Back into the club

He does not let you stay on the floor with his taste in your mouth.

He wipes your chin with two fingers, feeds what he finds back between your lips, and pulls you upright by the hair. You are dripping down both thighs.

“I’ve no idea,” he says, almost conversationally. “No idea if I’ll come back up tonight. No idea if you’re a real girl under the pink or if you were already ruined before I bought you. No idea how loud you’ll be when someone else finishes the job.”

A pause. His thumb finds your clit as he stands over you, and rubs once, idle, just to watch your knees dip.

“I didn’t pay for you to give you away.” His mouth is close to your ear “I like what’s mine. But I am very sure there are men out there who will pay for the privilege I’m about to offer them.”

He nevertheless clips the cold, hard metal of a metal collar around your neck. You shiver at the cold - and the erotic thrill that surges through you.

The same happens when he clips, through the ring on the front of the collar, a metal chain, with a leather grip at the end.

The Vanilla Alternative hits you in a wave of bass and perfume and other people’s sex. He does not sneak you in. He puts a hand at the nape of your neck and parades you down the centre of the floor like a newly broken thing. Heads turn. Someone laughs under their breath. You feel air on the wet insides of your thighs and know they can see it — the shine, the little run of him that leaked out of a rubber and down a girl who still has not been allowed to come.

He stops under a low light. Turns you. You are naked - and at the mercy of everyone around you.

A murmur moves through the nearest cluster of bodies. He slides two thick fingers into you from behind, easy as anything, and holds them there so the room can hear how soaked you are. When he pulls them out they gleam. He wipes them on your tongue.

“This one,” he says, not raising his voice, because he does not have to, “is on a Compliance Breeder. Twelve hours. In heat. Fertile as sin — twins if you’re lucky, or unlucky, depending how you look at it. She will do anything she’s told. And she cannot come unless you come in her.”

Your pussy clenches around nothing. The body sings. Michael, buried, makes a thin useless noise that never reaches your mouth.

“I came in her throat. I came in a condom until it poured down her legs. She ripped it off herself and licked it clean and begged me bare.” He smiles without warmth. “I’m empty. She’s not done. So. The privilege is this: you pay me, you use her as you wish.”

You could see hands reaching immediately.

It is so erotic - and you need to come so much - that you drop a hand to your pussy and stroke the clitoris. You do so so frantically, it can only increase your 'market value'.

He watches you be handled, eyes half-lidded, still owning the room.

“On your knees first,” he tells you, mild. “Show them the mouth that swallowed me. Then we’ll see who wants to buy the rest.”

You drop. Your lipsticked mouth — ruined, used — opens because he told it to, and because the ache between your legs has become a single stupid prayer: someone, anyone, just come in me.

A cock appears in front of your face that is not his. Thicker at the base, already wet at the tip. Behind you, fingers spread you open for the audience. He stands over the whole scene with his spent, beautiful body and the calm of a man who has just put his purchase on the block.

“Go on then,” he says. “Who is offering what?”