The room is dark, the light above me a pale island in an ocean of black. Just beyond its reach, shapes hover—silhouettes shifting, whispering, their voices melting into a low, steady hum. The air is thick, warm, heavy with the scent of too many bodies in too small a space. My pulse climbs. I’ve never liked being on display, and if it weren’t for the Xanax dulling the edge, I wouldn’t have the nerve to stand here naked in front of an audience I can’t quite see.
I let my mind drift, tracing the path that brought me here—until the murmur breaks, snuffed out by some unseen signal. A hush falls over the crowd like a velvet shroud. From somewhere deep in the darkness, movement stirs. Shadows part.
A figure steps forward into the spill of light. Small in stature, thin and lean, her skin catching the glow in muted tones. Her breasts are small, high, unmoving as she walks, her only adornment an intricate white mask. Flanking her are two taller women, both nude, their bodies fuller, more proportioned, their confidence radiating with every step.
One of them reaches forward, fingers slipping beneath the mask’s edge. The porcelain disguise comes away, revealing a young woman’s face. Even at five feet away, I feel the shift—her nerves sharp in the air between us. Unlike me, she has no chemical armor. Her eyes are narrow, her features slim and regal. Her hair, black as lacquer, is pulled into a knot bound by a platinum circlet. She’s a living porcelain doll—Snow White remade for darker fairy tales.
Whatever remains of my own anxiety bleeds away, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous. The urge rises, primal and cold: to break her, to possess her, to brand this night so deep into her that anything else she experiences will feel like a pale imitation.
The taller women step back, leaving her alone in the circle. I take my time, studying her, wondering what brought her here. What vices she’s courted. What bargains she’s made. Somewhere beyond the light, a single voice rumbles. She turns her head toward the sound but doesn’t move otherwise—her stillness absolute, almost defiant.
I close the distance. Each step tightens the air. When I reach her, I pull her against me. She trembles, her warmth seeping into my skin. The chandelier’s white light plays across her snowy flesh, creating a ghostly glow. My hand slides to the small of her back; I cup her ass, then push two fingers inside her. Her gasp is sharp, unguarded—and it fuels me.
“Your name?” I ask, pressing deeper.
“Ga—” she stammers. “Gabby.”
“You in school?”
She nods.
“What are you studying?” I ask, withdrawing my fingers and brushing them across her lips.
“Librar… sci…” she whispers. “La…brarian.”
I grin, kiss her—slow, deliberate. The softness catches her off guard; I feel it in the way her shoulders loosen, the faint curl of a smile.
“This is going to hurt,” I say. Her only answer is the twitch of her spine.
I lift her easily, turn her, and set her down on the black leather ottoman in the circle’s center. She lies still except for the steady rise and fall of her chest. My hand rests on her sternum; our eyes lock. She doesn’t look away.
I smile.
Her fear isn’t refusal—it’s surrender, the kind born from not knowing what comes next but choosing to give anyway. She’s my rag doll now.
I slide my hands over her breasts, pinch her left nipple until she flinches. I press harder. No sound. Good.
The whispers from the shadows grow restless. I ignore them. Gabby is mine, not theirs.
Like a predator with prey, I circle her, slow and deliberate. I step out of her line of sight, leaving her exposed to the unseen eyes. She searches for me, head turning, eyes darting. I step back into view; her gaze locks to mine as I approach. My cock brushes her cheek when I lean over to part her legs—giving the watchers their view.
“Do you think it will fit?” I ask.
Her lashes flicker as she searches for the right answer.
I step back to take her in. Gabby’s long legs dangle from the ottoman, her feet hovering above the floor. She’s all elegant angles and delicate bones—a fashion model’s frame disguised as a 19-year-old Library Science student.
I’d seen her picture before. The idea of taking a stranger like this had hooked me instantly. The audience was an afterthought—a test, I told myself—and “the group” had promised its rewards. This was the first.
I drag her closer to the edge, flip her onto her stomach, raise her to all fours. My hands land on each cheek with a sharp crack before I move in behind her. She trembles again.
A few strokes bring me fully hard. My fingers dip inside her—wet, ready. I spit into my palm, slick my cock, and drive into her in one brutal thrust. Her scream splits the silence, half terror, half shock. Gasps ripple through the dark.
The violence of that first entry feeds every thrust after, building like music toward a peak. The Xanax sharpens my aggression. The audience’s gasps and murmurs are the distant roar of a stadium crowd. Every time they rise, I push harder.
She takes it, stoic, her body reacting to each shift in position. I chase that first, raw sound again—hard, slow, hard. My gaze drifts lower.
“Anal?” I breathe in her ear. It’s not on the list, and the look in her eyes is answer enough. I let it go.
I pull her up by the hair, set her on her knees. Sitting, I guide her mouth to my cock. She works me with instinct and skill—tongue tracing the length, lips teasing, every move deliberate. Someone taught her this, I think. And then I stop thinking at all.
When I come, it’s across her face—no applause this time, just the quiet hum of bodies in shadow. She presses against my thigh, lips parting for the last drops.
The chandelier’s light snaps off, swallowing us in darkness. Gabby trembles against my leg until I pull her up beside me.
“A fucking librarian?” I ask.
“Literally,” she whispers.
We laugh.