LORIK
The club is mine again in a way it’s never been.
For three years it was a listening post, a rot I kept running so the worst men in the country would sit in my red light and confess what they’d bought.
The trade is ash now. The men who used to do their shopping in these booths are dead, or ruined, or smart enough to have fled the city the night the machine came down.
What’s left is just the rot without the rot’s purpose.
Low light, leather, the rich and the bored, and tonight, for the first time, it’s only a room.
A room my wife walks into like she owns it, because she does, because she owns the thing that owns it.
She comes to me in the back alcove the way she did the night this all turned, except everything is inverted now.
That night she found a stranger’s hands on me and learned she had a temper.
Tonight there are no other hands, there will never be other hands.
She crosses the floor in a dress the color that matches the stone on her finger.
She stops in front of where I’m sitting and looks down at me with those dark sea eyes, and she sets the terms, because she sets all the terms now.
“The curtain stays open,” she says.
I go very still. “Brooklyn.”
“You heard me.” She steps between my knees, and I can smell her over the smoke and the leather, and my whole body tightens like a fist. “You watched me for eighteen months where nobody could see you want me. I’m done with hidden.
I want them to see exactly who I belong to and exactly who belongs to me, and I want every single person in this rotten beautiful room to understand the one rule.
” She leans down until her mouth is at my ear, and her next words go straight through me.
“They can look all they want. They will never, ever get to touch.”
There is a version of me, the cold one, the careful one, the one who kept her in the dark, who would close that curtain.
He’s dead. He died in a warehouse and got buried in a hospital bed.
The man she remade in his place reaches up and fists a hand in the back of her hair and pulls her down into a kiss that tells the whole room, in one motion, that the show is starting and the price of admission is keeping your hands to yourself.
“Then get up here,” I tell her against her mouth, “and let them learn what worship looks like.”
I clear the table with one arm, glass and ash and the laptop I’ll never need again, and I lift her onto it.
I lay my wife out on the polished wood under the red light like the only meal I’ve ever been hungry for, and I take my time.
Because the whole point of tonight is that there’s no rush and nothing to hide and an entire room that has to sit there and watch me have the one thing none of their money could ever buy.
I push the pink dress up her thighs. No panties, she planned this, my filthy, deliberate girl.
I spread her open with my thumbs, slow, and just look at her for a second.
Pink and already wet and bare under the lights, and I hear someone in the dark beyond the alcove make a sound and I don’t even have to look up.
“Eyes are fine,” I say, to the room, conversationally and lethal at the same time. “The first hand that moves toward her, I take at the wrist.” And then I put my mouth on my wife and stop caring about anyone else alive.
I eat her like a man who waited two years to be allowed.
Slow and filthy and thorough, my tongue working her open, my hands holding her thighs wide so the whole room can see exactly what I’m doing and exactly how much she loves it, and she does.
She arches up off the table and fists her hands in my hair and rolls her hips into my face and gives the watchers a sound that makes the temperature in the room climb ten degrees.
I lick into her, I suck her clit until her thighs shake, I flatten my tongue and drag it up the length of her and watch her come apart on the table with a hundred eyes on her and her husband’s mouth the only thing she feels.
She comes the first time before I’ve even gotten my mouth to her tits.
I don’t stop. I kiss my way up her shaking body and I find the barbells through the thin silk.
I drag the fabric down. And there they are, the piercings she got because her stalker ruined her for anyone else, the ones I’m the reason for, and I take one cool metal bar between my lips and I suck.
She makes a noise I feel in my cock.
So I do it again, worse. I flick the barbell with my tongue, I roll it, I close my teeth around it and pull, gentle and then not gentle, watching her face the whole time, learning all over again exactly how sensitive she is there, how the metal makes everything sharper, how she can’t decide whether to pull away or shove herself deeper into my mouth.
I move to the other one and give it the same devotion, sucking, licking, tugging the bar until she’s writhing on the table and grabbing at me and gasping my name, and the whole room watches the most feared man on the seaboard come apart at the seams over his wife’s pierced tits, and I have never in my life cared less what I look like.
“My turn,” she pants, and shoves me back into the chair.
And then it’s my wife’s hands on me, and I’m the one who forgets how to breathe.
She frees me from my slacks and wraps both hands around my cock and finds the ladder of barbells up the length of it.
The ones she’s felt inside her so many times, and she runs her fists up and down me going slow, working the metal, her thumb dragging over the wet head.
She looks up at me through her lashes with pure wicked triumph because she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
“Look at that,” she murmurs, just for me, just for the room to see and never hear.
“The big scary krye. Leaking for me already.” She drags her thumb through it, spreads it down my length, runs her fist back up slick with it.
“They can torture you for five days and not break you, but I get my hands on your pretty pierced cock and you fall apart in thirty seconds.” She does it again, twisting, working the piercings, milking another bead of me into the open.
“Leak for me, Lorik. Let them watch you drip for your wife.”
I do. God help me, I do, and there is nothing in me that wants to hide it, and that’s the whole inversion of my entire life standing up at once.
That the man who hid everything is sitting in the open leaking for a now-twenty-year-old woman who owns him, while a room full of people who used to buy bodies watch the one body none of them can have take him apart with her bare hands.
“Bend over the table,” I tell her, when I can’t take another second. “Let them see your face when I’m inside you.”
She does. She braces her hands on the wood and arches her back and looks over her shoulder at me.
I stand up behind my wife and notch myself against her and drive in slow, every barbell dragging, both of us groaning, until I’m seated so deep there’s nowhere left to go, and the whole room gets to watch the exact moment her eyes roll back.
I fuck her like that, bent over the table in the red light, one hand fisted in her hair and one spread over her hip, the piercings inside her doing what they always do, and I lean down over her back and put my mouth at her ear so only she can hear the filth and only they can see it.
“Every man in this room is watching me ruin you,” I tell her, driving deeper, “and not one of them will ever know what you feel like. They get the show. I get the wife. They watch. I keep.” She clenches around me and I nearly lose it.
“Mine. Chosen. In the light, where I should have had you from the start.”
Then she wants the reins. Of course she does, she takes the reins of everything now.
And she pushes me back down into the chair and climbs onto my lap facing out, facing the room, and sinks down onto me in one long obscene slide, and rides me where everyone can see her do it.
My hands span her waist and let her set every pace because her control over me is the whole point of my life now.
She grinds down on my pierced cock and plays with her own pierced tits and puts on the filthiest, most beautiful show the rot has ever hosted, and the only thing anyone in that room will remember for the rest of their lives is that they got to watch and never, ever got to touch.
I feel her go over a third time, riding me, her whole body locking, and it drags me with her. I come buried as deep inside my wife as a man can be, both arms locked around her, never pulling out, never, marking her from the inside the way I always do, the way that’s only ever been ours.
And then I do the thing I have wanted to do since the first time I ever spilled inside her.
I lift her off me, gentle, boneless and dripping, and I lay her back on the table and I spread her thighs wide open with both hands, and I take a slow minute to just look.
To watch myself leak back out of her. My cum, sliding out of my wife, pearl-white against all that swollen pink, her wet and used and full of me and so impossibly, obscenely pretty that I make a sound I’ve never made in my life.
I drag my thumb through it, push it back into her, watch it well up and slide out again, and I genuinely lose my mind a little, because that’s the whole thing, isn’t it—that’s everything I am in one image.
I am a man watching himself flow out of the only person who ever chose him, in the light, where everyone can see she’s full of me and no one can do a thing about it.
“That,” I tell her, hoarse, reverent, filthy, “is the prettiest thing I have ever seen in my life.”
“Then it’s a good thing,” my wife says, breathless, wrecked, glowing, reaching down to pull me back up her body, “that you get to look at it for the rest of our life.”
I gather her up off the table and onto my lap and wrap my jacket around her and hold her there, dripping and sated and thoroughly, publicly mine.
The room finally remembers how to breathe and starts, very carefully, to look anywhere else.
They watched. They’ll never touch. And my wife tucks her face into my throat and laughs, low and satisfied, the most dangerous, most beautiful, most chosen thing in any room I will ever stand in.
The stalker watched her in the dark and called it love. It wasn’t, not yet. This is.
This, in the light, claimed, witnessed, given, nothing hidden anywhere, this is the realest thing I have ever been allowed to have.
Let them all look. She’s the one who gets to leave with me.