It’s been eighteen months since I was last in Vegas.

Since that room. Since the lights and music blurred together, and the walls closed in. Since the night I learned what happens when you say yes too easily.

I don’t think about it much anymore. Not because I’ve forgotten, but because Dahlia showed me how to carry it without letting it bleed. Still, coming back here stirs something I don’t quite have words for.

Vegas feels different this time. Quieter. Muted. A cold snap moved through yesterday, and now there's light snow in the gutters. Real snow. The kind that sticks, briefly, before melting into black slush at the corners of the sidewalk. It shouldn’t feel this sharp here, but it does. The whole city seems off-balance, as if it doesn’t quite know what to do with the cold.

I keep my hands in my coat pockets as we walk. Dahlia moves ahead of me, crisp and steady. She doesn’t shiver, doesn’t rush. She walks like she owns the night.

In a way, she does.

People ask if she’s my Domme. I never know how to answer that. She isn’t the kind to slap a label on something and call it done. What we have lives in the spaces between rules. In long glances and quiet instructions. In the way her voice lowers when it’s just for me.

She’s taken me apart and stitched me back together more than once. I’ve let her see things I’m still learning how to name.

We’ve gotten closer, the two of us. There’s a rhythm to it now. I orbit her, sometimes closer, sometimes farther, but always pulled.

Chris still comes around. From time to time. He’s the neighbor I let in, once upon a time, when I didn’t know what I was doing but wanted badly to feel something. It was messy. It got darker than I expected. But things are different now.

He only plays with us when she says it’s okay. And only when I say yes.

Under Dahlia’s eye, he’s careful. Less cocky. I think he still remembers the look she gave him that one night, the one that said hurt her again, and I’ll make sure you understand what it feels like. He listens now. Maybe even learns.

But tonight, it’s just us.

She told me she was hosting something small, a gathering, a scene or two. “You’ll be the centerpiece,” she said, like it was a simple thing. Like I should already know what that means.

I didn’t ask for details. Not because I didn’t want to know. But because I trust her.

That doesn’t mean I’m not nervous.

There’s a hum under my skin, a restless coil that hasn’t stopped since we landed. I feel it now, walking beside her in the cold, watching the steam rise from a manhole cover like the street itself is exhaling. My boots splash through the edges of a puddle. She doesn’t slow down.

She doesn’t need to look back.

She already knows I’m going to follow.

The wind snaps sideways as we turn a corner, and I tuck my chin down, tightening the coat around me. My dress clings to my skin beneath it; thin, unforgiving, and far too short for weather like this. Every step sends a cold bite up my legs, and the heels I chose: low enough to walk in, high enough to tempt, click awkwardly against the wet sidewalk.

The snow isn’t soft anymore. It’s turned grainy, dirty at the edges, like everything else in this part of the city. Still falling, but lazily now, like it’s changed its mind.

Dahlia walks ahead in silence, dressed in layered shades of charcoal and black. Her coat is open just enough to catch the flash of a slit skirt and a glimpse of toned thigh. Her heels are taller than mine, at least eight inches, and she moves like the ground makes way for her. No hesitation, no wobble. The cold doesn’t touch her. Or maybe she just refuses to acknowledge it.

We’re still close to the Strip, but it doesn’t feel like it. The noise of the casinos fades behind us as we leave the neon drag and slip into the side streets. The air gets heavier. Quieter.

The buildings here are older, squatting low with peeling signs and half-dead neon. A liquor store with bars over the windows, still glowing OPEN in red. A nail salon next to a pawn shop, its window full of dusty guitars and a sign that says We Buy Gold in sun-faded letters. A dry cleaner, long closed, the plastic bags still dangling from the conveyor track inside like ghost clothes.

There’s a man hunched against the wall under an overhang, smoking something that doesn’t smell like cigarettes. He watches us pass but doesn’t speak. Just tracks us with his eyes. I tighten my coat again, but Dahlia doesn't even glance his way.

It’s here, in these unlit gaps between the tourist glitz, that Vegas starts to feel real. Not the fantasy sold in commercials. Not the polished high-roller suites and bottle service. But the bones of it. What’s left when the sequins fall off.

Fabulous Las Vegas looked different from this angle. Less like a fantasy, more like a place where real people lived, worked, and broke down. And yet, it still shimmered. In its own way..

We take another turn, down a narrower alley between two cracked brick buildings. The snow is thicker here, less trampled. Our footsteps are the only sound, soft and wet. I don’t know where we’re going exactly. Dahlia hasn’t said. But I know this feeling, being led, being held in her gravity. It’s fear threaded with heat.

And still, I follow.

I heard it before I saw it.

Not the usual Vegas thump, not the frantic, chest-rattling pulse of a club. This is smoother. Slower. A deep, rolling bassline that settles low in my stomach. A woman's voice threads through it, low and dusky, like velvet left out in the rain. She doesn't sing so much as smolder: each note a tease, each breath drawn out like smoke.

I glance up and see the source.

There’s no marquee. No bouncer. No velvet rope.

Just a small hanging sign, wooden, hand-painted in black script: The Marionette.

The building is narrow, almost easy to miss. Sandwiched between a tailor’s shop with frosted windows and what looks like a shuttered café. The paint is dark, matte, almost textured, charcoal against the night. Not sleek. Not begging to be noticed. But something about it holds the eye.

A set of double doors sits half open. Warmth leaks from the crack, brushing my legs like a whisper. It smells faintly of sandalwood and something sweeter underneath. Inside, I catch a glimpse of soft light, a glint of polished wood, and the curve of someone’s bare shoulder disappearing behind a velvet curtain.

It isn’t loud. It doesn’t have to be.

Dahlia stops in front of the entrance and finally turns to me. Her eyes sweep over me once and settle on my face.

“You ready?” she asks, her voice low and even.

Am I?

I don’t answer. I just take one last breath of the cold and follow her inside.

___ 🐺 ___

The scent hits first.

Warm and heady, like someone cracked open a memory. Sandalwood. But richer now, layered with orange peel, dried rose, a touch of something resinous… amber, maybe. It wraps around me like heat, curling under my coat and sinking into my skin.

Then the sound. Not loud, but full. R&B, slow and syrup-thick. The bass is low, tuned perfectly: not a thump but a hum, like a second heartbeat pulsing up through the soles of my heels, into my legs, my chest. Each note lands with weight. The voice weaving through it is female, dark-voiced and unhurried, bending vowels in ways that make my pulse catch.

The room itself unfolds slowly as my eyes adjust.

It’s dim, but not dark. Lit like a secret: low amber sconces along the walls, shadows cast deep and long. The palette is all warmth: red velvet and honey-gold. Drapes hang in lazy folds across the far wall, not hiding anything but softening the space. There’s no chrome, no neon, no frantic strobe.

The stage dominates the center, just slightly raised, edged with mirrored trim that catches the light and breaks it into flickers. The floor beneath it is black lacquer, scuffed slightly, lived in. Surrounding it is a loose half-circle of low chairs: plush and mismatched like they were chosen for comfort, not style. Most are filled.

I linger near the entrance, just inside the doorway, half in shadow.

No one looks at me. No one stops their conversation or turns their head. There’s a rhythm in the room, and I’m not part of it yet.

On stage, the women move like they’ve got nowhere else to be. No rush, no performance pasted on. Just motion: slow, exacting, deep in their own rhythm.

One is tall, lithe, with deep brown skin that glows under the honey light. Her hair is a thick braid, coiled high. She rolls her hips to the beat with a kind of lazy grace that makes it hard to look away.

Another is smaller, curves poured into a sheer mesh bodysuit that catches the gold from the lights like molten thread. She’s freckled, red-haired, pale as cream but tattooed across her thighs and ribs. Her movements are slower still, almost feline.

The third is androgynous, with short-cropped hair, broad shoulders, body like a dancer’s. Moving with a sharp elegance that cuts through the air like silk through water. She wears only a harness and heels, long lines, and clean confidence.

They don’t seem to care who’s watching.

Which, somehow, makes them impossible to ignore.

I feel myself sink into the moment, coat still clutched around me, dress pressed to my skin beneath. The cold of the street already feels miles away.

And Dahlia?

She’s already moving toward the back, like she’s been here a hundred times before.

Dahlia doesn’t speak. Just tilts her head and glides deeper into the room, that impossible walk of hers not slowed by the plush carpet or the low lighting.

I follow, shrugging off my coat but keeping it folded in my arms like armor.

She leads us past the ring of chairs and along the far wall to a booth sunk half a step below the floor. Vinyl cushions, deep burgundy, creaked as we slid in. The table in front of us was small, round, and a little scuffed. Someone had left behind a rocks glass, just ice now, melting at the bottom.

It was perfect.

From here, the stage was in full view, but we were tucked far enough back not to draw attention. We could watch without being watched. Or at least pretend.

The music shifted, same slow heartbeat, but a new voice now. Lower, breathier. A woman humming just under the melody, as if she were sharing a secret with only the bassline. The energy didn’t dip, it curled. Tightened.

From the side curtain, a woman stepped onto the stage.

Tall, sharp cheekbones, long limbs wrapped in a halter of black latex and nothing else. High platforms: not stilettos, but boots, laced up and mean. Her hair was slicked back, almost wet-looking. She didn’t dance.

She commanded.

The room shifted with her presence. She moved slowly and deliberately, each step a statement. Chin high. Shoulders rolled back. She didn’t smile. Didn’t need to. Nudity wasn’t the point. This was about control. Owning the space. Owning every gaze she caught and everyone she didn’t.

No one spoke now. Even the casual murmur from the back dissolved.

She raised her arms, palms open, and simply stood there. Stillness like a wire pulled tight. Like she could break it with a breath.

I felt the press of Dahlia’s thigh against mine. Not urgent. Just… there. Reminding me. I turned slightly, enough to see her watching the stage with the same calm she carried everywhere, like she already knew what was going to happen and was just letting the rest of us catch up.

My chest rose in a slow inhale.

This wasn’t a show. It was a signal.

Dahlia lifted two fingers, subtle but unmistakable, and a waitress peeled off from the far side of the room to meet us.

She wore black, like everyone here, but not a uniform. A fitted corset-style vest over a sheer long-sleeve top. No bra. High-waisted slacks that clung to her hips and flared just above her ankles, where her boots began. Practical, not flashy. A slim leather pouch rested against one hip, tablet tucked inside. Her hair was twisted into a low knot, a few strands loose on purpose.

She leaned in slightly, eyes flicking to Dahlia first. “Welcome back.”

Dahlia gave the smallest nod. “My guest... she’ll have a gin and tonic.”

I blinked. “Yes. Gin and tonic,” I said, too quickly. Dahlia didn’t look at me, but I caught the corner of her mouth tip, just a little. Not mockery. Amusement, maybe. Or something gentler.

The waitress tapped her tablet, the soft click of her nails barely audible over the music, and disappeared without another word.

I sank back into the booth, the vinyl warming under my thighs. Tried to match Dahlia’s stillness. She didn’t fidget. Didn’t scan the room. She just watched the stage, one arm resting lightly along the back of the booth, fingers loose.

The bass seemed to move more slowly now. Or maybe I was just syncing to it.

A few minutes later, the waitress returned.

She set a short glass in front of me, heavy and cold. Real glass. Thick-bottomed, faceted edges. Lime wedge floating just off-center. The smell of gin hits first: clean, crisp, almost floral. A proper drink. A proper place.

In front of Dahlia, she placed a tall ice water. No lemon. No fuss.

Dahlia thanked her with a glance. The waitress nodded once, then slipped away.

I wrapped my fingers around the glass, letting the cold settle into my skin before I took a sip. Bitter, bright, strong.

It helped. A little.

The woman on stage hadn’t moved much, but she didn’t need to.

She had every inch of the room.

Dahlia’s gaze drifted from the stage to me again, and I felt the shift in her before she even spoke.

“We’ll be heading into a VIP room soon,” she said, her tone smooth but edged with purpose. “It won’t be crowded. Just a few people. Trusted ones.”

My fingers tightened slightly around my glass. “What… what does that involve?”

She studied me, her face calm, unreadable, but not cold. Never cold.

“There are base rules,” she said. “No one touches you without your consent. Nothing happens unless you agree to it, before and during. If you say stop, it stops. If you want to leave, we leave. If you go quiet or freeze, I’ll be watching for it. I’ll pull you the moment I sense something’s off. Do you understand?”

I nodded, but she waited. I swallowed and said, “Yes.”

She softened, just a touch. “Good. You’re not a display piece, petal. Not unless you want to be. This isn’t a repeat of last time.”

My heart gave a hard thump at that, the shadow of memory pressing behind my ribs. I pushed it down with a breath and another sip of my drink.

“I want to try,” I said. “I trust you.”

Her eyes lingered on mine, as if checking for cracks, for anything I hadn’t said. Then she gave a single, slow nod.

“Finish your drink,” she said gently. “They’ll be ready for us soon.”

I looked back at the stage, but I couldn’t focus on the dancer anymore.

All I could feel was the weight of what I’d just agreed to.

And the strange, quiet heat curling in my stomach.

___ 🐺 ___

We rose together, her hand brushing the small of my back as she stepped out of the booth. I followed closely, the hem of my dress clinging to my thighs, catching on the warmth from the gin and the press of my own breath.

We moved past the other booths, past low voices and slow songs, until the music began to feel like a memory behind us. At the far end of the room, tucked behind a short, curved hallway, a door waited. It was marked only with small, clean lettering: VIP.

No velvet rope. No bouncer. Just a door.

Dahlia opened it like she belonged there. She didn’t pause. Didn’t knock.

The door swung inward without a sound; no creak, no click. Just a soft hush of movement and a warm spill of amber light that kissed the hallway floor.

She stepped through. I followed.

And the world changed.

Immediately, the air shifted. It was thicker somehow, though not stuffy. Intentional. Luxurious. No voices. No chatter. Just the low hum of music that you didn’t so much hear as feel. It lived under the skin, threaded deep into the muscles. Slower than the main room. Deeper. A rhythm that curled up your spine and stayed there.

The space wasn’t large, but it felt endless. Dark wood walls, stained deep and glossy. Rich. Heavy. Like it could swallow sound if it wanted to. Lighting moved with the music, subtle pulses of color that rolled over the room in a slow, sensuous dance: amber to rose to plum and back again. Nothing jarring. Just heat and slow turns.

Seating wrapped around the perimeter in a loose half-circle. Sunken into the floor like a lounge, you had to choose to enter. Plush velvet sofas. Oversized pillows. Every surface seemed to invite you to lean back, let go. Even the floor was soft. Barefoot bedroom soft, the kind that made heels feel like an intrusion.

Dahlia didn’t pause to explain. She simply moved forward, slow and sure, like she’d done this a hundred times before.

I hesitated on the threshold, just for a second. Then stepped in.

And let the door fall quietly shut behind me.

It took me a moment to realize what was different. Why the room felt so much larger than it was.

The mirrors… Oh, the mirrors.

They lined the walls in seamless panels, set in narrow frames of brushed gold. Not gaudy. Elegant. Intentional. Each one angled just slightly, just enough that no matter where you sat, you could see the entire room from somewhere else. Reflections layered over reflections, bodies and shadows folding in on each other, infinite and intimate.

And then I looked up.

The ceiling wasn’t flat. It tilted in soft planes, like a stretched canopy, but it shimmered: high-polish, silvered glass that caught everything beneath it. The flicker of lighting, the shift of shoulders, the spill of a drink into a glass.

And us.

We were already in it. Dahlia, standing near the center, a shape of ink and curves and precision. And me, one step behind, a little breathless in my too-short dress and coat still clutched tight.

I caught my own face in one of the angled panels, mouth parted slightly, eyes wide. I looked like someone about to step onto a stage.

Or into something she couldn’t undo.

There were others already here, three men and a woman, settled across the sunken seating like they were part of the room itself. They didn’t look up. They didn’t need to. Their stillness had weight. Like they had all the time in the world.

One man sat close to the woman. They had the ease of a couple in their forties, comfortable, but attuned. She had already undone the front of his pants, her fingers idly stroking him through soft cotton. He reclined slightly, eyes half-lidded, letting her touch guide the mood. His shirt was crisp, collar slightly open, tie loosened but not removed. She wore a silk wrap dress, burgundy, parted at the thigh, one heel dangling from her toe like a deliberate afterthought. Her eyes met mine briefly, curious, assessing, then calm. A quiet welcome, maybe.

The second man sat farther off, alone. He was older, in his fifties, maybe early sixties. Asian, with silver at his temples and a kind expression that didn’t dull the sharpness underneath. He held a glass in his hand, swirling the last of the ice. The contrast in him struck me: something gentle in his posture, but with a darkness beneath it, like a smile that hides teeth. It was his gaze I remembered most: measured, watchful, and completely unflinching. Like he already knew what I’d come here to do.

The third was younger. Early thirties, maybe. Dark curls, no drink. He sat relaxed, almost slouched, hands folded, gaze on the shifting lights dancing across the mirrored ceiling. He didn’t turn when I entered. But there was a flicker, his breathing changed, barely, as if my presence had made its way under his skin without him choosing it.

They didn’t speak. No greetings. This wasn’t that kind of room.

___ 🐺 ___

Dahlia moved first.

She stepped toward me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her body through the chill still clinging to my skin. Her fingers slipped beneath the collar of my coat and pulled it back with practiced ease, letting the heavy fabric fall into her arms.

She didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t smile.

She leaned in, lips grazing the shell of my ear.

“The stage is yours,” she whispered.

And then she turned, gliding toward one of the side couches, folding my coat over the arm like it was nothing more than silk.

And as if someone had been waiting for that exact moment, the music changed.

Still slow. But not soft.

It crawled into the room, thick with heat. The bass was deeper now, rolling and alive. The kind of sound that coils low in your belly and blooms from the inside out. A rhythm meant for skin, not dance floors.

I was standing in the center.

Of the room.

Of the mirrors.

Of them.

And suddenly I could feel everything. My pulse at my throat. The slick heat blooming between my legs. The cool air slipped beneath the hem of my dress and trailed up the backs of my thighs. The heavy beat of my heart trying to sync with the music and failing, just barely.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

But I knew they were watching, whether directly or through the reflections that curved around us like smoke.

I wanted to cover myself. I wanted to stay still. I wanted to run.

I didn’t plan to move.

But the bass was inside me now: deep, warm, and insistent. Like a second heartbeat. It slipped down my spine and rolled through my hips, nudging them into motion before I could second-guess it.

I started to sway. Slow. Small. Just enough to feel the hem of my dress shift against my thighs.

The mirrors caught it, from every angle. Me multiplied… curved, stretched, wrapped in light and shadow. There was no hiding from myself here.

The floor was soft beneath my heels, but I wanted to feel it fully. I bent one leg, kicked off a shoe. Then the other. The heels landed with the faintest whisper, vanishing into the velvet hush.

Barefoot now. Grounded. The music found me again.

My eyes closed.

And I danced.

Not like I was on a stage. Not like I was performing. But like the rhythm had reached into my ribs and unlocked something… something private, something I hadn’t touched in far too long.

My arms moved without thought, trailing behind my hips, over my sides, across the soft curve of my stomach. Not a tease. Not yet. Just touch… real and present. Every brush of my own fingers was another anchor pulling me deeper into the moment.

I didn’t think about the others. Not their silence. Not the way they might be watching.

I thought about Dahlia.

I imagined her eyes on me. Cool and certain. Not judging. Just… seeing.

And I wanted her to see me.

All of me.

Not just the girl in Vegas eighteen months ago, shattered and uncertain. But this version. The one who stepped back into the fire because she chose to.

I opened my eyes.

In the glass above me, I watched myself move: my hair tumbling over one shoulder, dress clinging to sweat-slick skin, lips parted on an exhale I hadn’t noticed.

I didn’t look afraid.

My fingers found the hem of my dress.

The fabric was thin, silky, and damp now where my skin had warmed. I caught it gently and drew it higher, inch by inch, over the curve of my hips, across my stomach, over my ribs.

I wasn’t rushing. There was no need.

This wasn’t a performance. This was permission.

The dress slid up and over my head in one long motion. I raised my arms, closed my eyes again, and felt the cool brush of air against the heat of my skin. I let the fabric fall from my hands.

It landed at my feet, pooling like ink.

I didn’t look around. I didn’t need to. The room was still, no gasps, no shifting. Just presence. Eyes in the mirrors. Bodies in shadow. The thrum of the bass threaded its way through me like a pulse.

Underneath, I wore only a pair of black panties. No bra. My skin was bare, goosebumps raised along my arms, but I didn’t feel exposed.

I felt… right.

I dragged my hands up my thighs, across the swell of my hips, over the flat of my stomach. My own skin was electric to the touch. I moved with it, hips circling slowly, weight shifting from one foot to the other like I was following some silent tide only I could hear.

And in a way, I was.

I was letting go. Of Vegas. Of before. Of fear.

The girl in front of the window had shattered and scattered like glass. And now, in this room I was putting myself back together. But this time, not by force.

By choice.

I arched my back, stretched my arms above me. Felt the muscles pull, the line of my body elongate, strong and soft all at once. My hair fell in waves over my shoulders, damp at the ends from sweat or snow or something deeper.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror.

My mouth curved. Not a smile. Something quieter. More sacred.

I let my hands fall, resting gently against my hips.

And I stood there.

Still. Bare. Steady.

Waiting, not for permission, but for Dahlia. Because now, I was ready.

The air felt heavier now, thick with heat and quiet intention. I blinked slowly, trying to find focus in the blur of light and breath and reflection.

I looked around the room, my heart still thrumming in time with the bass. The others were watching, though none of them moved. Faces shadowed, expressions unreadable. But I caught one.

An older Asian man, seated near the edge of the circle. Dressed simply. In dark slacks, a crisp shirt open at the throat. He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t trying to be noticed.

But his eyes were on me.

Kind, at first glance. Curious. Patient.

But underneath that, something else. Something darker. Something I couldn’t name but recognized, because it stirred something low in my belly.

I moved toward him, slow, fluid. My feet were silent against the soft floor. Hips swaying, breath shallow.

He didn’t lean forward. Didn’t reach out. Just watched.

I stopped inches from his knees, close enough that he could feel the heat of me. I could smell him now, warm leather, a hint of spice. Earthy. Real.

I held his gaze.

Then, slowly, I reached down, took his wrists in my hands, and guided them upward.

His hands rose, deliberate. No hesitation. I nudged them gently toward my hips, fingers curling under the waistband of my panties.

He looked up at me once. A silent question. A flicker of caution… or was it respect?

I nodded.

And he complied.

He slid them down, careful, reverent. The fabric rolled over my hips, down my thighs, and I stepped out of them one foot at a time. Left them there on the floor between us like a quiet offering.

He didn’t touch me beyond that. Didn’t need to.

I stood tall again. Completely bare now. The lights above caught my skin in gold and rose.

I felt exposed. But not small.

Not afraid.

I turned slowly, giving him my back, hips rolling in time with the music. My body was loose now, fluid. Unfolding into something new.

In the mirrors, I saw myself framed by him. His hands rested in his lap. My panties were still clutched in one.

I met my own gaze in the ceiling.

And I didn’t look away.

I turned from him slowly, letting the mirrors catch every angle. My skin was flushed, alive. The room watched, but no one moved. That silence, intentional and electric, only added to the weight of it.

I twirled once, a slow circle on the soft floor, letting my arms float up and my hair sweep around my shoulders. My body moved without thought now. I was no longer dancing for them. I was dancing for myself. For the feeling of it. For the way the air kissed my skin, for the deep hum of the bass running up my legs and into my chest.

My panties were still in his hand. I took them back gently, folding the delicate fabric in my fingers, before slipping them into Dahlia’s waiting palm as I passed her.

Then I turned back to him.

He hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

I knelt in front of him, the velvet pressing warm against my knees. My breath was steady now. My fingers reached out, slow and sure.

I undid his belt first, easing the leather through the loops, careful not to rush. I wanted him to feel it. Every moment. Every inch. Then the button. The zipper. I could hear each sound, each metallic click and rasp, as loud as thunder in the quiet room. I slipped my hand beneath the waistband of his briefs and freed him.

He was already hard.

I didn’t look around. I didn’t need to. I could feel them watching. The woman. The other men. Dahlia. But it didn’t feel like I was being used or taken.

It felt like I was in control.

They weren’t watching a girl kneeling for a man. They were watching a woman take what she wanted, in her own time.

That power lit something inside me. Not fire... something deeper. Steady. Rooted.

I looked up into his eyes.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

He was hard, yes, but not ready. Not the way I wanted him to be.

I let my fingers glide along his length first, taking my time, watching how he reacted to every stroke. The slightest twitch, the soft catch in his breath. I leaned in and kissed the tip. Just a kiss. Tender. Intentional.

Then another, lower.

I dragged my tongue along the underside of his shaft, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of his skin. He exhaled. I didn’t stop. I traced every inch with my mouth, with my lips, with the flat of my tongue. Let my breath tease him, warm and wet. I cupped his balls gently, rolling them in my hand, feeling the weight of him. Licked them too, soft and slow.

I didn’t rush.

I wanted to feel him come alive for me.

Only when I sensed his restraint start to fray, when his hand gripped the cushion just slightly, when his eyes went darker, did I finally take him in. My lips slid down over his head. I moaned around him as he filled my mouth. That deep, humming moan vibrated through him, and I felt his thighs tense in response.

I didn’t gag. Didn’t flinch. I controlled the rhythm, and I held his gaze. That kind expression was still there, but it had deepened, flushed now with something more primal. But it never turned cruel.

I moved with purpose. My hands gripped his thighs, grounding myself, and I bobbed slowly, then faster. My mouth was slick and warm. I let myself enjoy it. Really enjoy it.

He came fast.

His whole body jerked, but I didn’t move. I kept him in my mouth, greedy, swallowing every drop, licking him clean. It was messy. It was perfect.

Not once did I look away from him. His eyes were the anchor. My control was the tether.

And when it was done, I pulled back slowly, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand, smiling just enough to let him know I knew exactly what I’d done, and that I owned every moment of it.

___ 🐺 ___

I was still catching my breath, still tasting him on my tongue, when I felt her presence behind me. Dahlia, close, lowering herself to my level.

Her perfume wrapped around me before her voice did. That low, velvety purr I knew too well.

“That was beautiful, petal.”

I shivered. Not from the cold this time.

Her hands brushed my hair away from my neck, slow, deliberate. And then…I felt it. Something warm, worn from being held. Leather. Thick. A collar.

I froze, heart thudding, not out of fear, but from the weight of the moment.

She didn’t speak again. Just wrapped it around my neck and secured it in place. It wasn’t tight, but it was firm. A gentle click sounded like thunder in my ears.

And then the leash. Rope, I thought at first, but no… too smooth, too taut. A leather leash, the kind you’d find in a pet store, clipped to the ring at my throat with a soft snap.

My breath paused.

Dahlia didn’t hesitate. She stood, fluid, commanding, and turned away from me. Her heels silent as she walked across the floor, toward a different sofa.

I started to rise, legs shaky but ready. But she glanced back, just a look, and gave her head the slightest shake.

I understood.

I dropped back down to my knees without a word, the velvet softness of the floor brushing against my skin. The leash tugged gently, and I followed.

Crawling.

Not out of shame. Not out of weakness. I crawled because I wanted to. Because I trusted her. Because something in me had waited a long time to feel this exact moment.

I looked up at the sofa.

The man and the woman. Not flashy, not theatrical. Comfortable in their own skin. The kind of ease that only comes with time.

She sat close to him, her legs tucked beneath her, one hand already inside his open trousers. Stroking him through the fabric, slow, steady, like they’d done this before, maybe hundreds of times. There was nothing hurried about it. Just the calm, quiet confidence of knowing exactly what the other needed.

They both looked at me. I didn’t flinch. 

I nodded. Just once. Clear.

The woman smiled, subtly, like a secret. Her hand didn’t stop moving. If anything, she pressed a little firmer, drawing a soft sigh from him. His eyes stayed on mine, calm and unreadable.

I shifted my weight forward, waiting for Dahlia’s signal, or her silence.

The leash was still in her hand, but she let it slacken. She didn’t need to tug. I was already moving. Willing. Wanting.

I didn’t stay on the floor.

Instead, I crawled up beside him, slow and fluid, the leash dragging softly behind me. The velvet cushions dipped under my knees as I settled next to him, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, the woman’s perfume, the tension between them.

He leaned back slightly, pants already loosened, his cock hardening in anticipation.

I didn’t hesitate.

I turned my body toward him, letting my knees spread slightly for balance, one hand braced against the sofa, the other curling gently around the base of his shaft.

And then I lowered my mouth onto him.

I could feel the room shift behind me, energy tightening. From here, I was on display. Elevated. Curved in just the right way. I knew exactly what they were seeing: the arch of my back, the line of my thighs, the leash dangling from my neck like punctuation. This was no accident.

I moaned softly around him. Slow movements. Intentional. Not for show, even if it looked like it.

I let myself get lost in the rhythm, savoring the weight of him, the sweet mixed with the saltiness of him, the small tremble in his thigh as I took him deeper. My hand caressed his hip, grounding him. Letting him know he was safe in my mouth.

His woman watched me with a satisfied smile. One of her hands rested lazily on his chest, the other on my lower back, just touching. A quiet approval. A silent thread pulling us together.

And I gave myself over to it. To the moment. To them.

To Dahlia, watching it all.

I tried to bring him to a climax: slow, steady strokes of my mouth, my tongue, my lips. But he wasn’t like the older man. He was patient. Grounded. His hand on my shoulder was relaxed, not urging.

So I worked harder. Hollowed my cheeks. Swirled my tongue around the head before sliding him deep again. I focused on the sound of his breathing, the little shifts in his hips. I wanted to please him. I wanted to make him come.

Then I felt hands.

Not Dahlia’s. These were smaller, warmer. Feminine.

They gripped my hips with confidence. Then slid down, pulling gently at my thighs, spreading me just slightly. My breath caught around his cock.

And then the first flick of her tongue.

I gasped, nearly choking. My knees trembled on the velvet. The man's cock slipped from my mouth for a second as I exhaled, hard, trying to keep control.

She didn’t stop.

Her tongue teased me. Slowly at first, tasting. Exploring. Then quicker. Deeper. Licking along the edge of my opening, flicking down to my clit in maddening little circles.

I groaned against his cock and forced myself to focus, taking him back into my mouth, trying to hold the rhythm.

But it was hard. So fucking hard.

Her mouth worked like she knew me. Like she’d studied the way I breathed when I was close. The way I clenched. She built the pressure inside me like a wave rolling in. Slow and inevitable, delicious.

My hips bucked involuntarily. I whimpered around his cock. My thighs tightened. She moaned against me like she was the one being touched.

And then… nothing.

She stopped.

Just like that. Her mouth was gone. Her fingers sliding off me like water. No release. Just the raw edge of need buzzing through every nerve.

I gasped for air, dizzy with frustration, trying not to lose the rhythm with my mouth. But I was shaking. Eyes wide. Heart racing.

Still kneeling. Still obedient.

But barely holding on.

I forced myself back into the moment. Focused.

The man in front of me had barely moved, but I could feel it now, the subtle tightening in his thighs, the flex of his abs under his open shirt. His breathing had shifted, deeper, rougher. He was close.

I wrapped my hand around the base of his cock, holding him steady, and took him deeper. My lips sealed around him, my tongue pressing just right along the underside. I moaned softly, not for effect, but because I meant it. Because I wanted him to feel that.

My other hand curled over his thigh as I moved: slow, deliberate strokes with my mouth, pausing to flick my tongue over the tip, then swallowing him again.

He was close, I could feel it in the tension of his thighs, the way his cock pulsed against my tongue. My rhythm was steady, my intention clear. I wanted to bring him there. I wanted to be the one who made him lose control.

And then I felt it.

A warm breath. A pause. Then… her tongue.

Not where I expected.

She wasn’t at my pussy anymore. Her mouth had moved higher. Slower. More deliberate.

Her tongue circled the tight ring of my ass, slow and slick, dipping just enough to make my whole body lurch.

My lips slipped slightly from the man’s cock as my breath caught in my throat.

I tried to refocus, taking him in again, but the sensation was overwhelming. Her tongue traced between both openings, using my own wetness as lubricant, spreading it over the tender skin she was working.

I moaned around the man's cock, involuntarily, the sound vibrating against him.

Then she poked. Lightly at first, just enough to make me flinch, then firmer. Searching. Testing. Trying to breach me with nothing but the persistence of her tongue.

The heat. The violation. The thrill.

I couldn't concentrate.

I bobbed again, but my rhythm faltered. My thighs trembled, torn between the pressure in my mouth and the exquisite torment at my back.

Her fingers gripped my hips to steady me as she continued, tongue now moving in lazy, confident circles, dipping, retreating, teasing. My body was betraying me, leaning into her, opening for her.

I lost the thread of what I was doing. I could still feel the man's cock in my mouth, still throbbing against my tongue, but I wasn’t in control anymore. My focus splintered. I was caught in between. Serving and being taken.

I tried… God, I tried… to keep moving, to keep serving him the way I was meant to.

His cock throbbed against my tongue, still heavy, still waiting. I wrapped my lips around him again, drew him deeper into my mouth, forcing my jaw to stay relaxed, my movements to stay smooth.

But my body betrayed me.

Every time her tongue returned, slick and hot and there, my hips bucked forward, instinctively and uncontrollably. I clenched around the sensation, gasping through my nose, my chest pressing into his thigh as I fought to hold still.

She knew exactly what she was doing. She teased my asshole with a cruel kind of elegance, never pushing too far, just enough to make me ache. Her tongue fluttered, circled, pressed. Every flick sent a jolt through me. I could feel my pulse in places I didn’t know could pulse.

My pussy was soaked, dripping, and the wet sounds between my legs only made it more obscene.

Still, I kept going.

I sucked harder, using my tongue to swirl around his shaft, taking him all the way in until my nose pressed against the soft hair at the base. My eyes fluttered closed, and I moaned again, involuntarily, the vibrations making him grunt.

His hand came down gently on my head, fingers tangling in my hair. Not guiding, just grounding. His thighs tensed, his breath sharp. He was close again.

But so was I.

The woman’s mouth moved in a rhythm that echoed the music. She was slow, almost reverent. She licked up from my pussy to my ass and back again, as if she were savoring me. Her tongue circled, prodded, slick with my own desire. And when she finally, finally, pushed just the tip of it inside me, I broke.

A whimper escaped around the man's cock. I lost my rhythm, my breath, my control. My hips trembled, and my eyes flew open, locking onto his.

I wasn’t serving anymore. I was surrendering.

And somehow, in that moment, that felt like the most obedient thing I’d ever done.

That whimper… that helpless, broken moan I didn’t mean to make, was all it took.

He groaned low, deep in his chest, and his thighs flexed beneath my arms. His grip tightened just a fraction in my hair, not forceful, but anchoring, like a wave rising up to meet me.

And then I felt it.

The first hot spurt of cum hit the back of my throat, sudden and deep. There was no time to brace. His cock twitched again, and more followed, thick and salty and his, pulsing into me like it belonged there.

I gasped, or tried to, but it was too late. My body responded faster than my mind. I swallowed instinctively, needing to take it all, to hold it all.

The second spurt bypassed my mouth completely. He was so deep, so buried in my throat, I could only accept it. His release filled me, warm and intimate, and I couldn’t help the moan that escaped around him, trembling with the mix of shock and pleasure.

His hand relaxed then, slowly sliding free from my hair.

I eased back, finally able to breathe. My lips dragged along his length, wet and sensitive now, and I let him slip from my mouth with reverence, a final kiss pressed to the head before I looked up at him.

He was watching me. Not possessive. Not smug.

Just… grateful.

My lips were slick, my chin wet, my breath shaky. My heart pounded from the sheer intensity of it, not just the act, but the moment. The surrender. The power.

Behind me, the woman’s hands still rested on my hips. But she didn’t move. She didn’t need to.

The room felt hushed, like it had exhaled with me. Like it had witnessed something honest.

Something earned.

As I knelt there, catching my breath, the heat still thrumming through my body, I felt his hand again, this time gentle beneath my chin. He lifted my face to his, his touch steady, deliberate.

I expected a nod. Maybe a quiet word, the way they usually do.

But instead, he leaned in.

His lips brushed mine. Soft and slow, almost reverent. Not a command. Just… contact. A quiet offering. He tasted himself on my mouth, and something in that broke open inside me.

“Thank you,” he whispered, barely more than breath against my skin.

I held his gaze, blinking once, stunned by the intimacy of it. That was more vulnerable than the act itself. His gratitude, unguarded.

I didn’t know what to say. So I gave him a small nod, almost a bow. My fingers brushed his knee before I pushed myself back, breath still uneven.

Behind me, the woman’s hands slowly withdrew.

But I could feel her heat. The way she hovered still. Like something was unfinished.

I wasn’t sure if the moment belonged to me anymore. Or if I had just given it away, and been given something in return.

___ 🐺 ___

I stayed kneeling there, breathing unevenly, heart still pounding, but something inside me had settled. Like a storm that rages, then leaves an eerie calm behind. My lips tingled from his kiss, the faint taste of him lingering, like a whispered promise or a secret I wasn’t ready to share aloud.

The room felt thick with everything I’d just given and received. So many small moments: his soft hands on my chin, the woman’s teasing tongue tracing my skin, the weight of the leather collar pressing gently at my throat. Each piece tangled inside me, knotting tight and then loosening, pulling apart and weaving together all at once.

I thought about how far I’d come. Just two years ago, I’d barely dared to dream of being this naked, not just physically, but emotionally. Back then, I was scared to let go, afraid of losing control, terrified of being judged. Now? Here, in this dim, pulsing room, I was learning what it meant to trust. To surrender without losing myself.

The collar felt like a symbol, stiff but gentle, an anchor in the whirl of new sensations. Dahlia’s hands had been firm but kind, and her presence was a quiet promise that I wasn’t alone in this.

Images flickered through my mind: Vegas, the snowstorm, the soft bass vibrating beneath my skin, the way the mirrors caught every angle of me, watching and reflecting back who I really was.

I remembered the gaze of the men and women around me. They hadn’t needed to look directly to know me. To see the shift. The power that came not from pushing or demanding, but from letting go and being seen as I was.

Part of me was still trembling, nervous, and exposed. But beneath that was a slow-burning fire. A feeling of freedom I hadn’t known I craved.

Was this what submission felt like? Not weakness, but strength wrapped in softness?

I let my eyes drift shut for a moment, listening to the deep rhythm of the music that still pulsed through the room, the slow rise and fall of breaths around me.

I was the centrepiece tonight, but not a prize to be won. I was a story unfolding; fragile, fierce, and real.

And for the first time, I allowed myself to believe I could own that.

My breath began to slow, the rush of heat in my body easing like the tide pulling back from the shore. The room’s warmth wrapped around me again, soft and steady. I felt Dahlia’s presence beside me before I heard her voice; low, calm, and grounding.

“Petal... do you want to keep going?” she asked, her fingers lightly tracing my shoulder.

I blinked, the fog of sensation thinning, and nodded. The fire was still there, simmering just beneath my skin, but I trusted her to hold the rhythm. To know when to push and when to pause.

Before I could gather myself fully, the woman from the sofa leaned in again. Her breath was warm and steady against my skin, sliding lower with a deliberate gentleness that made me shiver. Her tongue returned. This time slower, more certain, dancing circles around my opening, tracing just where I’d felt teased before. The sensation was exquisite, a teasing promise without rush or demand.

I fought the instinct to lose focus again, to let myself drift away in the softness, but Dahlia’s hand caught mine, squeezing just enough to remind me where I was. Her gaze held mine with quiet authority. Steady and patient.

The woman’s lips brushed my skin, coaxing me closer to the edge, stopping just short, as if inviting me to ask for more instead of taking it. My body trembled, caught between surrender and control.

Her tongue traced slow, tantalizing circles around my ass, the wet heat pulling tight every nerve ending in my body. It flicked back to my pussy, dipping just enough to spread my own juices like a slick promise, before returning… always returning, to that delicate ring, teasing and prodding.

My breath stopped, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, as the tongue slid deeper. Not harsh or hurried, but smooth and insistent, gliding inside me with a slow, steady rhythm. No fingers, just that slick, warm pressure coaxing my body open, begging me to let go.

The contrast: the slick, wet warmth inside and the teasing flicks just outside, sent a wild pulse rippling through me. I was off balance, my focus fracturing between the softness of my lips parted in breathless gasps and the ache growing deep inside.

The woman’s hands came up then, resting lightly on my hips, steadying but not holding back. Her touch was a promise: safe, wanted, and oh-so electric.

My knees shook, my fingers gripping the velvet sofa as the world narrowed to the slick, pulsing heat inside me and the sound of my own ragged breathing. The slow, teasing rhythm became a tide, rising, pulling me toward the edge. I was raw and exposed.

And then I fell apart.

A wave of pleasure crashed through me, rolling from my core outward, the sensation thick and sweet. My muscles clenched, gripping the woman’s tongue as it slid deeper, wringing every last drop of tension from my body. My mouth opened in a moan, trembling, tasting myself on my lips.

The warmth flooded me. Electric and consuming, until I was nothing but pure sensation. The woman’s tongue traced slow circles inside me, bringing me back gently, letting me ride the aftershocks like a slow, rolling sea.

I sagged against the sofa, breathless, trembling with the fire still burning low but steady inside. It was my reward. Mine to take, to savor.

___ 🐺 ___

I was lost in the aftermath, every nerve ending humming like they’d just been rewired. The world felt soft, distant. Like I’d slipped beneath a warm, slow tide that pulled me away from everything except the ache and pleasure still blooming inside me.

There was a strange mix of release and vulnerability swirling in my chest, a knot loosening that I hadn’t realized had been there so long. My body was buzzing, raw and open, but my mind floated somewhere quieter, a little stunned, a little awed by what I’d just let happen.

It wasn’t just the physical sensation. It was the knowing that I’d crossed a line inside myself, that I’d given over control and come out on the other side, still me but somehow... freer.

I blinked slowly, trying to pull myself back to the room. To the muted reds and golds, the soft murmur of voices, the low pulse of music threading through my bones.

Then I felt her.

Dahlia’s hands were gentle on my shoulders, grounding me. Her voice came soft and steady, a tether pulling me back from the edge of that other place I’d just been.

“Hey, petal,” she murmured. “How are you feeling? You did beautifully.”

I wanted to say something. Thank you, maybe… but my throat still felt tight, words tangled in the afterglow.

Instead, I let her hands guide me, careful and sure. She brushed my hair back, her touch soothing, steadying the fluttering inside.

Her presence was warm, a quiet promise that I wasn’t alone here. That she’d catch me if I fell.

Slowly, the tight coil of nerves in my belly eased, replaced by a calm that seeped into my bones.

I let myself lean into her, into the moment, knowing whatever came next, I was safe. Held. Seen.

And for now, that was enough.

Dahlia hadn’t let go of the leash. Not yet. She stayed close, brushing my hair back, her thumb tracing slow, calming circles along my cheek. There were no more commands. Just her. Just warmth.

“You’re safe, petal,” she whispered. “You were perfect.”

She wrapped my coat around me again, like I was something precious she didn’t want the night to steal. Then she helped me onto one of the couches and draped a blanket over my legs: soft, heavy, and grounding. A glass of water appeared in her hand, and she held it out. I didn’t even lift my arms. Just leaned forward and drank, letting her care carry me for a little longer.

My body was wrecked. In the best way. My thoughts were barely more than fog, drifting in slow spirals.

I lay my head against her thigh, eyes half-lidded, just listening. The music was still playing, low and steady, the bass like a second heartbeat under mine. I wasn’t sure if I could move, and I didn’t want to.

I had danced. I had submitted. I had flown.

And now, in her hands, I was whole again.