“Not at all, Jareth.” He says. “Let me introduce you to my newest acquisition…” He adds, pulling my arm around me far enough that I am manoeuvred in front of him.
This new man is old, older than Antonio and yet he lacks the physique that Antonio has. His hair is so grey it’s white. His face has clearly had enough botox and fillers that the wrinkles have been eradicated, but it’s made him look odd especially given his portly belly.
“A rare beauty.” Jareth says, before taking my hand and kissing it lightly.
Antonio stiffens at that just enough to tell me he doesn’t want this man to touch me. Should I be relieved? Should I feel some sort of protection in that streak of jealousy?
“Pet,” He says, “This is Jareth Blackwell, owner of the Black Orchid Club.”
The owner? My eyes flicker between them, and then I remember that I’m not meant to be looking anyone in the face without permission and quickly drop my gaze.
I swear I hear the smirk more than see it as Jareth reacts. “She’s a flighty thing.” He comments.
“She’s a little green.” Antonio replies. “But she’s learning to enjoy the pain as much as the pleasure.”
Jareth laughs at that, and I feel the heat of his gaze trailing over my body, lingering where my pierced nipples peek through.
“Was she this plump when you got her, or did you feed her up?” He asks in a way you would about a potential bit of livestock.
Antonio laughs lightly, clearly taking his comment as a compliment. “She’s actually lost a little weight, she was fatter when I bought her. I think the stress of her induction had a bad effect on her.”
“Shame.” Jareth replies. “That’s a real shame. Have you considered upping her diet? I think she’d look marvellous with a few more rolls around her belly.”
Antonio’s arm moves, his fingers digging into the flesh around my waist, and his nose drags by my ear in such a sensual way that I can’t help but tremble. “She would.” He agrees. “I wonder why I haven’t thought of that.”
“Because you’re too busy running the world?” Jareth replies, laughing.
Antonio snorts, and I realise suddenly how relaxed he is in this moment. That this is him, the real him. Not the kingmaker, not the controller or the manipulator. This is Antonio with his guard down.
“Please enjoy your night.” Jareth says, stepping back as if he realises he’s taken too much of my Master’s precious time. “And if you feel like sharing your bounty…”
Antonio inclines his head. “After a drink. She needs something to settle her nerves first.”
“Of course.” Jareth says, smiling without showing any of his teeth.
A fresh, cold wave of fear washes over me. This isn’t a game. This is a jungle, and he is leading me in, dragging me in, when all I want to do is turn around and run as fast as I can in the other direction.
The sound that greets us is not the thunderous beat of a nightclub but a low, resonant hum. The murmur of sophisticated conversation, the clink of crystal and underneath it all a rhythmic, melodic sighing that makes the air itself feel thick and charged.
The lighting is low, pools of amber and crimson illuminating plush velvet loungers, dark wood, and glistening bodies.
The air is heavy with the scent of sex, sweat, and expensive perfume. To my left, a woman is bound to a St. Andrew’s cross, her cries of pleasure-pain music to the ears of the man wielding a crop. In a sunken pit filled with cushions, a tangled knot of bodies moves in a lazy, sensual rhythm.
And then I see the stage.
It’s a raised platform in the centre of the main room bathed in a soft, golden spotlight. A man is stretched out on a wooden frame, his body completely naked and gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat. He is beautiful, all taut muscle and smooth skin, and he is being meticulously bound in intricate patterns of red silk rope by two women who move with the graceful precision of artists. Their hands, adorned with rings that catch the light trace the lines of his body as they work, pulling the ropes tight. Creating a beautiful, constricting web around his torso, his thighs, his arms.
One of the women picks up a flogger, the falls soft and suede-like. She swings it in a gentle, practiced arc, and it lands across the man’s shoulders with a soft thump. He arches into the sensation, a low moan escaping his lips. The other woman leans down, her mouth finding his, kissing him deeply as her partner continues the rhythmic, sensual assault. It’s not violence; it’s a symphony. A dance of sensation, of trust, of exquisite surrender.
My mouth goes dry, and my fear turns into something otherworldly. I imagine this is what Oblivion is like, only I doubt it’s quite so beautifully decorated.
Antonio’s hand guides me away from the main floor, towards a bar of polished black obsidian. The bartender, a statuesque person with sharp cheekbones and eyes lined in kohl, nods at Antonio with familiar respect.
“Macallan 25, neat. Two glasses.” Antonio says.
A moment later a coupe glass is placed before me, filled with a pale golden liquid and a single, perfect rose petal floating on top. I take a sip. It’s cold, sharp, and with a potent undercurrent of alcohol that burns an almost welcome path down my throat.
He’s trying to get you drunk. He’s trying to lower your inhibitions, and then…
