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I’d dropped her a message, making it perfectly clear what I wanted from her. She’d taken the bait, just like I’d hoped. I used the opportunity to check out Masque’s profile. It was still relevant. Sparsely populated, unrecognisable and entirely untraceable.
Interests - Everything. Every. Fucking. Thing. No vanilla.
Seeking - Sex only. Casual encounters.
Not in a hotel bed, with the cute little coffee trays and in-room satellite TV. Not in some random woman’s living room surrounded by domestic trinkets and family photos, and sure as hell not in mine. One venue only. Public, casual, impersonal. No strings, no questions, just filthy rough sex. They’d never even see my face.
It’s amazing how many women want it that way.
I took up my position at the shadowy side of the bar, watching for my guest. I was invisible from the main entrance, well placed to enjoy her nervousness as she looked around the room for me, jittery and unsure as the stepped amongst the club regulars. I saw Violet’s hair first, redder than I remembered, piled up high on her head in a vintage wave, her long neck sloping down into narrow collarbones. She was older than me, hitting just the other side of forty and blessed with both a high pain threshold and a deep-seated desire to be abused in public. She was a gusher, with a pussy long ripened for punishment, conditioned for the hard stuff by two rough labours and a special-interest side income. Pay-per-minute webcam, fucking herself raw with any crazy implement her public paid for. It was her edge over the younger competition. Good news for her bank balance and good news for me. She’d take my whole fucking fist without so much as a whimper. Dirty bitch. My cock twitched. Thank sweet Jesus for that.
I made my approach without speaking a word. She sensed my presence, turning to look up at me with hungry eyes.
“Masque, hi. I didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“Hello, Violet.” I took hold of her chin, forcing her face from side to side as I checked her out at close quarters. “You look good.”
“Not for long, sir, I’m sure.”
I tipped my head to the main floor, to the cuffs hanging down from the ceiling centre stage. “I’m going to hurt you in the spotlight, Violet, for the whole club to see. Do you consent?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
“I’m going to fuck you up bad, Violet, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Her eyes lingered on mine, dark as night in the shadowy hollows of my mask. “Please, sir, if you would, please bruise me bad. My regulars would like that, sir, very much.”
“And where would your regulars like to see these bruises, Violet?”
“Everywhere, sir.”
“Tell me where, Violet. Where do you want me to hurt you?”
I watched her gulp, her chin still tight in my grip. “My ass, sir, and my thighs.”
“And?”
“And my tits, sir, please... and please hurt my pussy, too.”
“The regulars want to jack-off to your gaping, bruised cunt, do they Violet?”
Colour bloomed right across her cheeks. “No, sir, that’s just for me.”
“Good girl, Violet. Good girl. Let’s get a drink.”
***
Lydia
Crazy, crazy, crazy, I’m fucking crazy.
I’d officially lost my mind, leaving the Dev at gone midnight to trail along with my new weirdo friends to their weirdo-wacko sex bar. All I really knew was that it was located in Soho. We took the Northern Line to Tottenham Court Road station, and I followed them in silence, my mouth dry as parchment as I tottered along behind in crazy high stilettos. I’d been the subject of a total makeover, dressed at Rebecca’s whim for my debut appearance at sex club central. She’d laced me up tight in black leather, fastened me into fishnets and suspenders, then turned her attention to my make-up; sweeping flicks all the way out from my eyes, burgundy lipstick and false lashes, with just the slightest hint of rouge. I didn’t look like the usual fit-for-the-office Lydia Marsh at all, and I’d felt strangely well for it. At least I had back at the apartment. A change is as good as a rest, so they say.
My guides stopped outside a pair of unmarked wooden doors, and my nerves jangled around my stomach so hard I considered running, but Rebecca had my elbow locked tight in hers, no hope of escape. She knocked and two huge men stepped out, smiling in recognition once they caught sight of Bex and Cara.
Bex pulled me forward. “This is Cat. She’s my guest tonight.”
They waved us on through and I was in, just like that. We stopped at a shadowy red reception bar to leave our coats, handing them over to a skinny little creature with so many piercings I could hardly make out her features.
