version, not the arbiter of precision and composure, but the man I imagine he becomes when the office lights go off.
I think about his hands, the veins under the skin, the grip that could break me or put me back together.
I see him in the club, in the mask, in the dark, running the rope across my body, through my thighs, over my mouth.
I can’t help it. My hand slides down my stomach, circles my clit in slow, practiced movements.
The first touch is an electric jolt, like the moment before a show, like every possible future held in suspension.
I let my legs fall open, my head thrown back against the pillow.
I fuck myself with two fingers, imagining first one man, then the other, then both together, their hands everywhere, their eyes never leaving mine.
I don’t come quietly. I never have. My moans are soft but insistent, the rhythm matching the pulse I can’t get out of my head.
When the orgasm hits, it’s full-body, a spasm that arches my back and curls my toes.
I ride it out, squeezing my thighs around my hand, grinding until the pleasure tips over into something almost painful.
I lie there, panting, sweat cooling on my skin. The city lights bleed in through the blinds, painting stripes across the room. For a moment, I am empty. Then the hunger returns, slow and sure.
I roll onto my side, hair plastered to my face, the sheets twisted around my waist. I think of the man with the ropes. I think of my boss, the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking. I think about how, when the mask is off, I am still just me.
But maybe that’s the point.
I close my eyes and dream of hands, firm, expert, unforgiving, shaping me into the person I want to become.
Tomorrow, I’ll put on the other mask. But for tonight, I am content to want.
And sometimes, that’s enough.