Chapter Sixteen - Nadia
Bric’s words awaken something inside me. Anger. Fear. Regret. Shame. All these things run through my mind when I open my eyes and meet his gaze. “I didn’t surrender,” I say. My voice is so low it barely counts as a whisper.
He just grins like a man who has all the power. Fool. “OK,” he says, running his fingers through my hair as he leans in for a kiss. “I’ll let you think that for now. But you won’t feel that way tomorrow morning.”
He lets go, his hold on me gone, and steps off the small platform. Jordan is suddenly behind me, lifting a blindfold up to my eyes. “Do you want this?” he asks.
He wants my permission. Jordan is like that. He knows when to ask and when to command. He’s all about give and take. A stark contrast to Bric’s bullish, mandatory domination.
“Nadia,” Jordan says, irritated with my silent contemplation. “Answer me.”
Bric has retreated to an elaborate high-back silver chair, something akin to a throne, directly in front of me. He meets my gaze with a stern face.
“Yes,” I say. Because it’s easier to pretend I’m in control than it is to watch Bric’s smug satisfaction with my implied surrender.
“Good,” Jordan says, covering my eyes with the blindfold. It’s soft. Cotton, maybe. But it pushes the mask I’m already wearing against my face, making the stiff silver lace trim scratch against my cheek. If we were alone I’d ask to take the mask off. But we’re not. And he’ll say no because of that. So I don’t ask. “Just try to relax,” Jordan says. “We won’t let anyone hurt you.”
I trust him, I realize. I know he’s not going to let anyone hurt me. And I know if Bric wasn’t here, he probably wouldn’t even be doing this. But Bric is here. And Bric is in charge, not Jordan. So his promise doesn’t mean much.
He secures the blindfold without further comment and then moves away. His absence creates a chill up my spine.
“Master,” a male voice says off to my left. “May I play with your sacrifice?”
“Of course,” Bric says. “That’s why she’s here.”
The man’s shoes tap on the smooth marble of the pedestal as he steps close to me. The chill is gone now. Replaced by his heat. At least on the outside. Inside I’m ice. I don’t react when his hands move up and down my ribs. Or when they gather my breasts to squeeze. But when his mouth touches my nipple, it peaks. Hard and pointy. His tongue slips over it in small strokes. His teeth nip and make me hiss in a breath of air through my teeth.
“Master,” another male voice says. “May I play with your sacrifice?”
“Of course,” Bric says. “That’s why she’s here.”
This man doesn’t immediately approach. He takes his time. Probably studying me like a specimen. But then—hands. Now there are two sets of hands on me. Two mouths on my nipples. I lose track of who is who, and, after the tingle between my legs becomes a throb, I no longer care until one man leaves and I feel the cold rush in to replace his heat.
“Master,” a third voice says. “May I rip her dress?”
Oh, Jesus. I swallow hard. Imagining what everyone sees. There have got to be a hundred people here tonight. Well over a hundred including the servers.
“Yes,” Bric answers from his throne. “She is my gift to you tonight, gentlemen. Do with her as you wish. Just make it a good show, will you? I don’t want to be bored.”
More hesitation. Like they’re deliberately waiting to follow through to make me uncomfortable. Make me wait. Make me want it.
And then two hands grip the two sides of the bodice—already exposing my breasts to all the people in attendance, and rips the dress. All hope of being covered up tonight goes away with that rip. The sound of the thin mesh fabric tearing echoes in my head.
He doesn’t stop there. The back of the dress is ripped open too. And then the skirt becomes tatters of silk and falls down my legs.
This man doesn’t ask permission when he presses his fingers between my legs. He doesn’t need to. I am nothing but Bric’s offering to his members.
I lose track of the hands after that. I lose track of their mouths. Their tongues. Their faces. Their kisses.
Around me people become aroused. They are fucking, I realize. Getting off to the show called Nadia tonight. Moaning and writhing to the dance I perform with these strangers.
I want to resist the feelings. I want to hold up my head and be immune to them. Scream at them that I am not their plaything. Tell them I’m here because I chose to be and not because I was ordered.
But does it matter?
Either way, I’m here because he put me here. Elias Bricman put me here and I’m the one who gave him that power. I handed it over willingly.
So fuck it. I decide to enjoy it. Everything. Every man. Every mouth. Every finger inside me. Every tongue on my skin. I take every bit of it and picture Bric’s face as I give in.
I come on someone’s fingers. Moaning into someone else’s kiss. A hard cock presses against the small of my back. I lean into him. Letting him wrap his arms around me. Letting him press his thick head between my ass cheeks. Letting him enter me as someone else plays with my clit.
I come again. And again. And get fucked over and over and over. So many times, I lose count, but it’s up there around seven, maybe eight times as the night passes and people around me fuck, and suck, and get off. Women are screaming with pleasure. Men are groaning and ordering them to get on their knees or take them deeper.
They are talking dirty to each other—and me. Always talking dirty to me. So many whispers up to my ear as the hands caress my body and rub me raw… until I’m so exhausted, I can’t stand upright. I slump, making the chains holding my arms above my head taut. Making the leather cuffs pull at my wrists until they burn.
And when I’m finally released, I fall to the floor, my body spent and worthless, as I lean against the cold, hard steel of the pole.
The blindfold comes off and the first face I see is Bric, staring down at me with those dark, inky blue eyes. Then Jordan is there. It’s midnight, I realize. People are standing around, naked, spent. Slumped just like me. And they start counting down from ten… nine… eight…
Bric has my cuffs off. Is placing my hand on his dick. I caress him automatically. Out of habit.
And then Jordan is there, same thing. His cock out. Hard and waiting. His fingertips squeezing my nipple as I take him in my hand, make a fist round his shaft, and give him what he wants.
Three… two… one…
Balloons fall, confetti spills out from the ceiling, and they kiss me. They pull me to my feet and kiss me again. Every one is yelling, “Happy New Year!” and blowing horns as a string quartet plays Auld Lang Syne. And I find myself singing into their kisses. They sing with me.
And when the song is over, they hug me close and we dance close. Just the three of us. Slow and close. Everyone dances as the quartet plays something else. Chopin or Brahms, maybe. I’m so spent, I can’t even tell the difference and that strikes me as ironic, because my days are filled with nothing but classical music and I should know this. I don’t even know how we dance, since we are three, not two. But we manage it, and it feels… good.
“Would you like to go upstairs?” Jordan asks. “Can we take you to bed now?”
I look at him and wonder. Wonder why the fuck he plays these games. But I say, “Yes,” instead of asking him that question.
They take me up the stairs. Practically carry me. And I think I even drift off, because the next thing I know, I’m in Bric’s apartment and they’re running a bath. The water is hot. So hot, steam winds up and over my body as they lower me in. And then the hands are different. The hands wash me. Caress me. They talk softly to me. The lights are all off. There are only candles lit up. Flames flickering in neat rows along the edge of the tub.
They wash my hair and rinse it off with silver cups of cool water that wakes me up and makes me new again.
“I’m tired,” I say, looking up at Jordan as he holds a towel open.
“We know,” he says, shaking it for me as Bric helps me out of the tub. Jordan wraps me up and they both hold me close as they walk me over to the bed and lie me down.
Bric strips down to naked as Jordan flicks on a TV mounted on the wall.
I have to watch the scene on the screen for a few seconds before I realize what it is.
Me. Tonight. Chained to the ceiling of Turning Point Club lobby. Men are all around me. Bric in his throne. Jordan off to the side, hand over his face, like he’s worried about something.
“I don’t want to see that,” I say.
“We don’t care,” Bric says. “You’re going to watch it anyway.” He slips into bed beside me. Arms wrapping me up in his. Maneuvering me around until I have a good view of the screen and I’m pressing my back into his chest.
Jordan joins us. Naked now. Facing me. Smiling. Lifting a piece of wet hair off my face and tucking it behind my ear. “Look,” he says, nodding to the TV.
I close my eyes to shut it out. But he just says, “Nadia,” in a stern voice. Which snaps me to attention. “Look at what we did tonight.”
I glance over at the TV and watch. Men come up to me. They whisper in my ear. They retreat and more take their place. Over and over and over again.
But the only men touching me in that film are… Bric and Jordan. The whole night, it was them. Just them and only them, all night long.
I look at Jordan with squinted eyes and furrowed brow. My mind overflowing with questions.
“We like sharing you together,” he says, laughing a little. “But we’d never share you with the goddamned Club, Nadia. Give us a little credit.”
I turn a little, so I can look over my shoulder at Bric. He just shrugs as he grins. “Welcome to the mind fuck, Miss Wolfe.”