It was summer in Vegas.

Not that it was any cooler back in Scottsdale. Dry heat, yeah, but it still hits like an open oven when you step outside. In Arizona, you sweat and it disappears. In Vegas, it clings. The pavement breathes heat back at you like it's alive and pissed off. Even the nights stay hot, like the city’s too jacked up to sleep.

I had come here for a friend’s birthday. A full week. One of those impromptu college group trips we all pretended was spontaneous, though someone had clearly spent weeks planning it down to the nightclub reservations, fake IDs, and matching outfits for the girls. We were broke, of course, which meant splitting a room in one of the smaller casinos on the Strip; the thin walls, floral carpet, cigarette ghosts clinging to the curtains. But we didn’t care. At that age, it was enough just to be somewhere else.

It was supposed to be about blowing off steam, celebrating that we’d survived our first year of college with our minds and friendships mostly intact. A little reckless. A little wild. Nothing we hadn’t done before.

At least that’s what I told myself.

The truth was, I’d brought more than a suitcase with me. I’d brought the rules. Chris’s rules. Dahlia’s rules. No touching. No orgasm unless told.

Chris has been my neighbor for years. The man next door, I used to spy on through the blinds, heart racing like some cliché. It started as a crush. Turned into something deeper. Darker. He’s the one who first showed me what it meant to submit, how far I could go if someone was there to catch me.

Dahlia came later. Not just someone Chris trusted, someone I trusted the second I saw her. Tall. Controlled. The kind of woman you notice when she enters a room, because she doesn’t need to demand it. A professional Mistress, sure, but with a soft, deliberate way of seeing me. Like she could cut with her words or wrap you in silk. She’d never let anything harm me. Not even myself.

I was theirs now. In different ways.

Those rules used to feel impossible. Now, they felt like guardrails. Like something I held onto when everything else got loud.

And in Vegas, everything is loud. The colors, the bodies, the drinks, the promise that you can be anyone for a night.

But I already knew who I was. Or thought I did.

The first few nights were fun. Loud, messy, exactly what we’d promised each other. Dancing on tables, losing track of time, laughing until we cried. The kind of chaos that tastes better when you’re young and too full of yourself to see the cracks.

But by the third night, it was starting to wear thin. My body ached from cheap heels and not enough sleep. All the clubs had started to blur together; different names, same sticky floors, same bass-heavy soundtrack vibrating in my chest. Strangers shouting in my ear, drinks sloshing down my arm, hands brushing where they shouldn’t. I smiled through it, but I felt myself pulling back. Getting quiet.

I wasn’t made for this kind of wild.

Back at the hotel, the girls were getting ready again; lashes out, bottles open, Bluetooth speaker blasting some remix that made the bathroom mirror vibrate. I slipped away to the balcony with my phone, needing a minute of air. Just a minute.

That’s when the group chat pinged. Just Chris, Dahlia, and me.

Chris: In town for meetings. Staying at the W. You need a break yet, princess?

My stomach flipped. It looked innocent enough, could’ve been a joke. Could’ve meant anything. But I knew exactly what it meant.

Madeline: maybe

I watched the typing dots appear, vanish, then appear again.

Chris: Same rules. No exceptions. Dress like you’re mine. Be downstairs in an hour.

Then, a second later, from Dahlia:

Dahlia: Let him take the lead tonight. But be careful, petal.

My throat went dry. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed this. Something sharp. Something that made me feel real again.

I told the girls I had a headache. Blamed it on the drinks or the strobe lights from the club the night before. Someone mumbled sympathy, handed me a half-crushed plastic water bottle from the mini fridge, then turned back to curling her lashes.

They barely noticed when I slipped out the door.

___ 🐺 ___

Outside, Vegas was just waking up for the night.

It was eight o’clock, still over ninety degrees. The kind of heat that didn’t let go, just sank into your skin and stayed. The air smelled like hot pavement and cigarette ash, sweetened with too much perfume and the exhaust of limos gliding down the Strip. Neon buzzed overhead, smeared across the dark like someone had painted the sky in electric candy.

We were staying in one of the smaller casinos. Not a headliner, flashy in a more desperate way. Carpet worn thin, blackjack tables half-filled with men in loosened ties and red-rimmed eyes. Somewhere nearby, a slot machine let out a fake little fanfare, celebrating someone’s $15 win like it was a jackpot.

I walked fast. Didn’t look back.

There was a different buzz in my blood now. Not alcohol. Not adrenaline. The kind that came from knowing I was expected. That I had a role to step into.

I booked an Uber to the W.

It wasn’t far. Nothing is in Vegas. But the Strip doesn’t care about distance. We crawled past crowds and blinking marquees: shirtless guys with yard-long margaritas, couples half-fighting in their Friday best. The AC fought against the heat bleeding through the glass. I sat still, palms damp, the city blurring past like a fever dream.

The closer we got, the quieter I became.

At a red light, I caught my reflection. Wide eyes. Loose hair. My pulse beating just beneath the skin.

When we pulled into the roundabout, I stepped out like the night might swallow me.

The dress clung like liquid silver, strappy, barely there. Soft as water, slit high on my thigh. My charcoal heels were short, quiet. Chosen for walking, not drama. I wasn’t wearing a bra. Or panties.

Rules were rules.

The valet didn’t blink. Maybe he was trained not to. Or maybe in Vegas, girls like me were just scenery. But I felt it: every inch of skin, every brush of warm air under the hem. Exposed. Seen.

I spotted him at the craps table near the entrance.

Chris stood tall, unhurried. A quiet king in a chaos of flashing lights and clattering chips. His eyes were on the game, but I knew he felt me. That pull, that quiet pressure, palpable even from here. He flicked the dice, players shouting around him, the noise vibrating through my chest.

I stepped toward him slowly, stretching the space between us like silk.

He glanced up. That half-smile I knew so well. He didn’t wave me over. Just watched. Like this was a dance we’d rehearsed a hundred times.

Then, without breaking rhythm, he held out his palm. The dice sat there like secrets.

“Blow on them,” he said, quiet but firm.

I leaned in. Let my breath warm his hand. The casino noise dimmed around us. He didn’t look away, just held still, letting the moment settle.

Then he threw.

The dice hit the felt. Tumbled. Landed.

Cheers erupted. Chips moved. The dealer called it out, but I didn’t hear the numbers, only the echo of my breath wrapped around his luck.

He gathered his winnings without looking at the others... two thousand in cold black chips.

“Good girl,” he murmured, low, just for me. “You’ve earned your reward.”

The table buzzed on, players chasing the rush. But Chris was already stepping back, eyes on me.

“Let’s go,” he said, quiet, commanding.

He didn’t offer his arm. Didn’t wait. Just turned and walked like he knew I’d follow.

And I did.

The casino pulsed behind us: slot chimes, laughter, the low oxygen-fed hum of everyone pretending they were winning. I moved through it like I wasn’t real. The hem of my dress caught a draft, brushing high on my thigh. I didn’t fix it.

His words still hummed inside me. You’ve earned your reward.

We passed the elevators near the back, tucked behind a velvet rope. A staff member unhooked it at Chris’s nod. No questions. Maybe he’d stayed here before. Or maybe he just carried that kind of authority, the kind that made people step aside.

The elevator doors slid shut. The world went quiet.

Just me. Him. The low whir of the lift rising.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch me. But the air between us was wired tight. Like the ride itself was part of the game. The rules. The control I agreed to the moment I replied to his message.

By the time it dinged, my breathing had changed. Slower. Deeper. Ready.

The doors opened to a quiet hall. One suite door lit by a soft golden sconce.

Chris stepped out first. Then turned.

I followed, a half-step behind, heels muffled by carpet.

My heart was a fist in my chest. Not fear. Something else. That tight, breathless edge before everything shifts. Before you're asked to give more. To become more.

He slid the key card into the lock.

The door opened with a soft mechanical sigh.

___ 🐺 ___

The suite wasn’t lavish, not like the penthouses in the ads. It was clean, modern, and dim. Soft lighting. Neutral colors. A couch, a low table, and that massive wall of glass on the far side. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the room, letting the Vegas night spill in like a glowing tide.

We were only a few floors up, low enough to see the roundabout below, headlights sweeping across it, people drifting in and out of the lobby. Beyond that, the Strip pulsed, alive, endless.

I stepped to the window, drawn like a moth. The glass was cool under my fingertips. I wondered, if someone looked up from below… would they see me?

I didn’t turn when the door clicked shut. I just stood there, staring out at the night, my fingers resting lightly on the glass.

A breath. A presence.

Then... his hands, warm and sure, settled on my hips. He stepped in behind me, silent, close enough for the heat of his chest to touch my spine.

His palms slid forward, slow, deliberate. Resting low on my belly. Fingers splayed. Holding me.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

He dipped his head and kissed the side of my neck. Softly at first, just a brush of lips, then deeper, hungrier. His stubble scraped gently against my skin, rough in the best way. I tilted my head to the side without thinking, giving him more.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice low and warm in my ear.

His hands moved up, slow and teasing, fingertips dragging over the silk of the dress. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. One hand slid higher, cupping my breast through the thin fabric, thumb circling, lazy, knowing exactly what it would do to me. The other hand wandered lower, pressing between my thighs, not forcing, not yet. Just reminding me what I wasn’t wearing. What he already knew.

I leaned back into him, caught between the chill of the glass and the heat of his body.

“You know they could see us,” he said, mouth still against my neck. “If they looked up.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“Maybe that’s what you want.”

His teeth grazed my skin. And I didn’t deny it.

He didn’t rush. He never did. That was part of it. The way he made time stretch, like he could bend it around me, wrap it tight and slow until there was nothing left but the now.

His fingers slid up to my shoulders, brushing the thin straps of the dress. Just a touch. Barely pressure at all. And then he slipped them down.

The silver fabric sighed as it slid off me, slow and weightless, pooling at my feet like liquid light. No resistance. No ceremony. One moment I was clothed, and the next… I wasn’t.

Naked. In heels. Standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling window with the whole damn Strip glittering behind it.

His hands came back to me, cupping my breasts from behind, thumbs brushing my nipples until they tightened under his touch. The contrast was sharp, the cool air from the glass on my skin, the heat of his palms, the low hum in my belly that said I was already too far gone to stop any of this.

But I didn’t want to stop.

I should’ve felt exposed. I should’ve felt scared. The window loomed in front of me, reflecting just enough to show my bare silhouette, shoulders back, legs long, nipples peaked. One cab turned the corner below, headlights cutting up the drive like searchlights. Anyone could look up. Anyone could see.

But all I felt was wanted.

I burned in his hands. My skin sang under his touch. Every inch of me felt awake, strung tight between shame and thrill. He shifted behind me, just enough for his breath to find my ear again, warm, deliberate.

“Don’t take your hands off the glass,” he whispered.

Not loud. Not rough. Just calm. Like he was stating something obvious. A rule that had always existed. His voice threaded straight down my spine, igniting something low and deep.

Then he was gone.

I felt the space before I heard a sound. His body no longer braced against mine, no hands on my skin. Just absence. And that instruction, echoing in my head.

I laid my palms flat against the glass. It was cool and slick, grounding me as the heat inside me churned. Behind me, the room was still. Dim. I couldn’t see him in the reflection, just the night outside, sharp and glittering. Red tail lights, neon signs, the flicker of a crosswalk. A couple stood outside the valet, arguing over something. A man leaned against a wall, smoking.

They had no idea I was up here, bare, trembling, hands pressed to the window like I belonged to it.

I didn’t know what he was doing.

The quiet stretched. I wanted to turn. I wanted to ask. But I didn’t.

My skin was on fire from the memory of his hands, and now, nothing. Only the faint hum of the air conditioning and the buzz of the city outside.

He was watching me. I could feel it. Somewhere behind me in that dim room, he was deciding. All I could do was wait.

___ 🐺 ___

The first drop landed between my shoulder blades. Cool. Slick. A tiny shock that made me suck in a breath.

Then another. And another.

A slow drizzle, trailing down my spine, over my lower back, sliding along the curve of my ass. It took a second for my brain to place the scent, sweet, faintly powdery.

Baby oil. Of course.

The stream grew steadier, poured from just above, like he was painting me with it. I stayed still, hands firm against the glass, my breath fogging a small patch in front of me.

Then his hands returned.

God.

They were warm, slick, and everywhere at once. He spread the oil with practiced ease. His palms gliding over my shoulders, down my arms, across my sides, the touch both soothing and maddening. He kneaded my hips, smoothed it across my belly, then lower, spreading it across my thighs with slow, deliberate care.

I felt his fingers slip between my legs, parting me, massaging oil into the delicate folds of skin there. Not hurried. Not teasing. Just... thorough.

A finger slid inside me.

Then another.

He worked the oil into me like it was part of a ritual. One he’d done before, one I was expected to endure with grace. My knees went a little soft, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

“Good,” he murmured behind me, just once. “You’ll need it.”

The words curled hot in my stomach. He didn’t say why. And I didn’t ask.

One of his slick fingers trailed lower, slow, circling a place that hadn’t been touched before. When it pressed in, just a little, I tensed… instinctively, sharply. My breath stopped. My thighs twitched.

He paused there. Not pushing further. Just reminding me it was his choice, not mine.

Then he leaned in again, his mouth warm at the base of my neck, just under my ear.

“I want to show you my version of that night you had at that adult shop,” he whispered. “I haven’t forgotten how you looked after. All flushed and wrecked. Eyes full of it.”

His finger moved, slow and steady, slick with oil.

“I know you like an audience, even if you pretend you don’t. I know how much you love being led, told what to do, how to behave, how to feel.”

He nipped the edge of my ear. I shivered.

“Would you like that?” he asked, voice velvet-smooth. “Would you like me to lead you through my version of it?”

I nodded.

His hand slid back down, fingers spreading me again. Then I felt it… him circling that tight, unused edge, pressing a little deeper.

He didn’t move for a moment. Just stayed pressed close behind me, his finger resting inside that tight ring, not forcing deeper, not retreating. Just there claiming the space. I held my breath. My thighs trembled. My hands stayed on the glass, exactly where he told me to keep them.

Then slowly, so slowly, he pulled his finger back, letting it slip free with a slick sound that felt louder than it should’ve

He placed a hand on the small of my back. Not pushing. Just grounding me.

“You don’t need to know what’s coming,” he said, voice low and calm, like we were talking about the weather. “That’s not your job.”

His palm slid up my back, over my spine, resting lightly between my shoulder blades. “Your job is to stay open. Trust me. Let it happen.”

I closed my eyes.

That part, the trust, I could do. Even with my pulse hammering in my throat, even with the city lights stretching endlessly in front of me like a stage, I could give him that. He’d never pushed me where I couldn’t go. He never would.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, almost like he could hear the thoughts sparking behind my eyes. “I might break you open a little. But not hurt.”

A kiss landed at the base of my neck. Soft. Almost sweet.

“You’ll thank me later.”

His hands left me. Again, that space. That quiet. No orders. No...