The Watchers Game

The bass thumps through my chest as John’s hand slides from my hip to the small of my back, pressing me harder against the solid wall of his body. His other hand finds my ass, fingers digging into the fabric of my dress, and I gasp against his neck. I turn my head, searching the crowd for Shankar. I find him at the booth, half-hidden in ...

The bass thumps through my chest as John’s hand slides from my hip to the small of my back, pressing me harder against the solid wall of his body. His other hand finds my ass, fingers digging into the fabric of my dress, and I gasp against his neck. I turn my head, searching the crowd for Shankar. I find him at the booth, half-hidden in shadow, his hands wrapped around a drink he isn’t drinking. His eyes are fixed on us, wide and hungry. He isn’t moving. He isn’t coming. A flash of anger cuts through my discomfort. Fine. If he wants to watch so badly, let him watch. I let my body soften against John’s, my hips beginning to roll with the rhythm of the music. His hand tightens on my ass, pulling me into the grind, and I feel the hard length of him pressing against my stomach through his jeans. He leans down, his mouth brushing my ear. “That’s it,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Let him see what a real man does.” I don’t answer. I just move, letting the heat rise, letting the shame twist into something darker. John’s hand slides up my side, over my ribs, until his thumb brushes the underside of my breast. I shiver, my nipples tightening beneath the thin fabric. “VIP,” he says. It’s not a question. I glance back at Shankar one last time. He hasn’t moved. His knuckles are white around his glass. I nod. John takes my hand and leads me through the crowd, past the velvet rope, into the red-lit sanctuary where the music is muffled and the air smells like leather and sex. He pushes me against the wall, his body caging mine, and I feel the weight of his gaze stripping me bare.

John’s hand opens in front of my face. A small blue pill rests in his palm, catching the dim red light like a jewel. “Take it,” he says. “It’ll help you relax.” I hesitate. My mind flashes to Shankar, still watching from his booth, still doing nothing. Anger and hurt swirl in my chest, and I make a decision. I take the pill, dry-swallow...

John’s hand opens in front of my face. A small blue pill rests in his palm, catching the dim red light like a jewel. “Take it,” he says. “It’ll help you relax.” I hesitate. My mind flashes to Shankar, still watching from his booth, still doing nothing. Anger and hurt swirl in my chest, and I make a decision. I take the pill, dry-swallow it, and feel it slide down my throat. Within minutes, the world softens at the edges. The music becomes a pulse inside my bones, and the red light feels warm like blood. I know what’s happening. I know every touch, every word, every movement. But my body no longer answers to me the way it should. John guides me to the leather couch, and I sink into it. My limbs feel heavy, my thoughts slow and syrupy. He pulls my dress up, exposing my thighs, and I watch his hands move over my skin as if they belong to someone else. People gather. Shadows at the edge of my vision, faces I don’t recognize. They form a loose circle, their eyes gleaming in the red light. I see Shankar among them, his face pale, his mouth slightly open. He could stop this. He won’t. John lays me back on the table. The leather is cool against my bare skin. He pushes my legs apart, and I hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the rustle of denim falling. When he shoves himself inside me, I cry out. My body fights, my hands pushing against his chest, but the drug has stolen my strength. He drives deeper, and I feel the stretch, the burn, the invasion of everything I was taught to resist. And then the pleasure hits me like a wave, crashing through every barrier I had left. My back arches, a scream tearing from my throat as the orgasm rips through me, violent and undeniable. I hate it. I can’t stop it. John grunts above me, his rhythm quickening.

The orgasm is still shuddering through me when John quickly pulls out. He suddenly grabs my hips and flip me over. My cheek presses against the cool leather, the world spinning slowly behind my eyes. My pussy still fresh of wet juices against what my mind knew was wrong. Part of me wanted him to stop, the other part wanted to feel that th...

The orgasm is still shuddering through me when John quickly pulls out. He suddenly grabs my hips and flip me over. My cheek presses against the cool leather, the world spinning slowly behind my eyes. My pussy still fresh of wet juices against what my mind knew was wrong. Part of me wanted him to stop, the other part wanted to feel that thick, veiny, white, cut, long cock inside me. “That’s it,” he says, his voice low and rough. His hand presses between my shoulder blades, forcing my ass up, keeping me pinned. “This is how I want you. On your knees. Face down. Thats my good girl. Make it a good show for your husband.” I hear him spit, feel the wet warmth land on my opening, his thumb smearing it roughly. Then the thick head of his cock presses against me, nudging, and teasing. "You've never been filled like I'm going to fill your pussy." John whispered just before he pushes forward in one long, slow thrust. I let out a satisfying deeply wanting moan. It felt so good. I moan into the leather, my fingers curling into fists. “You feel that?” His voice is in my ear now, his chest heavy against my back. “Every inch. Every ridge. You’re going to memorize the shape of me inside you. Everytime you have sex you will always think of my thrasher.” He pulls back and drives forward again, deeper this time. My body yields, my muscles clenching around him against my will. I hear people in the small crowd say things like, "give it to her hard", "fuck that Indan cunt", "make her beg." John hits me harder. “By the time I’m done,” he continues, his breath hot on my neck, “you won’t be able to think about anything else. Not your husband. Not your life before this. Just my cock. You’ll crave it. You’ll dream about it.” I want to deny it. I want to hate him. But my body betrays me with every involuntary clench, every soft moan I can’t suppress. Every push and pull of his masterful cucumber cock fills my body with hot emotion. He sets a brutal rhythm, each stroke pushing the air from my lungs. The crowd watches in silence, their shadows stretching across the red-lit room. Somewhere beyond them, I know Shankar is watching. John is pounding me so hard I can't believe the burst of fullfilling emotion I felt. John’s hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back. “Say it,” he growls. “Say you’ll crave my cock forever, cunt.” His thrusts slow, deliberate, waiting. I gave in. He broke my will. I am now owned by two men.