Page 49 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

I roll my eyes but smile as I flip the lid. Inside are two masks.

The first is red, deep crimson to match my dress. Intricate black lace overlaying velvet, with delicate gold filigree curling along the edges like vines. The eye holes are shaped like teardrops, the mask sweeping up at the temples into subtle, dramatic points. It’s elegant, seductive, and unmistakably expensive.

The second is black, simple matte velvet with subtle silver threading.

“They’re beautiful,” I breathe, fingers tracing the red one.

He takes it from the box without a word, leans in, and gently fits the red mask over my eyes. His fingers brush my temples as he secures the thin black ribbon tie. Then he fastens his own mask in place.

“Ready?” he asks, voice low.

I nod.

He steps out first, then offers his hand. I take it, letting him help me from the car. The night air is cool against my bare back, but his palm is warm.

We’re parked in front of massive iron gates, tall, ornate, straight out of a Victorian gothic novel. Two bouncers in black suits and matching black masks stand sentinel on either side.

Leonid pulls a slim black card from his tuxedo pocket. One of the men scans it with a handheld device, nods once, and the gates swing open.

We walk through.

No cars are parked in the long gravel drive ahead. The place is eerily quiet, no thumping bass, no chatter, no laughter drifting from inside. Just the crunch of our shoes on stone and the distant call of a night bird. Are we early?

We walk a few steps, and the building comes into view, a grand, three-story Victorian mansion, all dark stone, arched windows, and wrought-iron balconies. Gas lamps shaped like torches flicker along the path.

Two more masked men stand at the wide double doors. They nod at Leonid and push the doors open as we approach.

The moment we step inside, the quiet shatters. We’re welcomed with low, pulsing, sensual music. Then the moans. Soft and breathy. The foyer is dimly lit, all deep burgundy walls and black marble floors. Two women in formal black gowns and masks step forward to greet us.

“Sir,” the taller one says to Leonid. “Your private room is prepared. This way, please.”

She glances at me with polite curiosity but doesn’t ask questions. We follow the taller woman down a wide hallway. The music grows louder. The moans grow clearer. My pulse races.

She opens a heavy door.

And I gasp.

The main room opens before us like a forbidden dream. High ceilings draped in black velvet and crimson silk. Crystal chandeliers dimmed to a sultry glow. A long bar of polished ebony runs along one wall, manned by a bartender in a half-mask pouring drinks.

Scattered around the space are low velvet couches, chaise lounges, and curtained alcoves, some open, some half-hidden.

People move through the room. Women and men in lingerie, corsets, leather harnesses, or nothing at all.

A tall man in a tailored suit holds a leash attached to a collar around a kneeling woman’s throat; she crawls beside him, naked except for thigh-high stockings, her pussy glistening under the low lights.

Across the room, a woman in a black lace bodysuit leads a man by a similar leash; he’s on all fours, blindfolded, muscles flexing as he follows her every tug.

A couple fucks slowly on a chaise lounge near the bar, her legs wrapped around his waist, his face buried in her neck. Another woman is bent over a padded bench, wrists cuffed behind her back, while a man takes her from behind, and another fucks her mouth.

The air is thick with perfume, sweat, sex, and something darker. My heart hammers so hard I fear it’s going to rip out of my chest. Leonid’s hand tightens on my lower back, grounding me.

“Still with me?” he murmurs against my ear.

I nod, swallowing hard.

The woman leads us past the throng of people toward a wide, curving staircase at the far end of the room.

I’m grateful for Leonid’s hand steady on my lower back; without it, I’m not sure my legs would hold. The stairs are black marble veined with gold, lit by low sconces that cast long shadows.